Jury Still Out
I don't know about you, but I'm not convinced the new bubbly Blogger interface is all that great.

And there's that mousy little pharmacist who won't speak to me anymore. What happened was Lauran ran out of all her migraine meds from Chicago all at once. So she sees the family doctor, who's on the case now, for refills. He gives them to her and I take them in. I went over at 8:30 and the pharmacy closes at 9. The pharma-girl looks askance at me and then asks if I want them all tonight. Of course I do! She can't guarantee it, she says. But there was no one else there. I wander around the store for a while and when I come back I apologize, because I am that nice a guy. She wrinkles her pointy little nose at me and insists it's no big deal, even though every ounce of her 100 lb body language says that's not true. A few days later I'm in the store for something else and I go over and say that I'm sorry about the other night. She, not even looking up, says, there's no need and then walks away. Now whenever we meet there is awkward silence. Dear Ann, what should I do with a moody pharmacist? Dumbfounded in Defiance.