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.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, May 13, 2011
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 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.
Monday, May 2, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
I Hate
Inspired by my favorite radio show "Cowhead", and as seen on Tosh.0, "I hate" seems to be an easy and common theme. I thought I'd jump on the bandwagon. Disclaimer: Don't think for one second that I'm not grateful for all the good in my life. This just make for easy writing. I want to thank someone very special to me for contributing to this. He never ceases to make me laugh. You know who you are:)
I hate "in loving memory" stickers on cars. Putting your third-cousin's best friend's name and date of birth and death is not going bring that person back from the dead. Seriously, everyone knows someone who has died. It's part of living. Get over it.
I hate the keyboard on my laptop. It skips letters that I type. Frequently. If you see typos, it's not because I'm an idiot, it's because my computer was made in America by someone who doesn't speak english.
I hate finding a dog running loose. It becomes my obligation to ensure that dog is taken care of. I either have to capture the dog and bring it home until I find it's rightful owner, help the owner track the dog down, or wait with the dog until animal control arrives. Either way, my plans for the day are fucked.
I hate tattoos. I have yet to see a picture of ANYTHING, ever, that I like enough to scar it into my skin permanently. I can't take people who have them seriously. Especially if it's an "in loving memory" tattoo (see # 1). If you feel the need to have one, put it somewhere that can be hidden easily (like your ass). And could someone please tell me why it's not attractive to have a huge birthmark on your face, but a tattoo is "sexy" ? Exactly. No difference. Neck tats are the worst. Really? You have to have all seventeen of your kid's names drilled into your neck? Just look at their birth certificate if you can't remember their names. Or stop having kids. That's always an option.
I hate Tommy Bahama. Tommy Bahama translates into, "Dumbass, you really overpaid for this cotton t-shirt". And wearing Tommy Bahama apparrel does not make you a boat captain, or Jimmy Buffett. You're just some douche who is trying to impress people with your ignorance of overspending. News flash: a small child in a sweat shop in Nicaragua just died. Enjoy your expensive shirt.
I hate "watch out for motorcycles" bumper stickers. Thanks for the reminder. I will try not to T-bone one while I'm reading your bumper sticker.
I hate "baby on board" stickers. Thanks for letting me know. I will try not to cuss when I get road rage and punch you in the throat. I'd hate for your baby to hear me swear.
I hate people who listen to music on their phones in public with no ear phones. Nobody else wants to hear Lil Weezy while grocery shopping (okay, actually, I do). Get some ear buds.
I hate the person in line in front of me in a deli who is ordering for the entire office of 350 employees. 307 of which have food allergies and special requests.
I hate when people fall asleep in meetings, I look at them, they wake up, and get mad at me for staring at them. It's funny. You drool.
I hate when I'm conversing with someone, they fart loudly, and carry on the conversation like nothing happened. I'm going to laugh. Don't expect me not to notice. I'm like, 8 years old.
I hate that Moose waits until there's five people watching him before he takes a dump. That's a great conversation starter.
I hate Salt Life stickers and Guy Harvey products. This stuff used to be awesome. Until people who have never seen a fish outside of a kaiser roll, got a hold of them.
I hate bicyclists who ride in herds down Gulf Blvd. and expect you to drive behind them. Your shirts are dumb. And expensive. This isn't the Tour De France. You're not being sponsored to go on Sunday joy rides. Wear a regular t-shirt. They're cheaper, and if I run you over, they're easier to replace once they're blood stained.
I hate that the Jehova's Witnesses sent me a hand written envelope containing a promotional flyer for Jesus. I didn't realize Jesus had a promoter now. And if you're going to try to recruit me, spell my name correctly, stupid.
I hate people on Facebook that post religion - based statuses. That's great, but I'm pretty sure God isn't checking his facebook account all that often. If you're trying to suck up and get into the "pearly gates", try doing good in your community, not just preaching bible verses. If I want to read that, I'll pick up a bible.
I hate people who take me seriously. Life is too short. Pull the stick out of your ass and laugh a bit. It feels good. And if you are offended by my last "I hate", get over it. Jesus obviously has a sense of humor. I mean, look around. Even God is laughing.
I hate "in loving memory" stickers on cars. Putting your third-cousin's best friend's name and date of birth and death is not going bring that person back from the dead. Seriously, everyone knows someone who has died. It's part of living. Get over it.
I hate the keyboard on my laptop. It skips letters that I type. Frequently. If you see typos, it's not because I'm an idiot, it's because my computer was made in America by someone who doesn't speak english.
I hate finding a dog running loose. It becomes my obligation to ensure that dog is taken care of. I either have to capture the dog and bring it home until I find it's rightful owner, help the owner track the dog down, or wait with the dog until animal control arrives. Either way, my plans for the day are fucked.
I hate tattoos. I have yet to see a picture of ANYTHING, ever, that I like enough to scar it into my skin permanently. I can't take people who have them seriously. Especially if it's an "in loving memory" tattoo (see # 1). If you feel the need to have one, put it somewhere that can be hidden easily (like your ass). And could someone please tell me why it's not attractive to have a huge birthmark on your face, but a tattoo is "sexy" ? Exactly. No difference. Neck tats are the worst. Really? You have to have all seventeen of your kid's names drilled into your neck? Just look at their birth certificate if you can't remember their names. Or stop having kids. That's always an option.
I hate Tommy Bahama. Tommy Bahama translates into, "Dumbass, you really overpaid for this cotton t-shirt". And wearing Tommy Bahama apparrel does not make you a boat captain, or Jimmy Buffett. You're just some douche who is trying to impress people with your ignorance of overspending. News flash: a small child in a sweat shop in Nicaragua just died. Enjoy your expensive shirt.
I hate "watch out for motorcycles" bumper stickers. Thanks for the reminder. I will try not to T-bone one while I'm reading your bumper sticker.
I hate "baby on board" stickers. Thanks for letting me know. I will try not to cuss when I get road rage and punch you in the throat. I'd hate for your baby to hear me swear.
I hate people who listen to music on their phones in public with no ear phones. Nobody else wants to hear Lil Weezy while grocery shopping (okay, actually, I do). Get some ear buds.
I hate the person in line in front of me in a deli who is ordering for the entire office of 350 employees. 307 of which have food allergies and special requests.
I hate when people fall asleep in meetings, I look at them, they wake up, and get mad at me for staring at them. It's funny. You drool.
I hate when I'm conversing with someone, they fart loudly, and carry on the conversation like nothing happened. I'm going to laugh. Don't expect me not to notice. I'm like, 8 years old.
I hate that Moose waits until there's five people watching him before he takes a dump. That's a great conversation starter.
I hate Salt Life stickers and Guy Harvey products. This stuff used to be awesome. Until people who have never seen a fish outside of a kaiser roll, got a hold of them.
I hate bicyclists who ride in herds down Gulf Blvd. and expect you to drive behind them. Your shirts are dumb. And expensive. This isn't the Tour De France. You're not being sponsored to go on Sunday joy rides. Wear a regular t-shirt. They're cheaper, and if I run you over, they're easier to replace once they're blood stained.
I hate that the Jehova's Witnesses sent me a hand written envelope containing a promotional flyer for Jesus. I didn't realize Jesus had a promoter now. And if you're going to try to recruit me, spell my name correctly, stupid.
I hate people on Facebook that post religion - based statuses. That's great, but I'm pretty sure God isn't checking his facebook account all that often. If you're trying to suck up and get into the "pearly gates", try doing good in your community, not just preaching bible verses. If I want to read that, I'll pick up a bible.
I hate people who take me seriously. Life is too short. Pull the stick out of your ass and laugh a bit. It feels good. And if you are offended by my last "I hate", get over it. Jesus obviously has a sense of humor. I mean, look around. Even God is laughing.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Mud Butt
Please understand that nothing I say or write is ever serious. I truly feel like the luckiest and most blessed girl on earth. I understand that on Facebook, many people have issues with my posts. If you think I'm stupid enough to be serious about anything I post on a virtual meat market, you have issues. To my understanding, Facebook was designed to reconnect distant friends and family, and in some instances, rekindle old flames (or flamers). FB is also the perfect way to share big news about an upcoming event or life changing experience. I love reading each and every status update involving funny stories, pictures, goings-on, and accomplishments. I love hearing fun stories about my friends' children. These things are my guilty pleasures. Now, for my rant...
I have a serious problem. It's a condition known as chronic cynicism. This disorder has only gotten worse with age and experience. My condition was exacerbated amidst discovery (two years into my wedded bliss) that my husband was an elusive felon. Yeah, you read that right. Fucker.
Chronic cynicism caused me to post some things on facebook that made some uber-sensitive people get their granny panties in a wad. Let's take my status updates, for instance. I know that facebook is a public outlet. I would never intentionally post something to hurt anyone. I take my observations and try to put a humorous twist on them. C'mon, people. Do you really think I hate children? It is easy for me to make jokes about kids because I don't have them. I have no idea what it'd be like to have a little one running around.
Now take into consideration the demographic of people I deal with on a daily basis. Health inspectors do not respond to complaints in wealthy, educated, clean, safe areas. We deal with the epitome of low socio-economic populations. We deal with Betty Lou in the trailer park wanting her head-lice infested Airstream inspected to bring in free state money, er, I mean, foster children. I know kids are amazing. I was one once. I was also a volunteer for Big Brothers Big Sisters for years. Unfortunately, in these types of homes, the worst is brought out in people. Being surrounded by this all day, every day, leaves you slightly jaded (to say the least). My way of dealing with this is humor.
Facebook is supposed to be a FUN social networking site. However, I read status updates that are so lame and pathetic, they make me want to take a dive off the Sunshine Skyway (local reference-big bridge). Seriously? How many times can you post in your status that you are sick? Your stomach hurts. You just had a bloody stool. You had a baby in your pants....Okay, that last post would get my attention. Truth is, EVERYBODY gets sick. Here's something to think about, poopy pants: It's not the end of the freakin' world. You are blessed enough to have a computer (or smart phone) capable of connecting you to gazillions of people around the world. You are healthy enough to be on that said device complaining of your symptoms. I bet the girl left a vegetable after being hit by an Amtrak wishes she could be so lucky to have said bowel movement. Let's not mention the time spent bitching about your mud butt. If you think positively and look at the bright side of things, life really is beautiful. For every moment you spend crying about your ingrown armpit hair, you are missing an opportunity to witness something amazing. Open your eyes! Be grateful for the moments you have!
Don't get me wrong. I know this may sound hypocritical, as I'm sitting here "typing and griping". Here's the difference-I am surrounded by things I love right now-the water, sunshine, my big, stinky dog...I love to write. This is what makes me happy. Tonight's subject just happens to be at the expense of some Debbie Downers, that's all. I was just hoping to put things into perspective.
I guess sometimes my humor is slightly brash. For that, I apologize. Again, nothing I post on facebook is serious. If I call you a crybaby because you're upset about the fifteen feet of snow you get every winter (hello, you live in the snow belt), and you take it personally, well, then we probably shouldn't be friends anyways. If you really think I'm going to run up and kick your little kid in the butt, you're crazy. I post these things to make people laugh. That's what I live for. If I can do that at least once a day, well, my friend, it's been a good day.
Please, stop reading this. Go give your kids a hug (or a kick in the butt-just kidding), get a breath of fresh air, and count your blessings. Now, smile. You have just finished reading the most ridiculously boring and worthless blog ever written:) Thank you!
I have a serious problem. It's a condition known as chronic cynicism. This disorder has only gotten worse with age and experience. My condition was exacerbated amidst discovery (two years into my wedded bliss) that my husband was an elusive felon. Yeah, you read that right. Fucker.
Chronic cynicism caused me to post some things on facebook that made some uber-sensitive people get their granny panties in a wad. Let's take my status updates, for instance. I know that facebook is a public outlet. I would never intentionally post something to hurt anyone. I take my observations and try to put a humorous twist on them. C'mon, people. Do you really think I hate children? It is easy for me to make jokes about kids because I don't have them. I have no idea what it'd be like to have a little one running around.
Now take into consideration the demographic of people I deal with on a daily basis. Health inspectors do not respond to complaints in wealthy, educated, clean, safe areas. We deal with the epitome of low socio-economic populations. We deal with Betty Lou in the trailer park wanting her head-lice infested Airstream inspected to bring in free state money, er, I mean, foster children. I know kids are amazing. I was one once. I was also a volunteer for Big Brothers Big Sisters for years. Unfortunately, in these types of homes, the worst is brought out in people. Being surrounded by this all day, every day, leaves you slightly jaded (to say the least). My way of dealing with this is humor.
Facebook is supposed to be a FUN social networking site. However, I read status updates that are so lame and pathetic, they make me want to take a dive off the Sunshine Skyway (local reference-big bridge). Seriously? How many times can you post in your status that you are sick? Your stomach hurts. You just had a bloody stool. You had a baby in your pants....Okay, that last post would get my attention. Truth is, EVERYBODY gets sick. Here's something to think about, poopy pants: It's not the end of the freakin' world. You are blessed enough to have a computer (or smart phone) capable of connecting you to gazillions of people around the world. You are healthy enough to be on that said device complaining of your symptoms. I bet the girl left a vegetable after being hit by an Amtrak wishes she could be so lucky to have said bowel movement. Let's not mention the time spent bitching about your mud butt. If you think positively and look at the bright side of things, life really is beautiful. For every moment you spend crying about your ingrown armpit hair, you are missing an opportunity to witness something amazing. Open your eyes! Be grateful for the moments you have!
Don't get me wrong. I know this may sound hypocritical, as I'm sitting here "typing and griping". Here's the difference-I am surrounded by things I love right now-the water, sunshine, my big, stinky dog...I love to write. This is what makes me happy. Tonight's subject just happens to be at the expense of some Debbie Downers, that's all. I was just hoping to put things into perspective.
I guess sometimes my humor is slightly brash. For that, I apologize. Again, nothing I post on facebook is serious. If I call you a crybaby because you're upset about the fifteen feet of snow you get every winter (hello, you live in the snow belt), and you take it personally, well, then we probably shouldn't be friends anyways. If you really think I'm going to run up and kick your little kid in the butt, you're crazy. I post these things to make people laugh. That's what I live for. If I can do that at least once a day, well, my friend, it's been a good day.
Please, stop reading this. Go give your kids a hug (or a kick in the butt-just kidding), get a breath of fresh air, and count your blessings. Now, smile. You have just finished reading the most ridiculously boring and worthless blog ever written:) Thank you!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Friggin' Podiatrist
Okay, so I don't like to bitch too much on my Facebook status. It makes you look like a total schmuck. I've decided that this is the way for me to express how I feel when my FB statuses begin to get too wordy. Of course, you don't have to read this. I mean, who the hell really gives a crap what some piss ant such as myself has to say. If you are still reading, however, thank you.
Now, for my bitching of the day...My foot has been killing me since I started competetively running again about four months ago. I was in denial and kept running and doing Zumba. I finally broke down and went to the podiatrist today.
At the advice of my amazing insurance company Avmed, I went to Dr. Kopelfelfter (or something like that). Yeah, that's how much of an impression he left on me. I don't even remember what the hell his name is. What I do remember is how shittily the building which houses his office was maintained. It was dark and smelly, with wretched wallpaper from, oh, I'd say circa 1976. The first lovely, smiling (ha ha) face I saw as I entered was that of the receptionist. Evidently, "hello" is passe. As I smiled and asked her how she was doing today, she ever so politely said, " What's the name?" I should have turned around and limped out then. However, I believe that everyone has bad days, and I was going to give her the benefit of the doubt.
Sitting down with my heap of paperwork (mostly for medicaid-which obviously wasn't meant for me), I took a look around the musty, retro waiting room. I guess this was the day one of the Assisted Living Facilities in the area had scheduled to deliver residents via short bus to the foot doctor. All of them had about 84 years on me (obviously, I'm slightly exaggerating).
Immediately upon finishing my paperwork, the door opened, and my name was called. The announcer, a girl who looked like she had just left an Insane Clown Posse show, practically threw my driver's license and insurance card at me. She sneered as she looked me up and down once, and said, "come with me". I was waiting for her to follow that statement up with, "to the dark side", but that didn't happen. Again, I smiled and asked how she was doing today. Through her pierced tongue and lip, she yawned, ripped off the crusty bed paper, and walked away. As she walked away, I noticed through her severely acne-covered face (probably from all the meth she appeared to be doing), a series of stars tattooed around her ears and face. Nice. I'm sure that's just what Harold and Ethel want to see as they're being guided to a room to have a bunion shaved.
Within a minute, a tall, scruffy, dirty gentlemen walked in and sat down. He looked at me, saying nothing. Finally, I said, "Are you Dr. Kobplrgfopwiej (or whatever it was)?" "Yeah", he said. Really? This douchebag wearing filthy scrubs, reeking of cigarettes is my doctor? I've seen cleaner people coming out of rooms at the Mosley Motel (local reference for a fleabag motel-fyi). He looked at my feet and asked, "do you run in shoes with more support than those"? I looked at my shoes. I'm wearing a pair of high-heeled sandals. I wanted to say, "No, these ARE my running shoes", but I figured, if I want this pain to go away, it'll have to get worse before it gets better. He examined my foot, pushed on a spot until I yelped in pain, and turned around and left the room. He came back with a needle. He said, "You're gonna feel some pressure", which means, "It's gonna hurt like a bitch". He gave me the shot and walked out of the room. Never telling me what was wrong. I later learned, through yelling down the hall at him, what was wrong with me. I then looked at the pleasant ray of sunshine sitting behind the desk and asked, "Is he done with me?" She simply replied, "Yeah" and handed me the bill.
I'm supposed to stay off my foot, and go back in a week so he can see if the inflammation has decreased. I asked two of the nurses if they had any suggestions for exercises I can do until my foot heals. They both answered, "Nope. Sorry." Thanks a pantload for your help, Dr. kopelikyugh (or whatever it is) and your staff. I now have a greater respect for my gynecologist. At least she hugs me when she's done violating me.
Now, for my bitching of the day...My foot has been killing me since I started competetively running again about four months ago. I was in denial and kept running and doing Zumba. I finally broke down and went to the podiatrist today.
At the advice of my amazing insurance company Avmed, I went to Dr. Kopelfelfter (or something like that). Yeah, that's how much of an impression he left on me. I don't even remember what the hell his name is. What I do remember is how shittily the building which houses his office was maintained. It was dark and smelly, with wretched wallpaper from, oh, I'd say circa 1976. The first lovely, smiling (ha ha) face I saw as I entered was that of the receptionist. Evidently, "hello" is passe. As I smiled and asked her how she was doing today, she ever so politely said, " What's the name?" I should have turned around and limped out then. However, I believe that everyone has bad days, and I was going to give her the benefit of the doubt.
Sitting down with my heap of paperwork (mostly for medicaid-which obviously wasn't meant for me), I took a look around the musty, retro waiting room. I guess this was the day one of the Assisted Living Facilities in the area had scheduled to deliver residents via short bus to the foot doctor. All of them had about 84 years on me (obviously, I'm slightly exaggerating).
Immediately upon finishing my paperwork, the door opened, and my name was called. The announcer, a girl who looked like she had just left an Insane Clown Posse show, practically threw my driver's license and insurance card at me. She sneered as she looked me up and down once, and said, "come with me". I was waiting for her to follow that statement up with, "to the dark side", but that didn't happen. Again, I smiled and asked how she was doing today. Through her pierced tongue and lip, she yawned, ripped off the crusty bed paper, and walked away. As she walked away, I noticed through her severely acne-covered face (probably from all the meth she appeared to be doing), a series of stars tattooed around her ears and face. Nice. I'm sure that's just what Harold and Ethel want to see as they're being guided to a room to have a bunion shaved.
Within a minute, a tall, scruffy, dirty gentlemen walked in and sat down. He looked at me, saying nothing. Finally, I said, "Are you Dr. Kobplrgfopwiej (or whatever it was)?" "Yeah", he said. Really? This douchebag wearing filthy scrubs, reeking of cigarettes is my doctor? I've seen cleaner people coming out of rooms at the Mosley Motel (local reference for a fleabag motel-fyi). He looked at my feet and asked, "do you run in shoes with more support than those"? I looked at my shoes. I'm wearing a pair of high-heeled sandals. I wanted to say, "No, these ARE my running shoes", but I figured, if I want this pain to go away, it'll have to get worse before it gets better. He examined my foot, pushed on a spot until I yelped in pain, and turned around and left the room. He came back with a needle. He said, "You're gonna feel some pressure", which means, "It's gonna hurt like a bitch". He gave me the shot and walked out of the room. Never telling me what was wrong. I later learned, through yelling down the hall at him, what was wrong with me. I then looked at the pleasant ray of sunshine sitting behind the desk and asked, "Is he done with me?" She simply replied, "Yeah" and handed me the bill.
I'm supposed to stay off my foot, and go back in a week so he can see if the inflammation has decreased. I asked two of the nurses if they had any suggestions for exercises I can do until my foot heals. They both answered, "Nope. Sorry." Thanks a pantload for your help, Dr. kopelikyugh (or whatever it is) and your staff. I now have a greater respect for my gynecologist. At least she hugs me when she's done violating me.
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