Not to be allowed near money

I took timprov out for lunch today. I handed the waitbeing a credit card. It had my extremely femmey name on it. She brought it back and handed the slip to T. to sign.

Then I came home. The doorbell rang, so I went pattering down the stairs to answer it. It was the Schwann's man. "Hi, are your parents home?" He saw from the look on my face that this is the wrong question, so he amended it: "Or, y'know, the homeowners?" "I own this house," I said very quietly. He gulped. "I'm sorry! You look so young!"

ARRRRRRGH. Apparently I am not to be let near money, because I am too much of a wee little girl to handle it.

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I'm even dressed decently today, too, in one of the little black skirts I wore to Minicon and stockings and a green top and an elisem necklace. It's not like I had my hair in braids and was wearing a college T-shirt and a pair of soccer shorts, for heaven's sake. And I handed her the credit card. And she was a woman herself.

grumpGRUMPGRUMPGROUSEGRUMP