Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Last Friday I had the pleasure of dining with the amazingly awesome Jen. We had a hot lunch date, and upon getting to the Party in Hades known as “the mall parking lot,” I received a text from Jen warning me that “bitches are cutting each other for parking spaces.”
A few weeks ago, poor KayDee had her brand, spankin’ new car keyed by some lunatic who couldn’t bare the fact she’d have to walk a few extra feet to get to the front door of whatever Big Box store she was going to spend her rent check in.
What’s up with that? Why all the parking lot hate? It’s just a spot to stick your car while you spend money you don’t have on shit no one really needs? Maybe that’s where the REAL rage comes from? Not from the repetitive, circular driving, all the while being stuck behind some chick who is going one mile an hour, investigating every spot she comes across just to make sure there’s a car actually in it before she moves on to the next, bumper to bumper isle.
Personally, I try and spare myself the agony. I have long sucked at the Honey Pot of Parking Lot Etiquette to have a solution that works for me.
May I suggest...
...don’t try and park in the good spots. Go park in the depths of hell, way far away. Park so far that your spot could possibly be in another zip code, and you need a shuttle bus to get to and from the store to your car trunk. Park so far away that it’s easier to send the shit you just bought to your house Fed Ex rather than carry it to your car.
Because no one else wants your damned spot, and you don’t have to take your life into your hands to get it. No one is getting cut for the shit spots, and no one is getting keyed. If anyone is trying to cut or key you in the hell-spot, then run like hell, because odds are it’s a serial killer. No one in their right mind should be slumming in these places to begin with. Bring mace and a GPS. You just never know. But at least you can drive and park all easy peasy like, and there’s something to be said for that.
Try this simple approach next time you find yourself begging for mercy to the Parking Lot Gods. I think you’ll be satisfied with the results. At the very least, you won’t get cut by a bitch, and that’s just a gift that keeps on giving.
Happy Merry to you all!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Alas, it is the time of year where the Cootie Bird likes to fly over all of our houses, dropping sweet shits of SARS over each and every one of us just in time for the holidays.
Ring the yule tide bell, natures special gift to you is that you’re contagious, that way you can share the love as well. Ho, ho, (sneezehackpukecough) ho!!
There are some people who avoid this festive party where the Sudafed is served from champagne flutes and the Advil comes en croute. The flu shot works its magic on them, giving them the RSVP Pass to the VIP Room of Health. But not everyone is that lucky. Actually, I can think of more people who had the flu shit (funny typo that works) and still had their asses handed to them, than those who didn’t get it and survived flu season unscathed.
With that said, as I stand here on the line between health and being an cootie monger, I would like to offer two nuggets of love and wisdom for those who have friends who are illin’, and would like to be of service.
Here are two things you should not do:
- Tell your illin’ friend that they should have have a flu shot. No one cares. It’s too late now. It doesn’t matter. “I told you so” only works during Jackass-esque pranks that land you in jail. At any other time, they just make you look like an ass hole. If you’re cool with looking like an ass hole, then by all means, “I told you so/Shoulda gotten a flu shot” away. But stay the fuck away from me, because I will breathe on you on purpose, and be standing next to your illin’ bed with a pot of soup (that I probably spit in) going all “How’s that flu shot working for you?”
- In case you didn’t know, when someone tells you that they are sick, it is not an open invitation to compare sick notes of how or when you are/were sicker. Now's not a time for medical one-upmanship or tales of woe swapping. Just STFU & pass the Kleenex to the infected ho on the left.
Here's what would be nice to hear...
“...You poor thing. I had that last year. It took forever to shake it off, but at least it’s time to catch up on your DVR playlist, no? Do you need anything? Please call me if you do. I hope you feel better quickly.”
It is not ok to say this....
“...blah blah blah “insert name of technical diagnosis that you learned on WEBMD.com here” blah blah blah “hospital for a month” blah blah blah “I know someone who DIED FROM THAT!”
Yes, telling people that their bought with flu will result in death is never helpful. Not to anyone. Ever.
With that said, I now return to nursing my martini of tea, honey and gin, and my tomato bisque with sourdough croutons. Just because one is sick, doesn't mean one should suffer!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
My mouth to God’s ears, I have a perfectly legitimate reason for treating this blog like a stepchild. Perhaps one day, I’ll share with you the tale of the 18 month long, $20,000 waste of time fuckery that was an attempt to adopt a child.
But for now, more important matters are pressing.
God Bless the HS Reunion that is upon us all. Or rather, upon the other 700-or something souls that I graduated with. I will not be attending this drunken compare-contrast fest. To get all of the information that I need to feel validated, I can just lurk on Facebook for free, as opposed to shit out $80 -$100 to feed the proverbial animals face to face.
But times are tough! It’s hard on the street for the affluent. My eyes were just accosted by a giant etiquette snafu so grievous that would make Emily Post sit up in her casket, and shit on herself in pure, tacky, and holy horror.
The crime; attendees who have not prepaid to party at the party of the century have been called out to cough up the cash or be shamed for all of the nets to gawk at.
Never mind the fact that people were giving the option to pay $80 early at a discount rate, or spit up the full $100 rate at the Gates of Hell once they arrived all Club Monaco clad at the oh-so chic venue. So much for choices. The Pom Poms have spoken!
OBVIOUSLY, (I love you Antoine Dodson) this shout out isn’t because the peeps running the showboat are actually concerned about making sure fellow classmates save a few bucks for their tickets for this hot mess. Nope. My best guess is that the peeps running the showboat probably need the cash money to pay for this brew-ha-ha. My guess is that otherwise, they’ll have to piss out the difference from their own pockets.
Which, I agree, is the wild suck. No good deed goes unpunished, and that includes party planning for a well intentioned cause. But no one asked them to plan a fancy soiree where $80-$100 would be needed for an evening of well drinks and cocktail weenies. Actually, it was suggested long ago to have a more family friendly, cost conscious get together. Some poor soul got dog piled and had his ass handed to him for being the dirty fucker to speak such blasphemy as to defame the tradition of going to a reunion for it’s real purpose. That purpose is not be to reunited, but to see and be seen.
So with that said, where are the High School Bees when you need them?
The Bees ask, wouldn’t it make more sense, and be less gauche (my new favorite word) to contact those on the $80 naughty mat privately to beg for the funds in a more dignified, less intrusive manner? Perhaps a little note with an apology for reneging on the option to pay at the door? Since the attendees are getting a shake down for their fucking $80, they should at least know why...
Dear HS Reunion Attendee,
We know we said you could pay at the door, but that was some bull crap we just said to look all proper and shit. We need cash money now because out of a class of 700 or so, our asses could only dig up about 300, of which only about 160 are coming. Of those 160, only about 100 or so of them are bona fide former students. That means, our asses are holding a bill that we can’t pay for. We’re worried that come the night of the reunion, most people will come to their senses. Instead of coming down on a cold winters night to fight for parking and hang out with people they don’t like, they’ll stay home with their families and enjoy yet another cozy night of Thanksgiving left overs and a Cops Marathon on G4. Whatchugonnadowhentheycomeforyou?
So, won’t you please help support the Class of 19HOLYDAMNITSBEENTHATLONG, and prepay your $80, so that the handful of us who actually do care about this endeavor won’t have to.
Go High Skool!
Yup. That’s how Bootsy would do it.
Update as of 11/15 The guest count is now up to 190, and I'm sure those crazy kids will break 250 by time of the ho-down! For that, I am honestly glad that no one had to pay out of pocket for weenies and wine. I'm also glad that this means tear stained, emails begging for money has come to an end. I'm now waiting for the tear stained, emails of pics with people begging to be untagged to begin. That's reunion enough for me! Boogie down.
Update 12/8 I have since seen said pics, and I have to say that the Reunion Kids put on a quite a show! It really did look like a nice party. No well drinks or cocktail weenies in sight!! It was the good shizz and fancy hors devours you'd see on Bitchen Kitchen on The Cooking Channel. People got gift bags in school colors! The class douche bag delivered on his douche baggery by being on the douche to wear an Ed Hardy T-Shirt! But most of all, people that seemed so bigger than life to me all those years ago, were totally, 100% unrecognizable to me now. This makes me rethink my entire position on this HS reunion, as well as all of the others. After all, I must confess my dirty secret of the underbelly, that I was on the planning committee of our last reunion. I thought I had gotten all off this bullshit out of my system then, and I did, until the begging for money started.
I must ponder and post more when I don't have a DVR of Glee to watch. TTFN....
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Well, there’s about 9 hours left in the August of Hell, and I look forward to it’s banishment into the back caverns of the deepest, darkest hole of my med-soaked mind.
I’m not going to list out all of the shiteous things that have happened during this crap ass month, because it’s all relative. But I will say this, it’s been a long 31 days, and August isn’t dragging it's sorry ass out of the proverbial bathroom window with any kind of self respect.
Instead, August took a final moment last night to bless my evening walk on the beach with a show of a manhunt in Lake Michigan to attempt to dig up some poor soul who ignored the “no swimming” sign. At first, I thought it was just an over ambitious waste of tax payers money. It’s when the helicopters showed up to search the water, and saw the search dogs take steaming dumps in the sand is when I realized that the noxious, stank-fart that is this August carries on. And on. And on...
So, here’s to fall!! Bring on the cold. Bring on the football. Bring on the cozy sweaters. Bring on my ugly ass, but awesome Hunter Boots!! Bring on hot toddies! Bring on yummy pot luck dinners. Bring on friends and family far and wide, seen and unseen. Bring it all. Just don’t bring any more crap like the past 31 days have brought. If that’s the case, bring on the cash money I need to go see Sheryl, my former therapist. She probably needs the money for some new Prada boots anyway.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
buy trollop mugs, tshirts and magnets
a loose woman, a whore, a lady of the night, a slut ho biotech!
"your mother is such a complete trollop"
And oddly, this as well...
buy trollop mugs, tshirts and magnets
1.) Cindy McCain, as defined by John McCain in a 1992 senate campaign bid. It was a long day.
2.) A whore; a woman perceived as sexually disreputable or promiscuous.
"Cindy: You're getting a litte thin up there (twirling John's hair)
John: At least I don't plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you See You Next Tuesday."
....I had to leave that last word off of there because my Mother in Law is reading this.
HI MOM!! *Waves*
Also, as you can see, if you’d like to purchase your Trollop mug, tshirt, or magnet, urbandictionary.com can hook you up! I have a few already in the mail for stocking stuffers for this upcoming holiday season.
But back to our blog here....
I’m not sure what Cindy McCain has to do with being a whore, but ok. Maybe in Arizona they just like a little dirty talk before they loose elections or shun immigrants and what have you. But judging from the true definition of the word, I’m thinking that Cindy McCain is the opposite of a trollop.
HOWEVER...this toothless, shirt stained, epic muffin top, ho-bag (with feet cracked so badly you could run a white water rafting trip on her heels,) I saw at the beach today may beg to differ.
Because I pretty much never take my Ipod earbuds out of my ears when in public by myself, people say some crazy shit within ear shot of me. On this occasion, Toothless Ho Bag was informing her two toothless, shirt stained, epic muffin topped friends that there was a “Trollop” their midst, trolloping about the sand, and polluting the beach with her trollopness, It was explained that the offending Trollop in question was a ginger, lacking a bra, and that she was so ugly that Toothless’ Ho Bag’s boyfriend would pay the Trollop money NOT to give him hand tuggies in the bathroom at the Shit Show Movie Theater across the street.
Given this amazingly in depth description, I just had to go see this Trollop for myself. And sure enough, there she was in all of her Trollop glory. She was easy to spot. Said Trollop was sitting quietly by herself, dicking around with her Iphone and designer dog, and sipping pure spring, cruelty free water from her $30 Sigg Canteen.
Yup. The Trollop wasn’t really a trollop as she was more of a Fuckin’ Hippie. The only part Toothless Ho Bag got right, was that Trollop Hippie wasn’t wearing a bra.
So what’s the moral of the story? Did I do the polite thing, and explain to Toothless Ho Bag the difference between a Trollop and a Fucking Hippie? I mean, knowledge is power, no? The more you know and all that bullshit...
Or did I explain to the Fucking Hippie that since she can afford (in my estimation) about $500 in accouterment to slum at the beach in style, she can probably afford a bra as well?
I did neither. Actually, I turned the music up and got the hell out of there. Between the trollops, toothless ho bags, and fucking hippies, I realized that the beach was no place for wholesome, moral people like myself. Then I rushed home to watch The Jersey Shore from last week on the DVR. I needed to be caught up for tonight.
I’m calling this one a Honey Wash. It was a loose-loose, in my estimation. Though the dog was cute, and probably aptly named “Cindy McCain.”
Trollop. The word of the day. Use it the next time you see a Fucking Hippie.
Until next time...Happy Trolloping To You!!
Sunday, August 8, 2010
I had both lunch and dinner plans with two women of braun and brains, wit and wisdom. Every moment I spend in the company of both of them is more than time well spent, it’s time that’s locked away in the bank of memories, and stories that I tell to other friends about how awesome these two are. Colleen and Noelle, two awesome chicks, bad ass and rad, all the way.
Happily, I was able to reschedule my plans with Colleen to the week after next. We’ll be ladies that lunch, talk some smack about people we mutually think suck it raw, and muse over the trappings of mundane life and what have you. Usual things that lunch ladies yammer on about over soup served in small crocks with baked cheese, and salads with dried cranberries in them.
Noelle; our plans can’t be rescheduled, her name jotted down in my calendar not once, but twice, to save the date. She passed away on the night we were supposed to see each other.
About once a month, Noelle and I get together and go to our sacred place of sisterhood, a place we affectionately call The Coulo Cantina. The margaritas are heavy on both the cheap tequila and pureed mango, just the way we like them. The guacamole is to die for, the chimichanga she likes is fried in week old grease, and the video jukebox ala 1990-something is on a constant rotation of every Shakira performance ever. The check is served with a shot of Bailey’s. It’s random, but we love it. Case closed.
Noelle had to reschedule our Coulo Cantina date because the open road beckoned to her, and she followed her calling. Noelle’s passion was her motorcycle. With her own two hands, blood-sweat-and-tears, and many woman hours, she built that thing from the shell up. I believe she said it was a black Suzuki 2000, and it was her bambino.
She dropped me an email letting me know that she was headed west with a group of her biker cohorts on a last minute trip to Colorado. More so, she was going with a guy she was on the fence about bedding, and couldn’t wait to get back to spill the results of her Rocky Mountain Booty Call on Cantina night.
For a few days, she updated her Facebook page with pictures and blurbs about her trip. Both Iowa and Nebraska were listed as big “yawns!” When she got to Colorado, her exact words were “Colorado kicks ass!! It's where motorcycles go for vacation! Amazing roads everywhere!!￼ on Wednesday”
By Thursday evening she was gone. Despite her avid commitment to motorcycle safety, (she didn’t step foot near her bike without her helmet and gear) she wasn’t able to tame the roads she was so romanced by.
I didn’t find out the news that the world was deprived of Noelle and her total awesomeness until Saturday. Her sister sent me a Facebook message, asking me if I was aware of what happened to her, and I should call her when I have a moment. I didn’t need to call her to know what she was going to say. I guess I needed to call her not to find out that(or how) Noelle left us, but rather when.
Noelle’s gift was her humor. It was infectious, and addictive. Whenever we got together, I was always gifted a mental souvenir from her. It was usually vocabulary. When you see me refer to something as “the suck,” that was her. If I say I wanted to “punch them in the tit,” that was her too. She said I’m the one that made her vocabulary more colorful. But I assure you, it was the other way around.
If you are enjoying some of the links on my page, like The Beth and Val Show, and This Is Why You’re Fat, that was her. Shit My Dad Says, her too. So, she touched your life as well. That’s just the kind of gal she was.
Noelle never judged me, no matter what kind of fucked up shit I told her. She’d just smile, fill up my glass, and say something both wise and witty. When I told her of my plans to adopt, not babies, but two boys just on the verge of their teenage years, instead of telling me all of the reasons why it was a bad idea, she pointed out of the reasons that it was fantastic idea. That was just the kind of gal she was.
But most of all, Noelle was one of the biggest advocates of me getting off my lazy ass and writing. It was the only thing she ever really razzed me about. That is why I dedicated this blog to her in my very first post. I wanted everyones whose eyes saw this, to know that she is a source of my inspiration.
Traditionally, I’m supposed to be sobbing my eyes out, looking up at the sky and demanding to know from God why he’d take someone so awesome from a place that needed more people like her. But, I don’t think Noelle would dig on that too much. Sure, I cry a little here and there, because I’m going to miss my friend. But she really was the type of girl who wanted to celebrate everything, so crying is something she’d punch me in the tit for. And a part of me thinks that God took her because her maybe she was so awesome, he wanted her for himself. Maybe God needed bike lessons, or a good chimichanga?
Here’s a picture of my girl, Noelle, about to ride easy and ride dirty at the same time...
I think I still may go on our dinner date, drink her half of the mango margarita, and eat her half of the guacamole, just like normal. I’ll play She Wolf for her twice, just to get her gag.
I know she’s up there, a smoke hanging out of her mouth, wondering what the big deal is about. She’s the big deal. She was just that kind of gal.
Miss you like a fat kid misses cake, Lady. I will see you at the great Coulo Cantina in the sky....xoxo
Noelle ~ December 19, 1969 - August 5, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Sadly, in this new and modern age of asshattery, I’ve come to realize that there is a new norm, causing me to yearn for what once was. The old rule is now inside out; I completely expect people to be obnoxious, and I’m in shock and awe when they aren’t. I wish I could give out gold stars to the do-gooders who take a few moments out of their day to make the world a better place, one act of politeness at a time.
The inspiration for my Punk Ass Oprah A-Ha Moment was brought on by an experience I had over this past weekend. The first was when I was leaving my courtyard of death hell, where all manners and social graces are forsaken like a woman of ill repute on the streets of Jack The Ripper’s London.
With cat carrier and purse in tow, I staggered my way to the front gate, to see two of my neighbors making a living room out of the easement, yet again. However, this time, a woman I’ve never met, was kind enough to get the gate for me. I was pleasantly surprised, and more so, totally grateful. Navigating our tricked out gate lock isn’t for the weak, even if you’re telekinetic.
It was the Jerkwad she was that gets to wear The Paper Crown of Rude that caused me to stop in my tracks and actually take the time to stare him down and give him the stink eye.
“And here’s me just ignoring her. I know, I’m horrible.”
That’s what he says, with me not even out of earshot. If he kept his pie hole shut, I would have just assumed he didn’t offer to help me because the woman he was with did. But au contrare, he was well aware of his behavior. If this woman didn’t help me out, despite balancing the cat, my purse, and picking the lock like a juggling savant, Jerkwad would have acted like I don’t exist, leaving me to fend for myself like a damn fool.
I’d like to add, that I have never spoken to this man before. I’m not sure I even know his name. I think it’s Jerkwad. Nonetheless, if the roles were reversed, I of course would have helped him. Not just because it’s neighborly, but also because I wouldn’t want this guy to think I’m a fucking asshole. He, however, is all good with me thinking that about him. Mission accomplished!!
Or maybe Jerkwad is friends with Punk and his lazy dog, and it’s a conspiracy? Be all shitty to the girl who only wants to get in and out of the gate. I can see how that would be a fun way to spend an afternoon for two lonely men who have nothing but their cracked, brick walls, and a high assessment bill.
At this point, It’s safe to say, that as far as some of my neighbors go, I have come to expect nothing less than bullshit like this on such a fundamental level.
There is also another incident I'd like to mention, which isn’t really worth a story, but rather a PSA and word to the wise.
It is my wish for all in the world, to one day for all to have the manners to introduce people to each other when the situation calls for it.
For example, if you are...say...having a conversation with someone and you happen to see someone else that comes and joins you, I ask you to please, please take a quick moment to say, “So and so, this is so and so...” Then, if you like, a quick reference of how you two know each other. Then, do so in kind, in reverse. That way, your two acquaintances can take a moment to exchange their own pleasantries before you go about the business of kicking your first conversation to the curb and ice out your original guest.
It isn’t a complicated notion, nor is it one that is particularly unreasonable. It just seems to be a lost art; the act of a proper introduction. I really wish that was one of those things that could leave me in shock and awe, but it really does happen so often that I’ve learned to just walk away on queue or bust out my phone to check my Twatter feed. If I’m about to be ignored, I feel I must self sooth by seeing what stupid crap my favorite celebrity is tweeting.about.with.a.period.after.every.word.
Also, a word to the wise, don’t try and get to know your favorite celebrity on a social forum. They will only disappoint you. In my case, I discovered this particular celeb probably bats for the opposite team. So much for my torrid love.in.an.elevator fantasies. Also this celeb probably is a pedantic thespian. That’s the worst kind of thespian there is. What a waste.
What’s the point, really? I could always introduce myself, and today, I did, only for my “host” to pretty much admit the same thing Jerkwad did, that they were “horrible.”
I don’t know about you, but I don’t think being “horrible” is a good enough justification for the behavior. I'd prefer some honesty about it, that perhaps you just don't give a shit. If there was open admittance with that, I think I'd feel better about it, and could at least respect the fact that in your realm of social caste, I don't mean jack shit. At least then I know where I stand.
So what would the bee with the honey do? Jerkwad and the front gate is a lost cause. Though if I wouldn’t get busted I would think about thinking about leaving a bag of one of Biggie’s (that’s my fat pug) butt nuggets hanging in a plastic Target bag on his back door.
As for the introduction, I probably could have done that better by giving the HR smile, (which is when you smile ever so slightly to give the illusion that you’re not making a judgement, even though you TOTALLY are) making light out of the gaffe with a witty quip, and then excusing myself by taking all of my shit and just leaving them there.
When I did introduce myself, I didn’t do a good job of masking my momentary disdain for the person I was with, which wasn’t appropriate for the stranger. It wasn’t Strangers responsibility to make the introduction. Also, just because my “host” is rude, doesn’t mean that I should be. So, I was a bit "horrible" as well.
Now I know for the next time, at least. If I see a stranger coming, smile up, hand out, phone with livestream twatter feed away. I can do it! I know I can!!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
A couple of days ago, I pick up the mail to see that The Mister has a letter from Imma Gonnegetyer-Money, Attorney at Law. (What’s with “at law?” Can someone explain this to me? What else is someone going to be at Attorney at? It’s a mindscrambler.)
There it is in fine print, three violations from over four years ago, to the tune of $250. Since the state is broke because we’re the only state where the Governors make the license plates for which the Ipass cameras can photograph, these bitches aren’t fucking around when they claim they can screw with your license and/or come and get your car.
I get some lady on the phone, who refers to herself as Miss I Don’t Take No Shit. I figure since she’s the poor, underpaid soul to take these calls where she’s called names that not even Mel Gibson could think of, perhaps more bees with honey could come in handy here.
Miss Don’t Take No Shit was amused as I introduced myself as the woman who cleans up my husbands messes. I also asked her how her day was, how many boo-hoo calls does she get on the daily, and does her boss treat her right with free lunches laced with valium? She told me she gets free food and cash money each time some poor soul calls and begs for mercy.
With that said, how can I not help a sister out?
Though I wasn’t able to do their usual payment plan, I offered up some pity money “in good faith” for this state mandated extortion. Miss DTNS met me half way with a plan that I could manage, and offered up a direct line if I needed “any more help or information.”
I think the all information I want is a receipt that this shizz is paid, and that I don’t ever have to cough up my fun money ever again for something The Misters Boss should have paid for.
So, in the battle of More Bees With Honey, in this case, Bees Won. Buzz buzz!!
Monday, July 26, 2010
That's right, you're seeing it here first, all posted on the nets in attempt to keep my ass accountable.
No more shit-fuck-damn-piss-hell for me unless the situation REALLY calls for it. My favorite words, such as shiteous, shitballs, shithead, fucktarded, fucker, fuck my life, punk ass bitch, bitch ass punk, bitches bitch, bitch and half, two bitches, bitches as is, ass bastard, sucks ass, and douche lord will only be spoken for special occasions, such as birthdays of the damned or encounters with those sent from hell to thwart my attempts to be pure, holy, and well mannered.
You bitches better not jinx my ass and place money bets on how quickly it takes me to fuck it up. Like, by 12:01 AM and some shizz.
At least give me to 12:30 AM.
But until then, it's a fuckin' free for all. Bitches.
*Alcohol related incidents are excluded and excused. Damnit.
** I will also cut out the word "like" as a bridge to other words. Kelly Bin Simone I am...like...not. Also, being raised in the era of the Valley Girl is no longer an excuse. I'm almost 40. Even I know that...like...saying like all the time..sucks ass.
Boutique Target has always had a certain seduction about it. One finds themselves aching with pure and raw Target lust that brings out the animal inside. Some kind of insane, primal instinct comes from haphazardly roaming the isles, thinking that with each inexpensive thing you all of a sudden found that you have to have right now or you’ll shit yourself, will only cost you a few extra bucks.
But you soon discover, that when you get to the register, you have just spent your car payment on not just paper towels, but on a full table setting of knock off Fiestaware for 12, with matching table linens, and complete with votive sets for perfect ambience for a dinner party you’ll never have, because you hate to cook and you don’t know 12 people you’d actually let into your home.
That’s how Target fucks you. Cheap shit to make your life better. You may be broke now, but you’ll be eating those ramen noodles out of the coolest bowl ever.
I go to Target once a month to stock up on everything we need that we deem as basic to the practical running of our lives. Paper towels, toilet paper, noms to feed the four legged beasties, and yes, the occasional pair of shoes that look awesome in its box on my closet floor.
Whatever the case, I don’t step foot into Target without being armed with the only artillery I have in my arsenal of dollars and "sense"; coupons and a shopping list.
I’m a hard ass, shopping nazi. I stick to the list, I comparison shop like a mother, and I go as far as to tally up what I’m spending so I don’t piddle when I get to the register and see a total that is the same amount as my multi-packaged cable bill.
So, here I am in line, with this dude behind the register who openly admits he doesn’t belong there. He says he’s in stock, but they’re under staffed so here he is, pretending to know how to work this thing on my time.
And actually, that’s cool.
Because I have also been the asshole behind the register, trying to fake competency while the person on the other side waits impatiently, tapping their credit card on the counter, looking at me as if she’s going to slap my momma for giving birth to such a stupid child.
I told him not to rush on my behalf. The people standing behind me were not as cool with his self imposed training session. And I was about to defend the guy, and that’s when he screwed me.
Dude had no idea how to register my coupons, and there were A LOT of them. At least ten, and I needed every penny that they saved me. My totals told me that I should have had at least $15.00 coming back from those coupons, and that money was going to go right into my gas tank, right to BP, right into the Gulf Coast. Alas the circle of life.
The guy missed my buy one, get one free. That’s a big faux pas, as I wouldn’t be buying one unless I was getting one free. In his attempt to fix the error, the register froze. That didn’t stop him from ringing the rest of the coupons, with him assuring me that after the register unfroze, all of my savings would show up.
Did that happen?
Of course not.
Did I ask him to do it again?
I did. But first, I checked it out with the woman who was standing behind me. Not like she’s going to be able to say no. However, I at least wanted her to know that I was aware that she was an innocent victim to this line- time sucker, not that it was going to stop me from getting my fucking $15.00.
But what this dude did that screwed me yet again, was he had already deposited my coupons into his coupon grave in his register. The dude was too flustered to go and fish them out, and it became really apparent that to ask him to do so, would cause him to either cry or stab me. Or both.
So, I bid adieu to cashier dude, said merci to the (by this time) six people behind me, and ran like hell out of there.
I believe I was lucky to get the four coupons that I did. The other six that didn’t register, free money for Target. I guess let the whole thing go, because I didn’t want to be that woman; that horrid person who holds the whole register hostage. Also because of the people behind me needed to have their own special moment with the cashier who had no clue how to work his register.
I saw the third chick in line with a whole envelope that I’m sure was just full of (expired) coupons, so register dude got to spend his shift in baptism by fire. Win-win for us all.
Minus my $6.00.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Whew! Let that sentence just run on and on.
However, given the circumstances, as you will soon read, I think my note was completely justifiable, if not downright civil. I leave it to you to be the judge.
Dear Dude from HS who keeps adding me on FB, even though I've deleted you twice,
I understand why you do it though. You like numbers. I make number 145. It's good to be popular on a social forum so you can sleep at night with the comfort that your glory days from the late 80's can linger on now that you're fat and bald.
Like so many people in my little book here, I have such fond memories of you. You taught me that gratuitous groping should always be followed with at the very least, a fake attempt to ask if it was good for me. Which it wasn't.
Sadly, I ran into you many years later at a fancy cocktail party where you were WAY out of your social caste. My friend at the time decided to take pity on you, and take you home for the night and attempt to make a man out of you. It humored us both that you apologized to ME for never calling her again after that wasted evening. However, your vantage point of the situation was greatly skewed; it was SHE who never called you, as it wasn't good for her either.
So here you are, still adding me on FB. You never say a word, but I'm sure you're having a sneaky peek around my page. No worries, we all do it. I looked at yours to see if you had anything interesting to say, which of course and as history dictated, you don't.
So, savor your look now, and enjoy the view. I hope you have a few laughs at the witty repartee of my friends, and learn new tidbits about me. I like romantic songs, holding hands while walking on the beach, and guys who know what to do with a pair of tits.
Pushing them together does not make one big one,
I probably should just delete the guy. The only reason I took the FR was so he'd stop adding me. I didn't think his existence was offensive enough to be so severe as to block him. Actually, I thought blocking him would be rude. He wasn't a criminal, just boring and a craptastic booty call. How he sired two kids I will never know. His wife must either have low standards, or pulled a Paris Hilton by keeping the phone handy in case he was feeling ambitious.
Update: As of July 26th, 2010, I deleted him. It was liberating, as now my own friend count is at a nice, even number. Sweet synchronicity, at long last!
But it’s more often the case that when the wind of the Friend Request blows the fire my way, it’ll be from a former co-worker whom once I probably e-stalked for HR dirt work, only to find a topless photo of them on their Shitspace page.
She was in management too.
Today, I received a Friend Request from a former coworker whom I forgot existed right after I cashed my last paycheck. He's become quite the connoisseur of contacts. He has friends of 500+, clearly thinking he’s on Facebook to network. He's unlike the bulk of us who are there for the stalking of ex’s to make sure that they’re now fat and ugly, and that their new partners are even fatter and uglier than they are.
Given that my friend list is small, as I try to keep it to the handful of people who have laughed with me, and not at me, I’m not too keen on having this dude all up in my business.
More so, my relationship with him doesn’t extend any further than the fact that I:
A: Mistook him for a woman the first time I heard his voice on a phone.
B: Filled out his new hire paperwork in less than ten minutes flat because my then internet boyfriend was four time zones away. It was more of priority to get in my daily dose of Deutsch loving rather than actually spending time with this freak of a new hire, of whom I was convinced would be escorted out of the building by weeks end.
and C: My two bosses would accuse the other of hiring him, neither one wanting to take responsibility for the social troll sitting in the bathroom stall sized cubby in the back of the office.
Albeit, he was a nice guy, and it seems that he’s made something of a success of himself since I last spoke to him over ten years ago. I mean, he must have. If he’s connected to 567 people that he feels he needs to keep in touch with, he must have brushed up on his conversation skills, or invested in a voice box to make him sound more like a man so people take him seriously.
He was proper enough to send a small message with his request, listing off a myriad of people from our former office, all of which I had happily forgotten ever existed. His attempt, I’m sure, was to remind me of how I knew him. But I could never forget The Dude Who Sounded Like Lady?
(A quick search of his friend list was clearly devoid of my former boss, proving that she and I are on the same page. Or perhaps he just hadn’t done enough digging to add yet one more person to his giant list of everyone he’s ever met EVER?)
So what did I do? Was I FB politically correct, and accepted the request despite myself? Or did I act a fool?
I simply ignored the request, which seems like a reasonable thing to do, given that I don’t want to have shit to do with him. However, my tendency to impulsively delete people usually gives me an odd sense of Deleters Remorse. After all, if this guy was courteous enough to reach out, as well as send a respectable note, the least I could have done was replied in kind.
Perhaps a simple, “Thank you for contacting me. My page is for close friends and family only. Feel free to reach me on my abandoned Linkedin page, where adding everyone you’ve ever met EVER may actually benefit you in some way."
Now that I think of it...let me go check that shizz just in case.
Oh...oh wait..there he is, all LINKED IN and everything.
None the less, I should have had the manners to reply to him.
If he’s the kind of FB Friend Collector that I suspect him to be, I have the inkling that this won’t be the last time I hear from him. Perhaps I’ll be able to have a FR Denial Do Over for good FB Karma. One can only hope....
Nor do I still to this day.
About ten years ago, a book called Things You Need To Be Told caught my eye, and I was fascinated by its message. It was chock full of tips on how to deal with a “rude and tacky world,” and I heard the message of The Etiquette Grrls calling to me like a siren of civility. I quickly did my best to no longer add to the problem.
Did I succeed all of the time? Not in the slightest. But have I gotten better over the years? God willing, yes. However, I openly admit I still have miles to go, and there's a long, potholed road ahead of me.
I was inspired to write this blog so that I could share the tales of manners, both good and the bad. Not just of others, but more so of myself. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve been blessed with people who make me want to strive to be the best that I can be. Which means being more like a lady, and less like a shit head. Ang and Kim both are the epitome of style and good taste. Kaydee’s gift is of eloquence, as she hardly ever swears because she’s clever enough to use more creative, less vulgar words to get her point across. Noelle's dry and point blank wit is always melded with a subtle, lady like aura. My better half is the most gracious person you will ever have the pleasure of meeting. He is patient, polite, and if anything, always a pleasure to come across. There are others as well, of course. Their shout out will be soon to come, as they also have enriched my life as only they can, and absolutely deserve to have their praises be sung.
And then there’s me.
As you can (or will) see, I have the vocabulary of a trucker set loose on I55 going south to the bowels of Cham-bana in search of a “burrito as big as your head.” I still slouch, but I figure since I’m fuckin' old and shizz, I can slouch if I fuckin’ want to. My “excuse me” is laced with all the politeness I can muster given the situation that calls for it.
But one thing that I am learning is that you get more bees with honey. For the most part, life is both better and easier that when face to face the rude, crude, and straight up shiteous, composure and politeness usually trumps the asshat in question.
Easier said than done, of course.
So this is my journey, my quest to explore the topic of etiquette in what seems to be the lawless, wild west for the gauche. Yes, I’m an occasional outlaw. But as I look both forward and back to my history of great moments of vulgar behavior, I hope to ride off into the sunset on my steed of graciousness, giving a one fingered salute to those who deserve it, and honored salute to those that I owe it to.
I sincerely do thank you for taking the time to blow off work, ignore whomever it is you’re having to listen to on the other end of your Iphone, or indulge your insomnia to read my blog.
PS: I apologize in advance for any grammatical or spelling errors. If you’re one of those grammar snobs who can’t cope with the occasional misplaced apostrophe, to you I say to you with all due respect, to take your red pen and stab yourself in the eye with it. That will be significantly less painful then counting all the times I knowingly use an ellipsis improperly or create a run on sentence.
The truth is, despite my best attempts to always produce a perfect post, sometimes after looking at the damned thing for two hours, obvious errors will escape me. I’ll catch them sooner or later, God willing.
* Most of the websites I dig were introduced to me by Noelle, because she is AWESOME and her palate for humor is extraordinary!
** Dlisted.com was suggested to me by cousin. It is the gossip site that is the gift that keeps on giving. I want to be Michael K's hag. I really do. <3