R-I-D-G-E

MY NEXT BILL WILL END UP IN MEXICO

I've been living in my house since early October of 2011. And yet, my credit card address is still Tina's house. Shut up, I've been busy. 

Last week, I called Citicard to change my address to Park Ridge. I couldn't do it online because I don't know my password. I've actually never used the credit card web site. 

The call to change my address took 12:25. It should have taken 2:25. 

The automated service asked for the last four numbers of my credit card. I type them. It says card doesn't exist. Not a great start. 

After a second failed attempt, a representative came on and found my account. 

Rep: Now what can I do for you, sir?

Me: I'd like to change my address. 

Rep: No problem. I just need your password. 

Me: Yeah, I don't know that. 

Rep: It's the last four digits of a phone number. 

Me: I don't know anybody's phone number (after thinking about it, I know six, two of which are disconnected). 

Rep: Ok. I'm going to have to get my supervisor. 

Me: I just want to change my address. 

By the time I finished that last line, I was on hold. I then went through the same spiel with Ben the supervisor. He finally believed it was in fact me and changed my password. 

(I realized when I hung up the phone, that perhaps my password was my debit card password. That being four numbers and all. Though that doesn't feel too smart having both of those the same. Point is, this was taking way too long.)

Finally, the time had come to actually change my address. I had the rep back on the phone, and she asked for my new address. 

Unfortunately, she was not familiar with the word ridge, which appears twice in my address. I spelled it about six times and slowly the last three times. 

At one point it seemed like she had it figured out, but I asked if she understood that the ridge in the city was the same as the ridge in the street. Uh, not quite. 

So we started over. 

THE TINA CURSING CORNER

My mom has been rewatching The Wire. "I can't remember all their fucking names.  What is that guy's name? The bow tie motherfucker."

Mom warns against getting into deep in a relationship. "You just never know who you're fucking."

Mom says the last Mad Men was boring. "Nothing happened. What? He's getting divorced again. Jesus."

NOT THE RIGHT SIZE

Lately, I've been complaining that nothing comes in the right size for me. First world problems, eh. 

But really it's aggravating. A lot of stuff I buy I wish there was an in-between size or a smaller size. 

The small bread has 20 slices. I need one with 10. Once I use it for five sandwiches, I don't feel like eating a sandwich for like a month. So the last 10 slices are a waste. 

If I get a gallon of milk, I don't finish it. Half gallon, I'm at the store just getting milk way too often. I need 3/4 gallon milk. 

When I go to Bud's, one sandwich leaves me hungry, but two is too much. Unfortunately, they don't have a 1 1/2 no. 7 option. 

There's other food orders like that as well, but you get the idea.