Did I mention I hate.....

I hate small talk.  Riding in an elevator with a stranger is akward enough.  Discussing the painfully obvious with that stranger is absurd.  Yeah, I know the weather is hot.  It's Florida.  In May.  Where'd you obtain your meteorolgy degree?
I know the gas prices are high.  Discussing the outrageous prices is not going to cause them to go down. If it bothers you enough to discuss it with me, perhaps you should look into alternative means of transportation.  And shut the fuck up.
"Is it Friday yet?", "I can't believe it's Monday", or "Hump day...We're almost there", are unacceptable to me.  I even see people post these as their Facebook status.  I am perfectly coherent.  I do not suffer from dementia or Alzheimer's, I am not in a coma, and I am not Terri Schaivo.  I know damned well what day of the week it is.   What can I possibly contribute to those statements to make this a riveting conversation?  NOTHING.

I hate going into a public restroom and someone starts a conversation with me as I'm entering a stall.  It takes every ounce of concentration I have to overcome "stage fright" and start peeing. I can't start until I am able to stop answering your questions about what I'm doing this weekend.  Because of this, the person who started the conversation must assume I have to poop, as I'm just sitting there, quietly.  In turn, I spend too much time in the public restroom, and come out afterward hoping nobody else thinks I pooped. 

While on the subject, I hate people who poop in public.  Come on, man.  Your life is that busy that you can't squeeze a quick crap into your time at home?  Nobody else wants to smell that.  Also, spraying air freshener does not eliminate the fecal odor.  It simply highlights the fact that you just took a dump and stunk up the bathroom.  This is why you should do this at home. 

I hate walking through a stranger's fart residual. 

I hate that I only ever see fat, sloppy people wearing scrubs.  Do scrubs only come in size XXXXL?  And as nurses, shouldn't these people be represented better?  How can you take care of someone ill if you can't even brush your hair.  How can you tell someone to eat healthier when you obviously don't  know the meaning of diet and exercise?  I can't take you seriously. 

I hate tight shirts on men.  Especially Affliction, Tap Out, Ed Hardy, and shirts with skulls on them.  Unless you are a famous MMA fighter (even that is questionable), don't wear them.  If you do, I thank you for giving me a head's up that you're a douchebag.  The big, tacky logos give me ample time to turn and run in the other direction.

I hate those little white chunks of solid matter that mysteriously appear out of nowhere in my mouth.  What are you, and where did you come from?  

I hate people who feel the need to come to a complete stop before making a right turn.  It's alright, I'll just slam on my brakes so you don't have to counter-balance yourselves.  Anything to make you comfortable. 

I hate finding fingernails on the floor/ground. 

I hate that everywhere I walk, I see dental floss picks laying on the ground.  I'm convinced they bounce off the rim of the trash can.  I don't understand.  For as many of the picks I see littering the ground, I see an awful lot of people with extremely poor dental hygiene.  Where are these people that are throwing these things?  And why don't they throw them in the trash?

I hate trying to talk to someone who has eye boogers.

I hate people trying to talk to me while I'm obviously working.  I especially hate people that don't say, "good morning" and don't give me a chance to sit down and grab my coffee before approaching me with some trivial work issue.

I hate bunchy elastic waist pants.  What happens when you turn 65 that you can no longer wear regular button-up slacks?  Why, at around the same time, does it become necessary to slide your waist to just under your armpit?  Do old people find long butts sexy?  Is this a trend I am not aware of in the retirement community?  Also, why do all old ladies get the same hair cut?  Is this a rite of passage into retirement?  "Well Ethel, I'm turning 70 tomorrow.  You know what that means?  I made my appointment at Fantastic Sam's to get my hair chopped off and permed.  I can't wait."

I hate those shoes that nurses and old ladies wear.  They're either tan or black, have velcro involved somewhere, and are hideous.  This shows me that you have completely given up.  Congratulations.

I hate that most Irish people are only proud to be Irish around St. Patrick's Day.  But really, what else do you have going for you?  Lucky Charms? You can drink a lot?  Awesome.  I'm really impressed.

I hate lot stalkers.  Lot stalkers are those that sit in a parking lot lane with fourteen cars behind them, with their blinker on, waiting for the guy in a close spot to back out.  There are 25,000 empty spots around the corner, but this jerk off sees the need to inconvenience everyone around him. 

I hate it when people ask me where they should eat and what restaurants to avoid.  If I gave you an honest answer, you'd simply say, "No way", and continue to eat there anyway.  For this reason, if you have asked me this question, or plan on asking me this question, expect to get a bull shit answer.  I'm a health inspector, not your personal restaurant critic. 

Kate

I've said it before, and I'll say it again.  Not everyone is as fortunate as I to have Kate as a best friend.  A friendship like ours is unique, to say the least.  We've been friends for as long as I can remember (ok, since Junior High, at least).  Unlike most catty girl/girl friendships, Kate and I have never fought.  Not even a squabble.  We have always respected each other's difference of opinion.  In fact, I'm pretty sure this is what keeps us balanced.  Although time and distance (add shielding to that, and you have the trifecta for protecting yourself in the event of a radiological disaster-you're welcome) have prevented us from seeing each other face to face as often as we'd like, our friendship has only grown stronger. 

Kate and I were certainly not the most popular girls in junior high.  Just like every other kid we went to school with and every kid who has passed through the doors of Meadville Area Junior/Senior High since, we were simply smelly, gross teenagers.  Freshman year was when we really became inseparable.  This was also the time grunge and Beavis and Butt-head were popular.  We had a lot of classes together, so naturally, we talked through them all.  When one would get detention for talking, the other one would go to detention too, not because we had to, but because we were bored. 

Kate's family was, um, eclectic.  Her kitchen cabinets were covered in pictures of Bill Clinton and Joan Baez.  There was an italian dressing bottle filled with holy water in the fridge, and gargoyles stared down at you from pretty much every corner in the house.  Kate and her sisters pretty much did as they pleased. 

This, by no means, is a cut on Kate's mom. As a single mother, she busted her ass to make sure the kids had everything they needed.  "Burke" is a beautiful, amazing, intelligent woman, whose heart and soul is devoted to improve the lives of those around her.  I remember Kate coming over to my house, sitting on the couch, saying, "I miss this."  My dad, confused by her statement, asked her nicely what the hell she was talking about.  She replied, "my mom gave away all our furniture to a family who needed it at the church."  Kate came home from school one day, and thought they had been robbed.  She wasn't bull shitting.  Burke donated it ALL.  I'm pretty sure to this day, there's still no furniture in that house. 

Kate has no known enemies...well, maybe a few.  Norman, an over-weight uh, not-so-intelligent (okay, he was in special classes) student continually harassed Kate.  She and Norman had a hate-hate relationship that was deeply seeded from early years.  Kate weighed maybe 80 pounds, soaking wet.  Norman weighed about 280, bone dry (but very greasy).    Norman was one mean dummy.  While riding her bike home from school, she told Norman to get away from her.  She made the mistake of throwing a snowball at him, to no avail (her arms were like twigs).  Norman turned into an angry gorilla, packed a snowball the diameter of a volleyball with the hardness of a baseball, and with all his retard strength, wailed it.  Kate flew off her bike like a gladiator impaled in a jousting match (did that shit really happen?).  Unlike the panty-waist crybabies of today, we didn't believe in wearing helmets. She rolled about 20 feet, into a snow drift. Kate's knees were torn up, her head bleeding.  She jumped on her bike and ran away.  She found a different route home after that.  She called me as soon as she got home (yeah, it was long before cell phones),  "That mother fucker is going down!", she said through her tears. I wonder where old Norman is today.  He could probably still kick our asses.  

Kate and I used to go to restaurants, request a booth, then sit next to each other.  Nobody else was with us.

We went to the rest stop in Edinboro (25 miles from our house) and took a bunch of pictures with the rest area attendant, holding up brochures.  We told her we were traveling the US, documenting all the rest area attendants we met along the way. 

One night in the dead of winter, we decided to go throw snowballs at Kate's neighbors's house.  Our intention was to locate the bedroom window of the boy I liked, and try to get his attention (I was a loser and he hated me).  We dressed in all black, including ski masks, and headed out.  We were dressed in all black. In four feet of pure, white snow.  Enough said. 

There are so many more stories.  Stories I can't tell on here.  We'd probably be thrown in jail.  That's okay.  You can find the whole story in our book.  It'll be coming to a bookstore near you soon.

On a Serious Note

I often joke about, well, pretty much everything.  I believe that life is much too fun to be taken seriously.  However, I do have a serious side. 

I have a friend (several, actually) who is going through a trying time in her life.  She confided in me that her world feels like it's falling apart due to the dissolution of her marriage.  As I listened to her story, I just wanted to hug her and tell her, "Your feelings are completely normal.  You're going to be okay.  I promise, just be strong".  These words of advice I would not have been able to provide her a little over a year ago. 

Let me preface this by explaining that I went into my marriage like most do, confident that we, together, could withstand anything. I faced a lot of judgement throughout the course of my divorce, all from outsiders whose opinion truly meant nothing to me.  They have no idea what we went through.  Nor will they ever.

It takes more than one person to ruin a marriage.  Neither one of us was perfect.  I decided in May of 2009 that I could no longer pretend to love the stranger Ken turned out to be.  It took a lot of sleepless nights before I mustered the courage to tell him that things had to change.  This was the hardest thing I've ever faced.  This was the man I was supposed to devote my life to.  I took vows to love him through thick and thin.  What was wrong with me?  He treated me like a princess, sending me flowers for no reason, leaving me notes, providing me with a beautiful home.  I could never want or need for anything.  I was an awful person.  Why would I want to walk away from the only life I've known since moving to Florida?  I packed up a small bag of belongings, and went to a co-worker's house.  After sitting awake in her living room all night, I got in my car and drove down Gulf Boulevard.  I pulled into the parking lot of Gull Harbor, a 55+  condominium community, and parked.  There I sat. 6:15 a.m., facing a generic white three story building , wondering what I had done.  I had no place to go, and I had no one to call.  Nobody knew I wanted out.  We appeared so happy.  What would anybody say when I told them I left?  I wasn't ready to face the judgement yet.  All I wanted was someone to hold me while I cried.  I sat at Gull Harbor until about 8:30.  I grabbed the Sunday paper and started looking for rentals.  By 5:00 that night, I was a train wreck.  I hadn't found a rental, and I had no place to go.  I ended up back at my co-worker's house.  Her parents' winter home had been vacated for the season, so she handed over the key. 

I battled with the guilt of leaving Ken day and night.  I went for days without sleep.  My personal life was affecting my professional life.  I talked to Ken daily. Everyday, he'd cry and beg me to come home. How could I walk away from this man, whom I had given my all for just a year prior?  I moved back home after about a month.  He promised he'd change, and I promised myself I'd make myself fall back in love with him.  It felt so good to be home.  I was back with Moose, and my creature comforts.  Ken surprised me with a weekend escape to St.Augustine.  He reserved us the honeymoon suite at Casa Monica, took me for a horse-drawn carriage ride, and bought me jewelry.  This did nothing to make me fall in love with him again.  His obsession with material things was actually a major contributor to the demise of our marriage.  He never wanted to hear that when I'd try to communicate that.  A week before my 30th birthday, another one of his lies unraveled.  That was the end.  I told him this wasn't going to work.  I tried everything I could to make myself love him, but his promises of change were empty.  I found a fully furnished condo on the beach to rent.  

The following year, the guilt and the doubt haunted me.  I had regular contact with Ken, since he kept Moose, and we had cars, boats, and jet skis to sell.  The nights were so lonely, there in bed with my thoughts.  "What if I tried harder?"  I gave up EVERYTHING when I walked out on my family.  To me, that's exactly what I felt I did, was walk out on my family.  There were days I couldn't get out of bed. There were nights I'd fall to the floor sobbing uncontrollably, praying for the pain to go away.  I tried to function at work, but my performance was slipping.  I stopped teaching Zumba.  I stopped running.  I was alone now.  Nobody has ever felt like I felt.  Or so I thought.

I have been blessed with some of the most amazing parents in the world.  When I did get the courage to tell them I left, my dad drove down here from Pennsylvania and stayed with me until the divorce was well underway.  They were the only ones who never questioned why I left.  Finally, my shoulders to lean (and cry on) were here. 

A divorce isn't just a separation of a married couple.  A divorce is the separation of an individual from everything that grounded them and kept them whole.  For some, that's children.  For others, it's the life and home you created together.  As I mentioned earlier, a lot of people were quick to judge.  Without getting into the details of the divorce, nobody knows the whole story except the two people involved.  I refuse to get into the details of the divorce.  It's water under the bridge now, and as part of the healing process, I refuse to rehash that.

On June 20th, it will be one year since my divorce was granted.  I moved from that furnished condo into an unfurnished house.  I took this as an opportunity to move forward.  Ken relocated to parts unknown, and we have not been in contact.  He left me with nothing but a closet full of my clothing, Moose, and the world at my fingertips.  That's all I needed. 

It still hurts to dig up some of the wounds. They are still pretty fresh.  I'm not going to lie.  I cried writing this.  It's the first time I've cried over this in a long time, though.  That's how I know I am healing.

So I say to you, my friend, please know you are not alone.  Unfortunately, things may get worse before they get better.  You are so strong.  You can do this.  Please know that you have a non-judgemental shoulder to cry on.  Remember, we have predetermined this path for ourselves for a reason.

   

I Also Hate

As I'm out for my run, I start thinking of more and more things that annoy the piss out of me.  Hate is a strong word, but I'll use it loosely.  It works for these rants. 

I hate when people clip their nails in public.  Especially in restaurants. There's a time and place for that. It's when you're taking a shit. 

I hate people who don Looney Tunes attire.  Actually, I hate anything Looney Tunes.  I've only ever seen it worn by white trash.  Yosemite Sam mud flaps that say "Back Off"? Yeah, when's the last time you saw those on a Range Rover?

I hate when people don't squeeze pimples.  If they're white or black on top, and the size of a fetus, just squeeze it.  That's all I see when I talk to you. 

I hate fart cans and rear spoilers on compact cars.  I'm sorry, were you in The Fast and The Furious? A rear spoiler and fart can are NOT going to make your 4-banger go 0 to 60 in .3 seconds.  In fact, your car probably can't go 0 to 60 ever.  Save your cash for a new subwoofer, prick.

I hate teenage boys with Justin Beiber hair.  They're going to throw out their necks flipping their heads to get their feathered bangs out of their eyes. 

I hate skinny jeans.  They highlight the fact that the people wearing them don't have an ass.  I can say this.  I have an ass.  I must wear "fat jeans".

I hate the ho-bag in the car in front of me with a "save our sea turtles" license plate.  Yeah, you chucking your McDonald's bag out the window helps.  Keep saving those sea turtles.  What next?  Clubbing a seal while protesting BP?

I hate that people don't know the difference between "your" and "you're".  Seriously?  We don't know about contractions?  Second grade called, they want their "all star student" sticker back, you tard.

I hate that farting is not socially acceptable unless you're between the ages of 0-7, or 70-dead.  The world would be much less uptight if we all just farted more. 

I hate that talking about farts still makes me giggle.  What am I? 9?

I hate those stick figure stickers on the back windows of cars.  I don't care that you have four skinny kids and a dog that looks like it has thyroid issues. 

I hate when you can't understand someone speaking to you, ask them to repeat, and you still can't understand them, so you smile and agree....Only to realize later they were trying to tell you your fly was down. 

I hate bluetooth earpieces. You look like a douche box.  Unless you're juggling flaming bowling pins on a unicycle, you can hold a phone to your ear.

I hate people who honk 3 seconds after the light turns green.  Can't they see I'm applying my makeup, texting, scratching my ass, and taking a swig from my Tommy Bahama flask?  Patience, people.