Department of Redundancy Department

D and I met my parents at a fish & chips place last night, only to discover that there was a birthday party in full swing, apparently for a British girl, that took up the whole place. I was baffled. If, for instance, I happened to be in Japan for my birthday, the last place I'd go to celebrate would be Denny's. No, I'd definitely want to be culture shocked, not reminded of my home country's poor eating habits - and the Brits don't eat much better. Plus, if I truly wanted to be reminded of home, I'd only be saddened by the mediocre farce of a foreign restaurant attempting to emulate the victuals of my home country.

So, we went to an Irish pub, where I got, of all things, hummus, an Irish staple. Heh. And my mom ranted not about the outcome of the latest hurling match, nor the potential of the upcoming potato crop - but about American politics. Luckily, D had the stamina to deal with her, and he's usually well-informed and quite glib. And he's also red-headed, which was probably the most appropriately Irishy aspect of anything in the whole restaurant.

So this morning I drove a million miles (okay, so it was like 9 miles) to my opthalmologist's office for an appointment. I need to order new contacts, and I'd prefer to get them before I travel. So, I get there and one of the two receptionists takes my insurance card and sits me down in the waiting room. I sit there for about 20 minutes, reading This Alien Shore, until the other receptionist comes up to me and explains that while my appt. was supposed to be today according their hard copy calendar, it was scheduled for the 8th in the computer system, and the computer system is the All-Knowing Oracle of Truth. Dejected, free of all new contacts, and in possession of normally-sized pupils, I drove to work. Or werps, as it's called in my circle. If one does work at work, one werpses.