G is always telling me not to shoot the finger to people while driving. He's always saying one day I'll get more than I bargained for. As an irate driver himself, it turns out he knows of what he speaks.
Two things one should immediately know about me: I'm too stupid to walk away from an aggressive situation and I'm a total wuss. I guess this translates to me having brass balls but punching like a person who doesn't know how to punch (I refuse to say "like a girl"). I'm kind of like my grandfather's rat terrier (rip to both), Bo, as in Bo Diddly, who didn't realize he was a tiny dog. And to be fair, he was triple the size of all his rat terrier brothers, so he came by his complex honestly. Bo was a big barker and growler and all around penis shower. All fine and dandy until he tried to scare away a possum in the yard and the possum wasn't having it. (Aside: this was also the day I realized those damn animals have lots and lots of teeth and thus developed a fear of them.) After much hissing and showing of teeth (by the possum), the dog lost his shit. For those of us watching, it was almost the funniest thing since the bulldog chasing incident of 1999. (That's another story altogether but the visual is Bo trying to jump inside the house, which wouldn't be that hard except he's too afraid to slow down enough to actually make the turn because a bulldog is hot on his heels. They proceed in laps around the house until one of us stops laughing long enough to take pity on him.) Anyway. I was Bo yesterday. And Jackass was the possum.
Short version: Jackass drove badly. I shot the finger. He banged on my car.
Long version: Jackass was driving an old bronco or jeep type of thing (no windows or ceiling) with a long flat bed trailer thing hoooked up. So his bad driving was especially bad driving given his load. I honked my horn at Jackass once he tried to get in my lane and smash my car. It was a bit of a long honk, because hello? The Jackass was trying to run me over. He turns around in his non-car and starts screaming and yelling at me for daring to honk at him. (At this point I probably should have realized I was dealing with a wild animal and it was best not to provoke but refer to the above paragraph and the thing about being stupid.) I waved my hands at him to shut up and move on into my lane if he needed to. See? Nice? He kept yelling while he was attempting to maneuvre lanes, even after I'd told him he could squeeze in in front of me, so I gave him the finger. (FYI, this is the action G is always telling me not to take. I have a prolific finger and use it at will.) Biiiig mistake. Jackass starts to get out of his car. Oops. My bad!
So I dart off in the next lane and go through the light we were waiting at (it was green). I just assumed that was the end of it and was waiting at the next light on the next block, mentally compiling my list for the grocery store. I looked in my rear view mirror and guess who was back? Jackass was pulling his trailer load and driving all over the street in an attempt to get in the lane next to mine. Jackass was driving even crazier than before. Imagine that! He pulls up next to me and definitely gets out of his car this time. He starts pounding on my car window yelling profanities, saying "watch where you put that finger," and spouting various other lovelies.
Still being a smart ass, I picked up my cell phone and showed it to him. Then I mouthed "9-1-1" as I started to push the buttons to show him I was going to call the cops on the crazy person acting a fool at 38th and Lamar. Of course he jumped right back into his jeep thing. That being that, I closed my phone, having had no intention of actually calling 911. I guess he realized I was fucking with him, because he seemed to get even angrier. Now I, personally, have never been called a whore. At least not to my face. But yesterday I was called a whore so much, I actually looked down at my sweater and jeans to verify that no boobs were sticking out or anything, just in case he thought I actually was advertising my body for money. It was just as I'd expected and everything was in place. I guess he wasn't being very accurate with his name calling and was just falling on whatever horrid female insult he could hurl at me.
I thought about giving him the finger a second time, especially when he was loudly lecturing me on my use of hand gestures (in the form of profanity filled screams), but by then my instincts told me to not aggravate the obvious crazy person. Too bad those instincts didn't kick in earlier. But by then the light turned green and he screeched off down the road into crappy car oblivion while I went on to the grocery store to buy my week's worth of lettuce and feta cheese.
If you guys ever come across a jackass in a white jeep/bronco with a TX license plate P48-KJM, tell him I said hi. And give him the finger, from me. Oh and did I mention the load in his trailer was a pink pedi-cab (those bicycle driven cab things)? I think the cosmic joke is on him.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Monday, November 02, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
I'm a little shocked...
Admittedly I've been avoiding most of the "you lie"/Rep. Wilson mess since it happened. I preferred not to contribute to what I considered low hypocrisy on the part of Wilson and the media frenzy that followed. Not to say I wasn't ticked, but I figured there were bigger things to worry about (i.e. my boss not eating me alive today for one).
Last night I stumbled across KO for the first time in a couple of weeks (I guess since the Wilson mess) and heard the dreaded R word - race. At first I sort of laughed a little. Race? Wilson was just being a jackass. How does that have anything to do with racism or race issues? Wasn't this just Keith being a little out there? I normally agree with most things Countdown but not always. And I thought maybe this was one of those "not always" bits. But then I read about Jimmy Carter thinking the same thing. And then I clicked on "white supremists" on jezebel and found out that Wilson has a history of supporting white segregationists with confederate flag complexes. I think that last bit is perhaps a stretch on calling Wilson racist or anything, but it does sort of get to the heart of the question: does race play a role in all of this vitrolic Obama hate from the right?
I'm one of those naive people who likes to say they understand the role race plays in modern America, all the while being white and middle-class and completely incapable of understanding the role race plays in modern America. I've never dared to say we're in a post-racial society though, because, quite frankly, I know better. I know people. I've heard things. We're not even close to being there. But I did think, again naively, that Obama getting elected meant there were more of us than them. And the "them" was not as vocal and/or adament as one might imagine.
I guess I'm a little shocked, because I've just realized I'm wrong. Or that I was wrong. Or stupid or whatever you want to call it. I didn't want to think these vocal minorities were inherently incensed because of race. (I still don't want to think it.) I also didn't want to be a person who screamed "racism" at every person who had some kind of criticism or complaint, regardless of its accuracy or not.
Aside: A repub friend of mine accused me of throwing out the racism label a little too freely a while back. We were having a discussion about Rush Limbaugh, and while Iwas completely right - that dude is racist (among a whole litany of offenses to pile in the racist column is the fact he was fired from Monday Night Football for making, ahem, racist comments and the lovely, lovely "Barack the Magic Negro" song he played over and over again on his radio show during the election cycle) - I was also self-aware enough to know that she was right. I could very easily throw out the word "racist" and have no qualms about labeling just about anyone I thought was a bit of an ass on the right. I didn't do that, of course, but I could have done that. Labeling a hate-monger or nut-job racist wasn't a big deal to me. Given my recent realization about my propensity to label, fairly or not, I didn't want to fall into the "cry wolf" category if I could help it.
All of this said, I'm not at all calling Rep Wilson a racist. I have no idea if he is or not. I hope he's not. But I've naively blundered my way into thinking the world is a happy, nicer place because Obama is president. It's not. And I'm beginning to think, slowly and haltingly, that race is playing more of a role in the diatribe than I'd ever cared to admit before.
What do you think? Are people calling it correctly?
Oh and I think Jezebel hit it right on when they gave Matt Lauer what for for asking if it's worse to be racist or to have the label of racist thrown around. Um, what do you think, Mr. Privileged White Boy? I'd say it might be worse to be abused than to be called an abuser. Let's ask Rihanna or Chris Brown who has it worse. Bad example. Let's ask Rihanna in 20 years once she's come to her senses who had it worse. (Don't get me started on that stupid Chris Brown song making the rounds because of some dumb wedding dance. People are idiots.)
Last night I stumbled across KO for the first time in a couple of weeks (I guess since the Wilson mess) and heard the dreaded R word - race. At first I sort of laughed a little. Race? Wilson was just being a jackass. How does that have anything to do with racism or race issues? Wasn't this just Keith being a little out there? I normally agree with most things Countdown but not always. And I thought maybe this was one of those "not always" bits. But then I read about Jimmy Carter thinking the same thing. And then I clicked on "white supremists" on jezebel and found out that Wilson has a history of supporting white segregationists with confederate flag complexes. I think that last bit is perhaps a stretch on calling Wilson racist or anything, but it does sort of get to the heart of the question: does race play a role in all of this vitrolic Obama hate from the right?
I'm one of those naive people who likes to say they understand the role race plays in modern America, all the while being white and middle-class and completely incapable of understanding the role race plays in modern America. I've never dared to say we're in a post-racial society though, because, quite frankly, I know better. I know people. I've heard things. We're not even close to being there. But I did think, again naively, that Obama getting elected meant there were more of us than them. And the "them" was not as vocal and/or adament as one might imagine.
I guess I'm a little shocked, because I've just realized I'm wrong. Or that I was wrong. Or stupid or whatever you want to call it. I didn't want to think these vocal minorities were inherently incensed because of race. (I still don't want to think it.) I also didn't want to be a person who screamed "racism" at every person who had some kind of criticism or complaint, regardless of its accuracy or not.
Aside: A repub friend of mine accused me of throwing out the racism label a little too freely a while back. We were having a discussion about Rush Limbaugh, and while Iwas completely right - that dude is racist (among a whole litany of offenses to pile in the racist column is the fact he was fired from Monday Night Football for making, ahem, racist comments and the lovely, lovely "Barack the Magic Negro" song he played over and over again on his radio show during the election cycle) - I was also self-aware enough to know that she was right. I could very easily throw out the word "racist" and have no qualms about labeling just about anyone I thought was a bit of an ass on the right. I didn't do that, of course, but I could have done that. Labeling a hate-monger or nut-job racist wasn't a big deal to me. Given my recent realization about my propensity to label, fairly or not, I didn't want to fall into the "cry wolf" category if I could help it.
All of this said, I'm not at all calling Rep Wilson a racist. I have no idea if he is or not. I hope he's not. But I've naively blundered my way into thinking the world is a happy, nicer place because Obama is president. It's not. And I'm beginning to think, slowly and haltingly, that race is playing more of a role in the diatribe than I'd ever cared to admit before.
What do you think? Are people calling it correctly?
Oh and I think Jezebel hit it right on when they gave Matt Lauer what for for asking if it's worse to be racist or to have the label of racist thrown around. Um, what do you think, Mr. Privileged White Boy? I'd say it might be worse to be abused than to be called an abuser. Let's ask Rihanna or Chris Brown who has it worse. Bad example. Let's ask Rihanna in 20 years once she's come to her senses who had it worse. (Don't get me started on that stupid Chris Brown song making the rounds because of some dumb wedding dance. People are idiots.)
Monday, August 17, 2009
I fucking hate roofers...
Or roof repairers. Whatever. Call me an elitist snob but I Hate Them. It was supposed to take 1 or 2 days (at most). Day 2 was a Saturday. I realized Saturday afternoon that a mirror had fallen off my wall and a smoke detector is hanging by a precarious thread, threatening to hit me on the head in one of my mad dashes up the stairs to the restroom, which will result in one or both of the following: 1) a fall back down the stairs and/or 2) me pissing myself. Nice, eh? I also realized last night that my bed and nightstands have shifted noticeably and now stand at some kind of crazy 45 degree angle from the wall they were so equally balanced against.
Oh and at 6:22 a.m. this morning when I was so rudely jarred awake by the sound of Apocolypse Now (in the form of my roof caving in)? Yeah, I really hated them then.
I cannot express how much I wanted to remove the kazillion foot ladder (their only way up and down to the roof) this morning when I left for work. I wanted to kick it over and watch it land on the ground, all loud and long, and look up at the rooftop where the sweaty, noisy, asshole workers would be looking down at the crazy, hysterical-with-laughter girl below.
Screw you, roofer people.
Oh and at 6:22 a.m. this morning when I was so rudely jarred awake by the sound of Apocolypse Now (in the form of my roof caving in)? Yeah, I really hated them then.
I cannot express how much I wanted to remove the kazillion foot ladder (their only way up and down to the roof) this morning when I left for work. I wanted to kick it over and watch it land on the ground, all loud and long, and look up at the rooftop where the sweaty, noisy, asshole workers would be looking down at the crazy, hysterical-with-laughter girl below.
Screw you, roofer people.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Is there such a thing as a love scrooge?
God how I hate Valentine's Day. Even if it's just the day before. One more time: Valentine's Day sucks balls. And not in a good way.
Friday, January 16, 2009
God how I hate BBQ...
How much food does it take to feed a party of 22? In my mom's world, it takes 6.5 lbs of cow, 4 half birds, and 10 lbs of miscellaneous pork parts wrapped in edible condoms. Not to mention sides and desserts.
If you ever wondered why Texas is top 5 in obesity it's because of the above. That's basically a pound of meat (just meat!) per person plus sides plus desserts. I say desserts plural because there will be many cakes and pies, as a southern family is want to do. (Technically we're west, not south, but we eat like poor, southern people so that works better for description's sake.)
I scoured the internet for the proper amount of food per person for a party. I came up with 1/4 lb of meat (or 1/2 lb if it's boned meat). Basically my family eats 4 x what the normal person would eat. It's quite gross actually.
I will not eat any of it, of course. I don't eat cow; I try to avoid sausage parts; and meat on a bone grosses me out. I thought about going to a local place and getting some wheat roast (fake meat) to see if anyone would notice, but I knew they would and I'd never live it down. Once your good food reputation is lost in my family, it's lost forever. (They still talk about the time my mother tried to make Stouffer's Stuffing at Thanksgiving one year and that was over 30 years ago!)
I tried to find a picture of 20 lbs of meat but the images grossed me out so bad I had to take a moment. So no pics.
Meat is gross.
If you ever wondered why Texas is top 5 in obesity it's because of the above. That's basically a pound of meat (just meat!) per person plus sides plus desserts. I say desserts plural because there will be many cakes and pies, as a southern family is want to do. (Technically we're west, not south, but we eat like poor, southern people so that works better for description's sake.)
I scoured the internet for the proper amount of food per person for a party. I came up with 1/4 lb of meat (or 1/2 lb if it's boned meat). Basically my family eats 4 x what the normal person would eat. It's quite gross actually.
I will not eat any of it, of course. I don't eat cow; I try to avoid sausage parts; and meat on a bone grosses me out. I thought about going to a local place and getting some wheat roast (fake meat) to see if anyone would notice, but I knew they would and I'd never live it down. Once your good food reputation is lost in my family, it's lost forever. (They still talk about the time my mother tried to make Stouffer's Stuffing at Thanksgiving one year and that was over 30 years ago!)
I tried to find a picture of 20 lbs of meat but the images grossed me out so bad I had to take a moment. So no pics.
Meat is gross.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Permanently disgruntled? Perhaps.
Never buy from Barnes & Noble online or ship via UPS. I ordered a ton of books (9 or 10, which is a ton for me) on 12/26. I used 3 day air and paid via PayPal, mainly because I was too lazy to get up and get my debit card and PayPal was an easy click away. Then the problems started:
1. They charged Paypal oh, half a dozen times. I have no clue why.
2. They didn't ship for 5 days even though it should have already been at my house 2 days before they even decided to ship.
3. They split my order into 2 packages, which is ordinarily fine, but in the case of B&N, they decide to inform you 7 days after your package should have already arrived that they are splitting your order up even though they already sent out confirmation emails on everything.
4. UPS drops off a lovely, yellow InfoNotice, because oddly I was not at home from the hours of 2 to 5 in the middle of a work day. Odd.
5. UPS man/woman checks "A signature is required on delivery." I look to the back to read the instructions to make sure this is the one where I can just sign, not necessarily in person. It says, "If the 'A signature is required on delivery' box is checked, the driver must receive a signature either in person or by signing below." So I sign below and leave it for the driver.
6. The driver does not leave my package the next day and instead leaves a final notice. Great. (This was Tuesday.)
7. Wednesday evening I get home and there's a lovely book on my doorstep. Yes! No InfoNotice, no nothing. It's only 1 book and I remember that B&N split my order in two but still. I have 1 piece!
8. I'm about to travel over lunch to the boonies, where the UPS is oh-so conveniently located, when I decide to double check my tracking number online.
9. Hmmm... that's weird. It appears that my package is in fucking Pennsylvania. Rana - want some books?
10. I call the 800 number knowing my anger will most likely get the better of me and get a return phone call within an hour, as per policy.
11. The local UPS woman tells me the shipper insists on getting a signature in person. I politely (I think) inform the UPS woman that that was not the box that was checked on the multiple InfoNotices on my doors.
12. Then the local UPS woman decides that the driver must not have felt it was a safe location to leave a package, so that's why he didn't pay attention to the signature on the notice. I mention the package delivered the day before, just left on my doorstep, from UPS, presumably the same driver. I also mention how UPS packages are left on mine and my neighbors' doorsteps practically every week (I have 4 neighbors in my fourplex), so I doubt the usual driver has an issue with safety.
13. With no response, she informs me I must call the 800 number back and ask them to "intercept" my package. She apparently can't intercept my package and my only other option is to contact B&N and try to convince them to send me another package. Did I mention a couple of the books I ordered were 1 or 3 or some such low stock bullshit?
14. I call the 800 number. Oops. They can't do an intercept. I have to call the shipper.
Fucking shit, man. Now I have to call B&N, the original fuck-up and demand they send me my books all over again?
I hate B&N and UPS. I'm officially disgruntled. I can't even remember what books I ordered anymore. Damn.
1. They charged Paypal oh, half a dozen times. I have no clue why.
2. They didn't ship for 5 days even though it should have already been at my house 2 days before they even decided to ship.
3. They split my order into 2 packages, which is ordinarily fine, but in the case of B&N, they decide to inform you 7 days after your package should have already arrived that they are splitting your order up even though they already sent out confirmation emails on everything.
4. UPS drops off a lovely, yellow InfoNotice, because oddly I was not at home from the hours of 2 to 5 in the middle of a work day. Odd.
5. UPS man/woman checks "A signature is required on delivery." I look to the back to read the instructions to make sure this is the one where I can just sign, not necessarily in person. It says, "If the 'A signature is required on delivery' box is checked, the driver must receive a signature either in person or by signing below." So I sign below and leave it for the driver.
6. The driver does not leave my package the next day and instead leaves a final notice. Great. (This was Tuesday.)
7. Wednesday evening I get home and there's a lovely book on my doorstep. Yes! No InfoNotice, no nothing. It's only 1 book and I remember that B&N split my order in two but still. I have 1 piece!
8. I'm about to travel over lunch to the boonies, where the UPS is oh-so conveniently located, when I decide to double check my tracking number online.
9. Hmmm... that's weird. It appears that my package is in fucking Pennsylvania. Rana - want some books?
10. I call the 800 number knowing my anger will most likely get the better of me and get a return phone call within an hour, as per policy.
11. The local UPS woman tells me the shipper insists on getting a signature in person. I politely (I think) inform the UPS woman that that was not the box that was checked on the multiple InfoNotices on my doors.
12. Then the local UPS woman decides that the driver must not have felt it was a safe location to leave a package, so that's why he didn't pay attention to the signature on the notice. I mention the package delivered the day before, just left on my doorstep, from UPS, presumably the same driver. I also mention how UPS packages are left on mine and my neighbors' doorsteps practically every week (I have 4 neighbors in my fourplex), so I doubt the usual driver has an issue with safety.
13. With no response, she informs me I must call the 800 number back and ask them to "intercept" my package. She apparently can't intercept my package and my only other option is to contact B&N and try to convince them to send me another package. Did I mention a couple of the books I ordered were 1 or 3 or some such low stock bullshit?
14. I call the 800 number. Oops. They can't do an intercept. I have to call the shipper.
Fucking shit, man. Now I have to call B&N, the original fuck-up and demand they send me my books all over again?
I hate B&N and UPS. I'm officially disgruntled. I can't even remember what books I ordered anymore. Damn.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Calorie counting is new? What?
I read a blog post on Jezebel about the resurgence of calorie counting and then I read this NYTimes article about the same thing. I have two thoughts: 1) Why is Jezebel so blatantly ripping off the NYTimes? and 2) What? Huh? How is this new?
I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on weight loss (as anyone who has seen the size of my ass can attest to), but if ever me and mine are trying to lose a few pounds, it's always straight to the calorie counting. Any reader of Bridget Jones knows that food diaries (complete with caloric breakdown, and for the more OCD among us, protein and carb breakdowns too) and exact knowledge of calories in any given piece of food are a part of life. I can't remember the last time a diet didn't involve obsessive counting of calories. Who doesn't know that 3700 calories equals a pound of fat and that to lose 2 pounds a week, you have to cut (either through exercise or better nutrition) 7400 calories a week? Who doesn't eyeball the Starbucks menu and know exactly which skinny drink to order in exactly the size that fits in your "snack" quota of calories for the day? Who also doesn't know which fast food items to order (if one must order fast food) off the menu for the lowest-calorie meal?
I know extreme calorie counters (B, I'm looking at you) and I know lazy calorie counters. But pretty much everyone I know - at least the females - count calories in some way, shape, or fashion. I'm quite surprised about the "calorie counting is so 1980s" theme these articles are espousing.
I'll leave you with a Bridget Jones' Diary quote, which related to alcoholic units, calories, and cigarettes: Calories/Units/Cigs? "Oh ziiiillllliiiiooonnnsssss....." (It's possible I added a letter or two.)
I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on weight loss (as anyone who has seen the size of my ass can attest to), but if ever me and mine are trying to lose a few pounds, it's always straight to the calorie counting. Any reader of Bridget Jones knows that food diaries (complete with caloric breakdown, and for the more OCD among us, protein and carb breakdowns too) and exact knowledge of calories in any given piece of food are a part of life. I can't remember the last time a diet didn't involve obsessive counting of calories. Who doesn't know that 3700 calories equals a pound of fat and that to lose 2 pounds a week, you have to cut (either through exercise or better nutrition) 7400 calories a week? Who doesn't eyeball the Starbucks menu and know exactly which skinny drink to order in exactly the size that fits in your "snack" quota of calories for the day? Who also doesn't know which fast food items to order (if one must order fast food) off the menu for the lowest-calorie meal?
I know extreme calorie counters (B, I'm looking at you) and I know lazy calorie counters. But pretty much everyone I know - at least the females - count calories in some way, shape, or fashion. I'm quite surprised about the "calorie counting is so 1980s" theme these articles are espousing.
I'll leave you with a Bridget Jones' Diary quote, which related to alcoholic units, calories, and cigarettes: Calories/Units/Cigs? "Oh ziiiillllliiiiooonnnsssss....." (It's possible I added a letter or two.)
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
I'm offended.
By the moment in Palin's speech where she said that only one candidate has fought for "you." She paused strategically, of course, and then continued to say he was the only candidate who fought for you when the fight meant life and death.*
I'm offended.
I have a public service job and I'm offended by the notion that unless I put on a military uniform, I'm not fighting for the people.
I'm offended.
Obama worked in the trenches of one of the poorest areas in the country and to insinuate that he wasn't "fighting for America" is insulting to his work, those who do similar work, and those who are benefited by someone giving a rat's ass about them. And to further imply that someone in a socio-economically depressed environment isn't living in a life and death situation shows a fundamental disregard for both facts and human suffering, not to mention a complete lack of understanding of anything other than an upper, middle-class world.
I can tolerate a bit of dem/Obama jabbing at the RNC. I expect it. But to personally insult me, not just my candidate, and others like me sends me through the roof. I can assure you that it is not in my economic interest to do the work I do. I can also assure you that I made the decision to work for the public early on in my professional schooling. To insinuate that my contributions don't count, that I'm not "fighting" for my country (and the people within it) is something that goes beyond ignorance. It goes to the essence of understanding the world beyond you and why I'm a democrat without label and without hesitancy. Kindness and understanding are essential to my world view. Knowing that I'm not the only person in this world and that there are people who have much different experiences from me are what make up the basis of my decision to choose a political party that works for the poor, the under-represented, and the "fighters" of the world.
So fuck you, Palin. You may be one Sephora trip away from a pit bull but you're miles away from understanding what it means to be anyone other than yourself.
*I'd like to point out that if not for that comment, I wouldn't have a lot of negative things to say about her speech. I know what I'm getting into when I tune in to rabid Republicans, as they did a week ago.
I'm offended.
I have a public service job and I'm offended by the notion that unless I put on a military uniform, I'm not fighting for the people.
I'm offended.
Obama worked in the trenches of one of the poorest areas in the country and to insinuate that he wasn't "fighting for America" is insulting to his work, those who do similar work, and those who are benefited by someone giving a rat's ass about them. And to further imply that someone in a socio-economically depressed environment isn't living in a life and death situation shows a fundamental disregard for both facts and human suffering, not to mention a complete lack of understanding of anything other than an upper, middle-class world.
I can tolerate a bit of dem/Obama jabbing at the RNC. I expect it. But to personally insult me, not just my candidate, and others like me sends me through the roof. I can assure you that it is not in my economic interest to do the work I do. I can also assure you that I made the decision to work for the public early on in my professional schooling. To insinuate that my contributions don't count, that I'm not "fighting" for my country (and the people within it) is something that goes beyond ignorance. It goes to the essence of understanding the world beyond you and why I'm a democrat without label and without hesitancy. Kindness and understanding are essential to my world view. Knowing that I'm not the only person in this world and that there are people who have much different experiences from me are what make up the basis of my decision to choose a political party that works for the poor, the under-represented, and the "fighters" of the world.
So fuck you, Palin. You may be one Sephora trip away from a pit bull but you're miles away from understanding what it means to be anyone other than yourself.
*I'd like to point out that if not for that comment, I wouldn't have a lot of negative things to say about her speech. I know what I'm getting into when I tune in to rabid Republicans, as they did a week ago.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
It's 10 items OR LESS, lady.
It's my turn to buy the cupcakes/cookies/whatever for a birthday at work. Fine. I'll go to the store and run in quickly and get something. (Um, it's not actually my turn, to be fair, because I got some recently but there are a number of people at my office - generally the well paid few although not all - who refuse to ever buy anything for work bday parties. Assholes.) Anyway. I run in, grab two dozen cupcakes (so pretty! so bright!) a few cans of tuna (since I'm there, right?) and head to the express, express lane right by the produce at the front door. See there are regular express landes in the regular check-out section but this is the super express lane, because it's right by the prepared foods section. Most people run to that line when they have 1 - 3 items, maybe slightly more but rarely ever reaching even the 10 item pentacle that is the line's limit.
But not the lady in front of me. Here's how my line worked out: Lady 1, like 4 things, Boy - drink, and then Cat Food Lady. At first I thought she only had a basket because she had a watermelon in it, which makes total sense. Who wants to carry a watermelon around? (At least who wants to that's not named Baby?) But her big bosom and large old-lady purse hid the real culprits: bottles of substance (couldn't tell what it was) and cat food. I see her think hard, as if debating, as she stares at her basket. I think at first it's because she's got a big bag of regular potato chips in her cart that she should totally not be eating. (I could be projecting but whatev.) Now I think it's because she was counting her plentiful items and realizing that she was putting other customers (me!) out by making us wait on her grocery line-hijacking self.
Her items: bag of chips, watermelon, cantaloupe, about 5,000 bottles of unidentified substance, and approximately 20,000 cans of cat food. In case you can't add, that's more than 10.
The real crime was not all the many minutes it took for her to load up her purchases on the tiny, tiny conveyer belt (indicative of the "express" nature of the line) or the many environmentally unfriendly plastic bags the checker had to use to bag up her 25,000+ items or even the check she wrote (in arabic, apparently, since it took her so long to get the thing written). No. None of those was the real annoyance. The biggest crime she committed was using her big bosom (I'm being very nice here) and hiding the evidence of the crimes she planned on committed. As it was, when I made my decision to stand behind her, the only visible items were the melons and fat-inducing shards of lard (chips). The mystery bottles and cat food were hidden as her mighty, mighty chest fell over the entire front part of the shopping cart and hid what was buried beneath.
I seethed so much behind her and gave so many dirty looks (with many pointed gestures at the 10 items or less sign visibly displayed) that I kind of think she got my point, but it really wasn't enough. I really, really wanted to tap her on the shoulder, kindly point out the sign, and mention that if she has more items than that and is writing a check, she might be a little more considerate to her fellow shoppers and go to a regular line. But I didn't. *sigh* I couldn't bring myself to be that confrontational, even though it wasn't really a rude comment. It would have felt wrong to die by a mad cat woman suffocating the life out of me with her moutainous jugs while she jabbed me in the eye with her readily available check-writing pen. As such, I kept my mouth shut.
Is there a polite way to tell someone they have too many items for the express lane? I've occasionally gone to the 10 items line with 11-15 items, but I always ask the cashier if it's okay and never when it's busy or there's someone behind me - I let them know I have more than 10. But I've never gone to the super-express line and expected to get away with such insolent behavior.
Oh and by the way lady, your cat's teeth are going to fall out from all that soft food. I hope you're happy.
But not the lady in front of me. Here's how my line worked out: Lady 1, like 4 things, Boy - drink, and then Cat Food Lady. At first I thought she only had a basket because she had a watermelon in it, which makes total sense. Who wants to carry a watermelon around? (At least who wants to that's not named Baby?) But her big bosom and large old-lady purse hid the real culprits: bottles of substance (couldn't tell what it was) and cat food. I see her think hard, as if debating, as she stares at her basket. I think at first it's because she's got a big bag of regular potato chips in her cart that she should totally not be eating. (I could be projecting but whatev.) Now I think it's because she was counting her plentiful items and realizing that she was putting other customers (me!) out by making us wait on her grocery line-hijacking self.
Her items: bag of chips, watermelon, cantaloupe, about 5,000 bottles of unidentified substance, and approximately 20,000 cans of cat food. In case you can't add, that's more than 10.
The real crime was not all the many minutes it took for her to load up her purchases on the tiny, tiny conveyer belt (indicative of the "express" nature of the line) or the many environmentally unfriendly plastic bags the checker had to use to bag up her 25,000+ items or even the check she wrote (in arabic, apparently, since it took her so long to get the thing written). No. None of those was the real annoyance. The biggest crime she committed was using her big bosom (I'm being very nice here) and hiding the evidence of the crimes she planned on committed. As it was, when I made my decision to stand behind her, the only visible items were the melons and fat-inducing shards of lard (chips). The mystery bottles and cat food were hidden as her mighty, mighty chest fell over the entire front part of the shopping cart and hid what was buried beneath.
I seethed so much behind her and gave so many dirty looks (with many pointed gestures at the 10 items or less sign visibly displayed) that I kind of think she got my point, but it really wasn't enough. I really, really wanted to tap her on the shoulder, kindly point out the sign, and mention that if she has more items than that and is writing a check, she might be a little more considerate to her fellow shoppers and go to a regular line. But I didn't. *sigh* I couldn't bring myself to be that confrontational, even though it wasn't really a rude comment. It would have felt wrong to die by a mad cat woman suffocating the life out of me with her moutainous jugs while she jabbed me in the eye with her readily available check-writing pen. As such, I kept my mouth shut.
Is there a polite way to tell someone they have too many items for the express lane? I've occasionally gone to the 10 items line with 11-15 items, but I always ask the cashier if it's okay and never when it's busy or there's someone behind me - I let them know I have more than 10. But I've never gone to the super-express line and expected to get away with such insolent behavior.
Oh and by the way lady, your cat's teeth are going to fall out from all that soft food. I hope you're happy.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Explain god's people to me.
How can a person (or people) go around quoting scripture and be WWJD all over the place and still get the big stuff so fucking wrong?
I'm not into god or all that spirituality stuff (although if I keep getting scared by ghost shows I might have to revisit some things), but I'm down with Jesus.* He was a cool enough guy I guess. Or, at least, the version people created was cool enough. So why do certain people spend their lives memorizing bible verses, decorating their houses with crosses, making cookies for church groups, and all that good "christian" stuff but still not get what the whole thing is about?
Here's what I have to say about it all: I'm rubber and you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you. Bastard.**
*I'm referring to Christian gods in this post because I'm specifically referring to Christians. I'm down with some of the other dieties as well.
**I can't say all the details I really want to say because there's a very slight chance someone might read this. And although I'm right about the thing I'm right about, I'm nice enough to not destroy certain people over it.
Since I need it and this is a horrible post to end the week on:
You're welcome.
I'm not into god or all that spirituality stuff (although if I keep getting scared by ghost shows I might have to revisit some things), but I'm down with Jesus.* He was a cool enough guy I guess. Or, at least, the version people created was cool enough. So why do certain people spend their lives memorizing bible verses, decorating their houses with crosses, making cookies for church groups, and all that good "christian" stuff but still not get what the whole thing is about?
Here's what I have to say about it all: I'm rubber and you're glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you. Bastard.**
*I'm referring to Christian gods in this post because I'm specifically referring to Christians. I'm down with some of the other dieties as well.
**I can't say all the details I really want to say because there's a very slight chance someone might read this. And although I'm right about the thing I'm right about, I'm nice enough to not destroy certain people over it.
Since I need it and this is a horrible post to end the week on:
You're welcome.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
SATC - The Movie
I saw SATC Saturday night. It was a fun girls' night out. (I know people are making fun of those of us who used a movie about sex and overly priced consumer goods as an excuse for a girls' night but I say fuck off to those people. It was fun and I enjoyed it.)
We got dressed up to go to a semi-fancy restaurant and wine bar. We spiced up our wardrobe a tad in a nod to SATC itself, but mainly we dressed up for the dinner and bar portion of the evening. Except for J. She wore "beach-ware," as she described it. I did find a home for my beautiful Arden B shirt that is too small for my boobs and that I waited to long to take back. My friend L was wearing a similar color and it looked amazing on her. So she gets my beautiful, ruffly, sparkly, cleavage-creating shirt. I hope her bf appreciates it.
I wore a pretty, blue-green, vintage dress I got in NYC last summer (or was it the summer before?) and a pair of awesome, yellow wedges from Target. I put on extra eyeliner and earrings I normally don't wear because they're slightly heavy, and I'm terrified I'm going to have droopy earlobes when I get old. And, to top it all off, I wore my huge cocktail ring to show that I meant business (i.e. having fun with my girls and drinking as much as I wanted).
I'm here to defend SATC and my money-spending ladies on two fronts:
1) SATC was not a horrible movie like a lot of reviews are making it out to be. Yes there was consumerism and yes they made questionable choices in story-telling, but all in all, I really liked the female friendships in the film, which is what I think the show was always all about, no matter how many times Samantha sexed, Charlotte married, Miranda bitched, or Carrie pouted. In that regard, it did its job. I even cried a bit. (I mostly kept it in check and hid my face though, because I didn't want to get skewered by my ladies. They're very quick to point out my emotional neediness when it rears its ugly head - probably because I reap what I sew but that's another story.)
2) Women have just as much say over what movie will do well opening weekend as men, if not more so. I will occasionally see a movie I'm not terribly jazzed about with the bf, but I'm much more likely to put the kabosh on a film than he is. For Matt Lauer to get on the Today Show and talk about how men must have wanted to see SATC after all (since it topped the box office) is ignorant and slightly degrading. Women see movies by themselves. Women see movies with their girlfriends. Women make decisions about what movies to see with their significant others/guy friends. Women make enough money to buy their own movie ticket. Women make up more than 50% of the population of the U.S. Women watch god damned movies and are a fucking voice in this economy, okay? Okay. Perhaps one day when women are in charge of the movie companies, some of this dismissive attitude will change. Until then, suck it movie execs. You do me no favors.
*breathes in and out, in and out*
Oh and my tiny secret? I've always secretly hated Manolos. I think they look too old and frumpy for my tastes. I know that's not a popular opinion but I've yet to run into a pair that I thought was worth all the hype and/or money. And they're not well made. (This is not my opinion of all designer shoes, just MB in particular.)
We got dressed up to go to a semi-fancy restaurant and wine bar. We spiced up our wardrobe a tad in a nod to SATC itself, but mainly we dressed up for the dinner and bar portion of the evening. Except for J. She wore "beach-ware," as she described it. I did find a home for my beautiful Arden B shirt that is too small for my boobs and that I waited to long to take back. My friend L was wearing a similar color and it looked amazing on her. So she gets my beautiful, ruffly, sparkly, cleavage-creating shirt. I hope her bf appreciates it.
I wore a pretty, blue-green, vintage dress I got in NYC last summer (or was it the summer before?) and a pair of awesome, yellow wedges from Target. I put on extra eyeliner and earrings I normally don't wear because they're slightly heavy, and I'm terrified I'm going to have droopy earlobes when I get old. And, to top it all off, I wore my huge cocktail ring to show that I meant business (i.e. having fun with my girls and drinking as much as I wanted).
I'm here to defend SATC and my money-spending ladies on two fronts:
1) SATC was not a horrible movie like a lot of reviews are making it out to be. Yes there was consumerism and yes they made questionable choices in story-telling, but all in all, I really liked the female friendships in the film, which is what I think the show was always all about, no matter how many times Samantha sexed, Charlotte married, Miranda bitched, or Carrie pouted. In that regard, it did its job. I even cried a bit. (I mostly kept it in check and hid my face though, because I didn't want to get skewered by my ladies. They're very quick to point out my emotional neediness when it rears its ugly head - probably because I reap what I sew but that's another story.)
2) Women have just as much say over what movie will do well opening weekend as men, if not more so. I will occasionally see a movie I'm not terribly jazzed about with the bf, but I'm much more likely to put the kabosh on a film than he is. For Matt Lauer to get on the Today Show and talk about how men must have wanted to see SATC after all (since it topped the box office) is ignorant and slightly degrading. Women see movies by themselves. Women see movies with their girlfriends. Women make decisions about what movies to see with their significant others/guy friends. Women make enough money to buy their own movie ticket. Women make up more than 50% of the population of the U.S. Women watch god damned movies and are a fucking voice in this economy, okay? Okay. Perhaps one day when women are in charge of the movie companies, some of this dismissive attitude will change. Until then, suck it movie execs. You do me no favors.
*breathes in and out, in and out*
Oh and my tiny secret? I've always secretly hated Manolos. I think they look too old and frumpy for my tastes. I know that's not a popular opinion but I've yet to run into a pair that I thought was worth all the hype and/or money. And they're not well made. (This is not my opinion of all designer shoes, just MB in particular.)
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
I hate hot holidays.
I do. It's true. Memorial Day? Blows. 4th of July? Sucks ass. Labor Day? Slightly better than stepping in fresh dog doo.
It's not that I mind the sentiment behind the days. I'm all for memorliazing, celebrating independence, and the like, but why the hell do they have to be in the middle of the summer when it's so freaking' hot? This country is built around outdoor vacationing. Grand canyon? Outdoors. BBQs? Outdoors. Fireworks? Again, outdoors. These outdoor loving holidayers (is that a word?) have never had to holiday outdoors in Texas. Because it's hot. And when I say hot, I mean an Inferno type of hot. It was 98+ the entire weekend with like 1000% humidity. I don't know about anyone else but that equates horror to me - uncomfortable horror at that.
Mind you I didn't do the typical outdoor activities mentioned above for Memorial Day, but I did participate in the normal holiday hubris - sale shopping. And it was hot. Did I mention that? Did I also mention I have a black car that traps heat like a coffin? (Or what I'd imagine a coffin to trap heat like anyway.) Everywhere I went was hot. It was disgusting. It was so disgusting that I couldn't bring myself to hit Sephora, which is a thing unheard of in my world. I was tempted to go to the movies by myself during the day on Monday because it was so disgustingly hot. I figured the movie theatre would be cool and dark.. and cool. Only the movie theatre was so packed and I was so annoyed at driving around for 20 minutes looking for a parking space that I gave up and went home where I locked all the doors, closed the blinds, turned off all the lights, and turned my ac down very low. Guess what? It was still hot. I hate hot holidays.
If the powers that be are reading this, I still like the day off but can we please try and encourage more indoor activities like bowling or board games or something like that? I'd be much more apt to participate if I knew I didn't have to chance seeing shorts on men.
It's not that I mind the sentiment behind the days. I'm all for memorliazing, celebrating independence, and the like, but why the hell do they have to be in the middle of the summer when it's so freaking' hot? This country is built around outdoor vacationing. Grand canyon? Outdoors. BBQs? Outdoors. Fireworks? Again, outdoors. These outdoor loving holidayers (is that a word?) have never had to holiday outdoors in Texas. Because it's hot. And when I say hot, I mean an Inferno type of hot. It was 98+ the entire weekend with like 1000% humidity. I don't know about anyone else but that equates horror to me - uncomfortable horror at that.
Mind you I didn't do the typical outdoor activities mentioned above for Memorial Day, but I did participate in the normal holiday hubris - sale shopping. And it was hot. Did I mention that? Did I also mention I have a black car that traps heat like a coffin? (Or what I'd imagine a coffin to trap heat like anyway.) Everywhere I went was hot. It was disgusting. It was so disgusting that I couldn't bring myself to hit Sephora, which is a thing unheard of in my world. I was tempted to go to the movies by myself during the day on Monday because it was so disgustingly hot. I figured the movie theatre would be cool and dark.. and cool. Only the movie theatre was so packed and I was so annoyed at driving around for 20 minutes looking for a parking space that I gave up and went home where I locked all the doors, closed the blinds, turned off all the lights, and turned my ac down very low. Guess what? It was still hot. I hate hot holidays.
If the powers that be are reading this, I still like the day off but can we please try and encourage more indoor activities like bowling or board games or something like that? I'd be much more apt to participate if I knew I didn't have to chance seeing shorts on men.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Apparently I only hear what I want to hear.
So sayeth the mother.
Background: my brother is about to have his 5th kid. Typo? Nope. He's on wife #2 and this is her 3rd kid with him. Alot of numbers? Yep. They're due Wednesday. (They? When did pregnancy become his and hers? She's the one pushing a disgusting, covered-in-all-kinds-of-bodily-fluids thing out of her special place. How does he get to lay claim to this?) This pregnancy has created all kinds of hilarity and um, other stuff, some of which I've posted about. For instance I was home for Mother's Day the other weekend and my dad was talking to my brother on the phone. I hear: "She lost her what?" and then my dad abruptly hands the phone to my mother. I asked him what my brother was talking about. My dad tried to act like it was no big deal but I could see the involuntary shudder as he repeated: "She lost her mucus plug." I don't want to be 12 or anything but... ewwwwwww!!!! (My dad is not Hank Hill but it's the closest cartoon character out there that comes close to describing him, so you can imagine what it took for him to repeat the phrase "mucus plug" to me.)
Anyway. Back to my original story.
So Sunday night my mom calls me about 10:30 (middle of the night for her) to tell me my SIL is having contractions and all that jazz. We decide to reconvene in the morning (because my mom doesn't want to sit at a hospital all night) to see how things are going. In my mind contractions = birth, so I'm thinking they're having the baby that night.
Monday morning rolls around and I speak with my mom around 7:30 a.m. I specifically ask her if she's talked to my brother. I want to know if the baby's born yet or what. She says she has not talked to him since the night before but to get my stuff together and meet her at my grandmother's house (a halfway point where we'll rendezvous before going to the hospital). I repeatedly call her over the course of the early morning asking if she's heard from my brother. Everytime I call she tells me she has not talked to him. I call in to work and tell them I'll be out because the bro is having the baby and all that (I prepared them ahead of time that I travel to family events like these). As I'm in my car driving towards my grandmother's (over an hour away), I decide to call my brother myself to see if he'll answer my call.
He does and he tells me they're still at home because the doctor won't see them until they meet "criteria," whatever the hell that means. Oh, okay. So they're not at the hospital and they haven't had the baby yet and for all that, it could be days before the baby comes (or at least until Wednesday when they'll induce if necessary).
All of that is fine except that I've already taken off work and I'm on my way out of town. I decide I'll turn around, head back to work, and explain the situation to my boss. He won't care. I also decide I should call my mom and let her know what's up so she doesn't rush off to the hospital. I call her and her reaction? "Oh yeah, I knew all of that." Me: How did you know that, Mom? Her: I talked to your brother this morning.
WTF??? Why the fuck was she telling me to travel over an hour to meet her to go to the hospital when she knew nothing was happening? And why did she keep telling me she hadn't spoken with my brother and knew absolutely nothing when in fact she'd talked to him and knew absolutely everything? And why the fuck (did I mention that word already?) was she telling me to waste my precious, precious gas to come meet her when I'd have to turn around and go home when there was. no. baby.?!?!
Her reaction to my outrage? To tell me that she had indeed told me she talked to him. And not only had she told me she'd talked to him but she'd told me what he said (i.e. no baby yet). I very politely (ahem) disagreed with her and she informed me that she wasn't going to argue with me, because I only hear what I want to hear.
You know what? I'll tell you about 5,000 things I did not want to hear: 1) I did not want to hear that I had to call in to work when in fact I did not; 2) I did not want to hear that I had to drive halfway out of town when I did not; 3) I did not want to hear that I had to get up early out of my comfy bed to go to a hospital where a baby was not coming; 4) I did not want to hear that I had to put on make-up on a Monday morning (a task I usually leave until Thursday) when in fact I did not. (Because, see, if there was a new baby there would be pictures.); 5) I did not want to hear that I had to wear contacts on a Monday morning, which I usually don't wear due to the overuse they get on weekends, when in fact I did not. (Again, pictures. And a lot of driving in a lot of sun = sunglasses = need for contacts.); 6) I did not want to hear that I had to coat my entire body with spf because I was going to be driving in the sun all day and I can't afford to have any more cleavage wrinkles (thanks again J) when in fact I did not have to wear spf on my boobs at all, given the short, short drive to my work on normal mornings; and 7) I did not want to hear that apparently my mother is completely, out of her mind crazy, because she doesn't have long term healthcare insurance and I do not want to take care of her ass.
*brushes sweat and furrow off brow* I feel better now.
Background: my brother is about to have his 5th kid. Typo? Nope. He's on wife #2 and this is her 3rd kid with him. Alot of numbers? Yep. They're due Wednesday. (They? When did pregnancy become his and hers? She's the one pushing a disgusting, covered-in-all-kinds-of-bodily-fluids thing out of her special place. How does he get to lay claim to this?) This pregnancy has created all kinds of hilarity and um, other stuff, some of which I've posted about. For instance I was home for Mother's Day the other weekend and my dad was talking to my brother on the phone. I hear: "She lost her what?" and then my dad abruptly hands the phone to my mother. I asked him what my brother was talking about. My dad tried to act like it was no big deal but I could see the involuntary shudder as he repeated: "She lost her mucus plug." I don't want to be 12 or anything but... ewwwwwww!!!! (My dad is not Hank Hill but it's the closest cartoon character out there that comes close to describing him, so you can imagine what it took for him to repeat the phrase "mucus plug" to me.)
Anyway. Back to my original story.
So Sunday night my mom calls me about 10:30 (middle of the night for her) to tell me my SIL is having contractions and all that jazz. We decide to reconvene in the morning (because my mom doesn't want to sit at a hospital all night) to see how things are going. In my mind contractions = birth, so I'm thinking they're having the baby that night.
Monday morning rolls around and I speak with my mom around 7:30 a.m. I specifically ask her if she's talked to my brother. I want to know if the baby's born yet or what. She says she has not talked to him since the night before but to get my stuff together and meet her at my grandmother's house (a halfway point where we'll rendezvous before going to the hospital). I repeatedly call her over the course of the early morning asking if she's heard from my brother. Everytime I call she tells me she has not talked to him. I call in to work and tell them I'll be out because the bro is having the baby and all that (I prepared them ahead of time that I travel to family events like these). As I'm in my car driving towards my grandmother's (over an hour away), I decide to call my brother myself to see if he'll answer my call.
He does and he tells me they're still at home because the doctor won't see them until they meet "criteria," whatever the hell that means. Oh, okay. So they're not at the hospital and they haven't had the baby yet and for all that, it could be days before the baby comes (or at least until Wednesday when they'll induce if necessary).
All of that is fine except that I've already taken off work and I'm on my way out of town. I decide I'll turn around, head back to work, and explain the situation to my boss. He won't care. I also decide I should call my mom and let her know what's up so she doesn't rush off to the hospital. I call her and her reaction? "Oh yeah, I knew all of that." Me: How did you know that, Mom? Her: I talked to your brother this morning.
WTF??? Why the fuck was she telling me to travel over an hour to meet her to go to the hospital when she knew nothing was happening? And why did she keep telling me she hadn't spoken with my brother and knew absolutely nothing when in fact she'd talked to him and knew absolutely everything? And why the fuck (did I mention that word already?) was she telling me to waste my precious, precious gas to come meet her when I'd have to turn around and go home when there was. no. baby.?!?!
Her reaction to my outrage? To tell me that she had indeed told me she talked to him. And not only had she told me she'd talked to him but she'd told me what he said (i.e. no baby yet). I very politely (ahem) disagreed with her and she informed me that she wasn't going to argue with me, because I only hear what I want to hear.
You know what? I'll tell you about 5,000 things I did not want to hear: 1) I did not want to hear that I had to call in to work when in fact I did not; 2) I did not want to hear that I had to drive halfway out of town when I did not; 3) I did not want to hear that I had to get up early out of my comfy bed to go to a hospital where a baby was not coming; 4) I did not want to hear that I had to put on make-up on a Monday morning (a task I usually leave until Thursday) when in fact I did not. (Because, see, if there was a new baby there would be pictures.); 5) I did not want to hear that I had to wear contacts on a Monday morning, which I usually don't wear due to the overuse they get on weekends, when in fact I did not. (Again, pictures. And a lot of driving in a lot of sun = sunglasses = need for contacts.); 6) I did not want to hear that I had to coat my entire body with spf because I was going to be driving in the sun all day and I can't afford to have any more cleavage wrinkles (thanks again J) when in fact I did not have to wear spf on my boobs at all, given the short, short drive to my work on normal mornings; and 7) I did not want to hear that apparently my mother is completely, out of her mind crazy, because she doesn't have long term healthcare insurance and I do not want to take care of her ass.
*brushes sweat and furrow off brow* I feel better now.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Full disclosure: I'm in a mood.
You know the kind - where everything looks dour and grim and everything seems so damn boring. My emotions are easily held hostage by my sense of boredom. My complaints:
1. I'm broke. I'm in debt and I'm broke. I will never be out of debt. I will never be able to afford a new car. I will never be able to buy a house or even rent a bigger place.
2. I'm hungry. I'm on this new low-cal/high-protein diet and oh my god it sucks. I haven't cheated one, single time (and I don't want to), but I spend most of my evenings hungry and thinking about protein shakes. Fuck.
3. I'm bored. Last week was a crazy week and I needed a couple of days to myself to regain my sense of equilibrium. Great. My "couple of days" has extended to a week and I'm bored out of my goddamn mind! There are things I'd like to do (at work, at home, etc.) but I'm too bored to even seriously contemplate doing them. I have organized and cleaned my kitchen about 4 times this week though.
4. I'm feeling crazy bloated and it's terribly uncomfortable. (I wish I had Aunt Period to blame all of this on but I don't.)
5. The gift I gave my grandmother yesterday for her bday broke right as she was opening it. So now I have to take it back, hope they have another, and somehow get it back to her sometime soon.
6. I'd love to go to Target to practice some retail therapy only I can't. Refer to #1.
7. It's only Thursday. I have a whole other day of work before I can call this godforsaken week over.
8. The Pope is taking up all my good debate coverage on the teevee. I want politics not Papal deep thoughts. I just don't get the Pope. What's the big deal? I'm not Catholic or anything, but my lapsing Baptist self doesn't get up in arms over Joel Osteen coming to town. And I'm going to just say it: I like the old Pope better. He was bad about the molesting stuff (really bad), but the new Pope is way worse in just about every way. Ugh. Whatever. The main point is that I want proper analysis on HRC v. Obama, not coverage of the Pope risking all by rolling the windows down in his weird glass carriage.
9. I missed my Pilates class yesterday. I stupidly overslept and they learned how to do the inchworm. I'm probably really bad at it but I want to know how to inchworm too.
10. I'm pretty sure all this pissiness is causing wrinkles. And my skin is extremely dry this week. Damn all you oily-faced people, monopolizing the face care market!
1. I'm broke. I'm in debt and I'm broke. I will never be out of debt. I will never be able to afford a new car. I will never be able to buy a house or even rent a bigger place.
2. I'm hungry. I'm on this new low-cal/high-protein diet and oh my god it sucks. I haven't cheated one, single time (and I don't want to), but I spend most of my evenings hungry and thinking about protein shakes. Fuck.
3. I'm bored. Last week was a crazy week and I needed a couple of days to myself to regain my sense of equilibrium. Great. My "couple of days" has extended to a week and I'm bored out of my goddamn mind! There are things I'd like to do (at work, at home, etc.) but I'm too bored to even seriously contemplate doing them. I have organized and cleaned my kitchen about 4 times this week though.
4. I'm feeling crazy bloated and it's terribly uncomfortable. (I wish I had Aunt Period to blame all of this on but I don't.)
5. The gift I gave my grandmother yesterday for her bday broke right as she was opening it. So now I have to take it back, hope they have another, and somehow get it back to her sometime soon.
6. I'd love to go to Target to practice some retail therapy only I can't. Refer to #1.
7. It's only Thursday. I have a whole other day of work before I can call this godforsaken week over.
8. The Pope is taking up all my good debate coverage on the teevee. I want politics not Papal deep thoughts. I just don't get the Pope. What's the big deal? I'm not Catholic or anything, but my lapsing Baptist self doesn't get up in arms over Joel Osteen coming to town. And I'm going to just say it: I like the old Pope better. He was bad about the molesting stuff (really bad), but the new Pope is way worse in just about every way. Ugh. Whatever. The main point is that I want proper analysis on HRC v. Obama, not coverage of the Pope risking all by rolling the windows down in his weird glass carriage.
9. I missed my Pilates class yesterday. I stupidly overslept and they learned how to do the inchworm. I'm probably really bad at it but I want to know how to inchworm too.
10. I'm pretty sure all this pissiness is causing wrinkles. And my skin is extremely dry this week. Damn all you oily-faced people, monopolizing the face care market!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
I suck
Who else feels like ass because they watched the entire American Idol Gives Back, in hopes of seeing Brad Pitt un-uglified, cried at all the sad bits, and was too cheap/lazy to donate even a dollar? God I suck. Saddest parts? When they showed the 15 year-old who had to take care of his 3 younger brothers because their parents died. It was like Party of Five but in Africa and with waaay worse dilemmas than whether to take over the family restaurant or not. I can deal with all the other heartbreak the show had to offer but the kid playing parent? I lost it.
It really makes worrying about a DHEA imbalance lame in comparison... (It's possible the DHEA worry was lame before it was put into comparison with other horrors.)
On a completely different note, I rode the bus to work today for the first time ever. It was okay. The only downside is getting up earlier than normal but I really would love a less rushed morning, so maybe I can manage. My route is filled with college students all going to campus (the bus cuts through campus to get downtown), and it made me semi-wistful for my college days. You couldn't pay me enough to relive them socially (fun but I couldn't stand to do it again), but I loved, loved, loved all the classes and books and learning. I'm sure it wouldn't be the same though. You can never go home, eh?
Speaking of old class days, my law school is having it's 5 year reunion this weekend. I'm boycotting. I would rather go to my high school reunion than my law school reunion, and that's saying a lot since I refused to go to the former as well. I sincerely hated law school. It was petty and shallow and I'm fairly certain learning "the law" in that corporate-preparing environment killed not only part of my soul but a large part of my brain as well. The only good things I got out of law school are: the ability to argue both sides of a point, 3 amazing friends (more that went to law school but I didn't know them there), a J.D., and a whole lotta good debt to mask my bad debt.
Moral of the story? Don't go to law school to change the world. Donate money to American Idol Gives Back instead.
It really makes worrying about a DHEA imbalance lame in comparison... (It's possible the DHEA worry was lame before it was put into comparison with other horrors.)
On a completely different note, I rode the bus to work today for the first time ever. It was okay. The only downside is getting up earlier than normal but I really would love a less rushed morning, so maybe I can manage. My route is filled with college students all going to campus (the bus cuts through campus to get downtown), and it made me semi-wistful for my college days. You couldn't pay me enough to relive them socially (fun but I couldn't stand to do it again), but I loved, loved, loved all the classes and books and learning. I'm sure it wouldn't be the same though. You can never go home, eh?
Speaking of old class days, my law school is having it's 5 year reunion this weekend. I'm boycotting. I would rather go to my high school reunion than my law school reunion, and that's saying a lot since I refused to go to the former as well. I sincerely hated law school. It was petty and shallow and I'm fairly certain learning "the law" in that corporate-preparing environment killed not only part of my soul but a large part of my brain as well. The only good things I got out of law school are: the ability to argue both sides of a point, 3 amazing friends (more that went to law school but I didn't know them there), a J.D., and a whole lotta good debt to mask my bad debt.
Moral of the story? Don't go to law school to change the world. Donate money to American Idol Gives Back instead.
Monday, April 07, 2008
It must be Monday.
Guilt!!!!!!!!!! Is a horrible thing. Brief story some of you already know: Sis-in-law's 3rd kid + baby shower + invite came a week ahead of time + she lives in town 2 hours away + I'm not going + big fight with mom = GUILT.
I wasn't feeling the guilt, only righteous indignation at the aforementioned big fight with mom, but when I sent out all the emails RSVPing in the negative and apologizing to SIL, my mom's shitty ass guilt trip is starting to work. She apologized for the nasty words said in the fight and she's even picking up the flowers I ordered (in lieu of attendance - I try to be nice) and taking them to the shower. But even her good deeds are laced with guilt. See? She's the good family member - going to the shower and even picking up my pseudo-gift to bring along with her. *sigh* My boobs are starting to sweat. Apparently guilt-induced cleavage sweat. Gross and gross.
To add to the gloriousness of today I just now realized I have my cardigan on inside out. Nice. I've talked with lots of people today and no one has pointed it out to me. I'm going to wear it like this for the rest of the day in defiance of all the fuckers who don't tell you you have spinach in your teeth. Fuck those people. (I'm displacing anger here, in case you needed an explanation.)
I wasn't feeling the guilt, only righteous indignation at the aforementioned big fight with mom, but when I sent out all the emails RSVPing in the negative and apologizing to SIL, my mom's shitty ass guilt trip is starting to work. She apologized for the nasty words said in the fight and she's even picking up the flowers I ordered (in lieu of attendance - I try to be nice) and taking them to the shower. But even her good deeds are laced with guilt. See? She's the good family member - going to the shower and even picking up my pseudo-gift to bring along with her. *sigh* My boobs are starting to sweat. Apparently guilt-induced cleavage sweat. Gross and gross.
To add to the gloriousness of today I just now realized I have my cardigan on inside out. Nice. I've talked with lots of people today and no one has pointed it out to me. I'm going to wear it like this for the rest of the day in defiance of all the fuckers who don't tell you you have spinach in your teeth. Fuck those people. (I'm displacing anger here, in case you needed an explanation.)
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Parents just don't understand...
In the immortal words of the Fresh Prince of Bellaire and DJ Jazzy Jeff, "so to you, all the kids all across the land, there's no need to argue, parents just don't understand." Doo do doo do, zingy fun noise, doo do doo do.
So I was talking to my mom on the phone the other day. She randomly interrupts that she meant to tell me I have x dollars in some account somewhere. Me: wha? Her: A letter came for you and it said you had x dollars in a retirement account. Key points: retirement account (gives me a clue as to what she's talking about) and in letter format (i.e. she opened my mail).
Apparently my mother does not understand that she is not supposed to open my mail, even though we've had many civilized and not so civilized conversations about that very action ever since I was old enough to start receiving mail. (One not so civilized occasion occurred when she opened an acceptance/rejection letter in high school. I won't go into details but rest assured the neighbors stayed far away from our part of the street that night although she still refuses to admit she was wrong. That's the kind of mom I have.)
I pointed out to her, rather politely, that she shouldn't open my mail and her response was that she knew it was a federal offense but she didn't care. Apparently the fact that my head emerged from her vagina gives her the right to do what she wants regarding my mail. Or so she says. Whatever. Fine. So mom, when did this letter come? Oh weeks ago. Really? Why haven't you given it to me? Wrong question to ask. Next comes the lecture on me visiting her more often. Did I mention I'd seen her less than 24 hours earlier at my grandmother's for Easter dinner? But apparently that doesn't count because she puts my mail (that she's already opened) in my bedroom at her house and she can't be expected to go in there and pick it up to bring to me, can she? And of course if I visited her, I'd see for myself that there's something sitting on the bed I'm going to be sleeping in. See? It's all my fault.
Ignoring the above genius logic I ask her with whom might the retirement account be? And how should I retrieve the funds? (I figure these are safe questions since she's already read the fine print. But that's what I get for thinking.) Guess what? She doesn't know and she's slightly offended that I would ask her something she doesn't know the answer to. Please don't ask why she can't get up from her recliner and go pick up the offending piece of mail and let me know what it says, because god knows if she can't mail it to me or give it to me in person, she's certainly not going to get up from her chair and do actual moving around. Insanity!
I accept all of the above with no small amount of grace, if I do say so myself. I only point out the absurdity of the entire conversation two, maybe three times. But where I draw the line is today. I get an email from my mother with the subject line: "our conversation from the other evening." Here is her email, with only small edits to protect the innocent:
Tina,
When we were talking about the mail you had received from x, with some balance in an account, I couldn't remember what the name was on the account. Could it have been from xyz company?
Love you!
Regards,
Tina's mom
*bangs head on desk* I don't know Mom. Could it have been from xyz company? How the hell would I know? YOU HAVE THE LETTER!!! Again, I politely mentioned that it might behoove us both for her to retrieve the piece of offending mail instead of trying to guess back and forth, considering a) she'd read the mail and b) she freaking HAS THE LETTER!!! breathing, breathing...
So I repeat again, "so to you, all the kids all across the land, there's no need to argue, parents just don't understand." Doo do doo do, zingy fun noise, doo do doo do.
Forgive me if this post is all over the place. Parental love, eh?
So I was talking to my mom on the phone the other day. She randomly interrupts that she meant to tell me I have x dollars in some account somewhere. Me: wha? Her: A letter came for you and it said you had x dollars in a retirement account. Key points: retirement account (gives me a clue as to what she's talking about) and in letter format (i.e. she opened my mail).
Apparently my mother does not understand that she is not supposed to open my mail, even though we've had many civilized and not so civilized conversations about that very action ever since I was old enough to start receiving mail. (One not so civilized occasion occurred when she opened an acceptance/rejection letter in high school. I won't go into details but rest assured the neighbors stayed far away from our part of the street that night although she still refuses to admit she was wrong. That's the kind of mom I have.)
I pointed out to her, rather politely, that she shouldn't open my mail and her response was that she knew it was a federal offense but she didn't care. Apparently the fact that my head emerged from her vagina gives her the right to do what she wants regarding my mail. Or so she says. Whatever. Fine. So mom, when did this letter come? Oh weeks ago. Really? Why haven't you given it to me? Wrong question to ask. Next comes the lecture on me visiting her more often. Did I mention I'd seen her less than 24 hours earlier at my grandmother's for Easter dinner? But apparently that doesn't count because she puts my mail (that she's already opened) in my bedroom at her house and she can't be expected to go in there and pick it up to bring to me, can she? And of course if I visited her, I'd see for myself that there's something sitting on the bed I'm going to be sleeping in. See? It's all my fault.
Ignoring the above genius logic I ask her with whom might the retirement account be? And how should I retrieve the funds? (I figure these are safe questions since she's already read the fine print. But that's what I get for thinking.) Guess what? She doesn't know and she's slightly offended that I would ask her something she doesn't know the answer to. Please don't ask why she can't get up from her recliner and go pick up the offending piece of mail and let me know what it says, because god knows if she can't mail it to me or give it to me in person, she's certainly not going to get up from her chair and do actual moving around. Insanity!
I accept all of the above with no small amount of grace, if I do say so myself. I only point out the absurdity of the entire conversation two, maybe three times. But where I draw the line is today. I get an email from my mother with the subject line: "our conversation from the other evening." Here is her email, with only small edits to protect the innocent:
Tina,
When we were talking about the mail you had received from x, with some balance in an account, I couldn't remember what the name was on the account. Could it have been from xyz company?
Love you!
Regards,
Tina's mom
*bangs head on desk* I don't know Mom. Could it have been from xyz company? How the hell would I know? YOU HAVE THE LETTER!!! Again, I politely mentioned that it might behoove us both for her to retrieve the piece of offending mail instead of trying to guess back and forth, considering a) she'd read the mail and b) she freaking HAS THE LETTER!!! breathing, breathing...
So I repeat again, "so to you, all the kids all across the land, there's no need to argue, parents just don't understand." Doo do doo do, zingy fun noise, doo do doo do.
Forgive me if this post is all over the place. Parental love, eh?
Monday, March 10, 2008
Damn Time Change!!!
Warning: rant ahead
Why, oh why, is it necessary to change the motherf**cking clock twice a year? In Texas it gets dark at what, 7:30 p.m.? Now with a time change it will get dark at 8:30. Give us a month or so and we'll be seeing the sun set at 10:15. I don't know about anyone else but I do not need that much sunlight. And, quite frankly, I couldn't give a shit about those that do. Why do the freaks of nature who like running at 9 o'clock at night get to dictate the amount of sunshine I'm supposed to be exposed to?
I LIKE coming home from the gym at 7:00 and feeling good about locking myself indoors for the rest of the evening. I DO NOT LIKE joining the neighbors for a beer on the patio with mosquitos eating me up, all because it's a freaking "beautiful night." Screw beautiful nights. You know what's beautiful? Watching Jon Stewart's pasty face and enjoying beach weather via reruns of The Golden Girls.
If holing up in my house with a blanket and darkness surrounding me is wrong, I don't want to be right. And red wine never tastes as good in the daylight. Just saying.
See what daylight savings time does to me? Loss of hour = less sleep = tiredness = grumpiness = blog rant.
One more irritating point: the whole "fall back" thing? doesn't happen until November. So we have one extra hour of daylight for 8 months and one extra hour of darkness for only 4 months. What's fair about that? Daylight savings time unfairly benefits happy people. Surely this is a violation of the due process or commerce clause, right? Ugh.
Why, oh why, is it necessary to change the motherf**cking clock twice a year? In Texas it gets dark at what, 7:30 p.m.? Now with a time change it will get dark at 8:30. Give us a month or so and we'll be seeing the sun set at 10:15. I don't know about anyone else but I do not need that much sunlight. And, quite frankly, I couldn't give a shit about those that do. Why do the freaks of nature who like running at 9 o'clock at night get to dictate the amount of sunshine I'm supposed to be exposed to?
I LIKE coming home from the gym at 7:00 and feeling good about locking myself indoors for the rest of the evening. I DO NOT LIKE joining the neighbors for a beer on the patio with mosquitos eating me up, all because it's a freaking "beautiful night." Screw beautiful nights. You know what's beautiful? Watching Jon Stewart's pasty face and enjoying beach weather via reruns of The Golden Girls.
If holing up in my house with a blanket and darkness surrounding me is wrong, I don't want to be right. And red wine never tastes as good in the daylight. Just saying.
See what daylight savings time does to me? Loss of hour = less sleep = tiredness = grumpiness = blog rant.
One more irritating point: the whole "fall back" thing? doesn't happen until November. So we have one extra hour of daylight for 8 months and one extra hour of darkness for only 4 months. What's fair about that? Daylight savings time unfairly benefits happy people. Surely this is a violation of the due process or commerce clause, right? Ugh.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Excellent way to kill time...
http://community.livejournal.com/1bruce1/profile
It's a great recap of Sweet Valley Twins/High/College (SVU) books. I spent practically a whole afternoon at work (when there was nothing to do - geez!) reading and only got through about 1/3 of them. They. are. awesome.
Random thought: Cicadas are really annoying. It's freaking 80+ degrees here and I'm sick to death of the damn cicadas drowning out the tv. How can I properly dissect the American Idolers if I can't hear them over insect legs rubbing together. I mean, I get it. I've worn corduroy but come on. Cicadas are insane. Stop mating! It's too early! (Just to spite me, one just went into overdrive. I hope it chafes itself raw.)
It's a great recap of Sweet Valley Twins/High/College (SVU) books. I spent practically a whole afternoon at work (when there was nothing to do - geez!) reading and only got through about 1/3 of them. They. are. awesome.
Random thought: Cicadas are really annoying. It's freaking 80+ degrees here and I'm sick to death of the damn cicadas drowning out the tv. How can I properly dissect the American Idolers if I can't hear them over insect legs rubbing together. I mean, I get it. I've worn corduroy but come on. Cicadas are insane. Stop mating! It's too early! (Just to spite me, one just went into overdrive. I hope it chafes itself raw.)
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