let me guess, your zip code is...

My coworkers think I have mono. It seems that, after weeks of feeling vaguely blah and appearing to conquer a throat thing, I must now capitulate and search the phone book for clinics that don't charge much for the uninsured, and haul my tired butt to the doctor.

At least if it's mono, I won't have to buy expensive medicine. It'll go away on its own.

Eleven more hours of sleep last night and I feel slightly better but still weary. Whee. I've been living on caffeine and determination since Christmas and my resources are finally exhausted. (Not the coffee resource, though; I couldn't live without coffee. Mmm, coffee. I think I'll get another cup.)

You know you've found a good mug when it's so microwave safe that the handle doesn't burn your hand when you take it out. I succumbed to my incurable mug fetish a few weeks ago and bought a new one at Gloria Jean's. It depicts a hazy field-and-mountain scape in blues and greens and purples. My favorite colors.

Anyway, since nothing really exciting has happened in the past twelve hours (except hearing from Hillori -- yay!!), the point of this blog is going to be a few societal observations I've made since moving to Indiana. Particularly since working in retail.

There is a certain community in the nearby area where the wealthy make their dwelling. Now, in Indiana it's not all that tough to afford a really nice house, since the cost of living here is dirt low. Which is why I can hold down an apartment on the income from two lousy part-time jobs. That aside, these people are the "silver spoon" people, northern Indiana's idle rich who leave perfectly good used furniture on the curb because they don't know what else to do with it. (I plan to benefit from this as soon as the weather turns nicer.)

These folks live in large new houses in fakey estate subdivisions with names like "Fox Grove" and "Fern Hollow." And they have their social status tatooed on their personalities. They're either incredibly, beautifully nice or incredibly, inexcusably rude. So anytime I'm dealing with someone in Ann Taylor who talks to me and wants to know about my life and liberally deals out sunshine in smiles and conversation, she's from G------. Conversely, if she won't acknowledge my hellos, gives me curt orders to find her clothes, ignores my polite and friendly questions intended to put her at ease and help her find what she's looking for, and treats me like I'm the worst cliche of servant, she's from G------.

The great thing is, the Ann Taylor cash register system requires us to ask each client's zip code before we ring her up. So when I finalize a sale with one of these people and ask, "May I have your zip code, please?" my internal voice is going "Wait for it...wait for it..." until I hear the magic five digits and think, Bingo.

One of these days I'm going to smile sweetly at the sour unhappy idle rich whose husband could pay my bills without noticing and say, "I thought so."

It's all well and good to have a nice social station, but there's no need to treat other human beings like they're less than that. The rude ones' bitterness proves that money isn't happiness. And the nice women are so full of joy that you can't help but think they realize that.