Quote of the Week

I realize I've fallen behind on my quotes, and while this is actually from a couple of weeks back, I feel it's necessary to include here. This one goes to miss Brit G:

"I can't keep up with these door guys. They come and go like...like they're Charlie Sheen's hookers or something..."

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And the Father of the Year Award Goes to - Mr. Minivan

So I’m driving down the freeway today and a minivan (without using his blinker) cuts me off and continues into the exit lane.  Since I’m having a great day thus far, it only mildly irritates me.  I continue to drive, when the same minivan, at the end of the exit lane, decides he doesn’t want to actually take that exit, and crosses the solid white line, the exit median, (my term for the V-shaped patch of pavement at the end of exits) and the other solid white line, and swings out back in front of me, again not using his blinker light.  He gets back into the fast lane.  At this point I’m more than slightly irritated with him, but I continue to drive anyway, RE-setting my cruise control from when I had to slam on my breaks the second time he cut me off. 

About three cars up, Mr. Minivan decides the fast lane isn’t moving fast enough for him and starts to weave in and out of traffic (which actually, as traffic karma would have it, makes him lose his place and fall right back beside me).  Apparently he’s more than mildly irritated that the cars around him aren’t going 90 mph down the freeway, because he’s paying more attention to trying to get around said cars than he is to the fact that his ACTUAL exit is coming up.  Lucky for me (sarcasm) his exit is also the one that I happen to be taking.  So I slide into the exit lane and continue on. 

Realizing that he’s missing his exit, he AGAIN cuts across the exit median and instead of slowing down and falling in behind me, tries to speed up and cut me off, AGAIN without his blinker.  I’m beyond annoyed at this point, because there’s no way he can actually get in front of my without me pushing my brake pedal to the floor.  But does he slow down? Of course not, he tries to side-swipe me and “push” me onto the shoulder.  So I gun it. Sorry minivan, my Challenger will outrun you any day of the week.  Since I’m now in a particularly nasty mood, I slow down to the 40 mph exit speed limit. 

Mr. Minivan is about two feet from the back of my car.  I’m about ready to slam on my brakes (I would never actually do something like that) when I see something odd in my rear view mirror.  There is a car seat in the front seat of his minivan. Yes kids, that’s right, the front seat, where babies are NOT supposed to go because of, oh I don’t know the chance of the air bag decapitating them.  We reach the bottom of the exit and before I can exit, he AGAIN crosses the solid white line and cuts me off (from behind) as he drives away at speeds in excess of 90 mph with his infant in the front seat, once again, not using his blinker as he weaves in and out of traffic.  Are you starting to see a trend here?

I will let you get away with just about anything, as long as you use your blinker light. If you just have the decency to just give a simple flick of the wrist (it takes less than a second) I will slow down and let you over, every time.  If you don’t use your blinker light, I don’t know what you want. I am NOT a mind reader people.  My car is not Ms. Cleo.  I can’t broadcast your stupid thoughts through my AM radio.  Slowing down and doing the “hover technique” is NOT signaling me that you want over; it’s just pissing me off. 

Blinker lights and tailgating, two of my biggest pet peeves, and Mr. Minivan has, in 10 minutes, already taken my absolutely wonderful mood and turned me into a street banshee, muttering words under my breath that are only suitable for mature audiences.  When you don’t use your blinker and attempt to cut me off, and I DON’T slam on my brakes to let you in front of me, and instead speed up to avoid you smashing into the side of me, you get angry with me and tailgate me.  What I really want to do at this point is get in front of you and immediately slam on my brakes.  Then, when you’re forced to get out of the car and exchange insurance information with me because you’re a giant, impatient moron, I want to take your head and smash out BOTH of your blinker lights with your face, because I should at least be getting SOME sort of value out of them. 

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I've Got the "Too Many Questions from my Sales Representative" Blues

I apologize if you find this offensive.  Actually, what am I saying?  I really could care less if you find this offensive.  Mainly because IF you find this offensive it probably means that you’re one of the people I’m talking about, in which case, I despise you and all who are like you. 

People who have a credit card for EVERY establishment known to man. 

How much credit do you think you need? You can use a normal credit card just about everywhere, so why do you think you need a store specific credit card?  Your normal VISA just isn’t cutting it?  You go to Victoria’s Secret SO much that you need a special pink credit card?  Chances are that if you have to use a Victoria’s Secret credit card, you shouldn’t be buying anything anyway.  So put the triple push-up miraculous bra down, step away from the counter and be your normal flat-chested self until you can afford to pay for your “upgrade”. 

What’s worse than the clothing store credit cards?  Credit cards for fast food restaurants.  Really people?  You eat a Big Mac so often that you need a McDonalds credit card?  Even if you don’t have cash on you, (which many of us seldom do these days) then pull out your good old MasterCard and run it for the $5 it costs for your cheeseburger. I'm standing in line behind you and I have to add an additional 10 minutes to my purchase time because YOU have to sift through the 18 credit cards in your wallet before finding the little red one with the golden arches.   

What irritates me even more is when I’m trying to check out, and the sales person is asking me 800 different questions. I saw the sign posted right above the t-shirt that I picked out that clearly stated buy one get one half off.  If I wanted another t-shirt, it would be on the counter right about now.  I understand that if I spend $5 more I can get a card for $10 off my next purchase. The banner at the front of the store as I walked in already informed me.  Chances are, since I’m an able-bodied person who clearly knows at least the basic principles of addition and subtraction I understand that the t-shirt that I bought is not going to add up to the $30 I have to spend to accomplish this.  I don’t need you to tell me about it again.  I don’t want to hear your 10 minute spiel about a rewards system and credit card that I don’t want or need.  I just want you to bag up my items, tell me the price and accept my payment.  I don’t want to fill out 18 different forms and give you my home phone number and email address just so you can sell it to your partner companies and they can barrage me with calls and emails about products that I could care less about.  The once a month 10% discount that HAS to be used on a specific day by a certain time is not worth the effort I have to put into sifting through my inbox just to find the emails from people that I actually want to hear from.

So no, Brittni with an “i”, I don’t want to be enrolled in your rewards system.  Furthermore, I don’t give one gram of fuck that I could be saving 5% off of my purchase today by signing up for your ridiculous credit card. You’ve just wasted 5% of my life by asking me all of these stupid questions!! 

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My Advice to the Queen of Cross Walks

Let’s start the day off right shall we?  I’ll start by letting you in on a little secret.  I despise the holidays.  You may be shocked that someone as “cheerful” as I could dislike the holidays, but it’s true.  Believe it.  So the closer it gets to December, the antsier I get.  I get easily irritated, my tolerance for stupidity drops drastically, and my patience is next to nil. 

So I’m driving to work this morning and there is a girl who starts walking across the cross walk (on a ‘don’t walk’ sign might I add).  I stop a good 4 feet from the edge of the cross walk (that’s about normal distance I assume) and this chick stops dead in her tracks, right in front of my car, turns to face me and yells at my car “This IS a cross walk you know. Yield to pedestrians!!”

I very calmly pointed my arm out the window gesturing toward the “Don’t Walk” sign, (a sign that actually has the words “Don’t Walk” not just the picture) and, as politely as I could, yelled back at the moron “Your Fat ASS isn’t splattered all over the pavement is it? That’s called yielding! Next time you should attempt the whole reading and comprehending process.” Then I very calmly drove away.

Here's my advice to you Cross Walk Queen: First, conquer the illiteracy. Second, conquer the attitude. Finally, attempt to conquer the stupidity.  If you fail, you can always walk out in front of more traffic, though next time, I suggest a busy interstate...at night...wearing all black.

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Quote of the Day

"You can't introduce an old dog to new tricks.  You can however, introduce an old trick to new dogs, and I suggest it. Pimp fights are ALWAYS fun to watch."

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Quote of the Week

Quote of the Week:

We’re keeping this one Anonymous for good measure…

“Wait! So how did it taste?”

“You wanna know what your lip blood tasted like?”

“Well…yeah. Is that weird? You were the one who kept kissing!”

“You tasted like sweet, warm metal. Like pennies left in the sun and covered in maple syrup.”

“And that’s…good?”

“Very”

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I Think Charles Manson's Karma Found Me???

Allow me to give you a glimpse of my day yesterday.  I woke up just like any normal day.  Ran my three miles, made myself a breakfast which consisted of pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and yogurt. I got myself ready for work, and drove in.  Now, at my office, we switch out who is in charge every day, someone who takes care of all the little random things that pop up throughout the day at any given moment, and it just so happened that yesterday, was my day.  I get my turnover from the guy who had it the day before and realize, with about four hours of notice that I was going to be escorting this well-to-do, important Swedish official around.  From the beginning everything that could have gone wrong, went wrong.  The people he was traveling with ended up not being on the access list, the people who had laid out the proper safety gear for him, had misplaced it, the people who were supposed to deliver his biography didn’t, and the people that were supposed to bring his “thank you gift” didn’t even know anything about his visit.  So the entire time I stand there looking like an idiot because I’m the only person there so OBVIOUSLY everything that went wrong…is my fault.  When that was FINALLY over, I was driving back to my office, and my tire exploded.  Like, we’re not talking about getting a flat.  We’re talking the sidewall of my tire blew a hole and the tire comes flying off in pieces.  Mind you, I have never had a tire explode.  Here I was thinking the Swedes were mad at me and had sent assassins!!!  Okay, maybe not that bad but still.  At this point in my day, I was on my 7^th Rockstar and, needless to say, I was pretty jumpy already.  So after I realized that no one was shooting at me, I call up my buddy, because, while I know how to change a tire, in theory, the tires on my car weigh about 60 pounds and I weigh 87 pounds, and really let’s be honest, the math to this really doesn’t work out too well in my favor.  So Ryan comes and puts my spare on for me and I drive to the tire place to get a new one and I sit there for almost three hours because they have to drive (in rush hour traffic) to their warehouse to get the specific tire.  Finally my tire is changed and all is right in the world once again.  I’m driving back to work (an hour after I was already supposed to have left to go home) just to check my email and tie up some loose ends and from out of nowhere, a truck slings a rock into my windshield, cracking it instantly.  So…I turned around and drove home.  You would think this was the end of my day…yet sadly, there was still the grand finale.  I go out to my favorite bar to unwind (by this time I am on Rockstar number 12).  I decided to just round it off to an even 15 and be done with it.  My two favorite bartenders of all time were both working, finally my night is looking up.  I have a blast at the bar and when walking to my car to drive myself home, I run into “an old friend.”  Today I’m sporting a very trendy black eye that seems to be all the rage for me lately.  Kids, you can collect all two!! To top off my night, after 15 Rockstars my blood to Rockstar content was severely questionable and the sleep I needed so desperately...never came.  I think I’ve decided…that I need a cuddle buddy…any takers???

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Gasoline: The Fail-Safe Method for Curing Chronic Halitosis

I am going to talk about something extremely important to ALL of us.  Chronic halitosis:  You KNOW if you have it, and if you don’t know, then maybe you should get your olfactory system checked.  I mean from a real professional; your roommate jamming that popsicle stick up your nose doesn’t count (you know who you are).  It’s bad enough when someone is talking to you and you find yourself turning away and leaning in the opposite direction.  What’s worse is when, even AFTER the person stops talking and has long shut the offending gap in their face; the smell still lingers in the air for a good 45 seconds.  That’s when you know you have a REAL problem.  When I don’t give you eye contact, it usually means something negative, when I shift my body away from you it’s like slapping you in the face with less aggressive body language. 

I’m trying to tell you without actually telling you that you that the particular blend of bitter coffee and stale cigarettes that you combined this morning is making your breath smell like something crawled into your mouth, died, and is now starting to rot.  It’s actually SO bad in fact, that you’re giving me flashbacks to every Resident Evil game I’ve ever played that had a cut-scene of a zombie growling right in someone’s face.  Can you imagine how that must smell?  Well take that, remove the fear-factor from the whole situation and we’re left with nothing but a guy who’s been feasting on raw meat, never brushes his teeth and smells like road kill that’s been baking in the sun.

Take the hint and go brush your teeth.  Or, if you prefer the fail-safe method, gargle with gasoline for about 60 seconds and then go light one of those stale cigarettes you’ve been sucking down all morning…

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Common Courtesy: What's That?

Common courtesy.  It’s something that seems to have dissolved over the years.  Slowly melting away, and much like baker’s chocolate, what’s left behind leaves a bitter taste at the back of your tongue.  It saddens me when I see people having no regard for anyone but themselves.  When did it become “lame” to open a door or pull out a chair for a girl?  When did stopping and helping someone on the side of the road become so dangerous that we just drive by not even checking to see if everything is alright?  When did we stop offering to carry out groceries for an elderly woman?  Example: I was at Vons yesterday and there was a lady in front of me (maybe in her late 70s early 80s).  After bagging her groceries (which was a total of nine plastic bags, the checker takes her cart and puts it up, not giving her the option of putting her bags back into it, AND not even offering to assist her to her car.  I was so angry I left my six pack of root beer and carton of milk at the register, picked up that lady’s bags and carried them to her car without even so much as a word to the checker (though I did shoot him my trade mark serial killer glare, which he appropriately recoiled from).  When I got all of Francine’s (her name) groceries into her trunk she gave me the biggest smile, and told me that I made her day.  She said that she hadn’t had a person offer to help her in years and that she was starting to lose faith in the younger generation.  Well Francine, I’m glad I could help restore at least a little part of that faith.  This just proves that you can be a cynical, sarcastic loud-mouth and still practice common courtesy. 

To the checker at Vons:  I hope on your way to put my root beer back on the shelf, you dropped it, slipped on the root beer and fell on top of the broken bottles stabbing yourself in the throat.

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Quote(s) of the Week

This week I had so many hilarious quotes I couldn't narrow it down to just one. So I thought to myself...why try? Without further adieu:

Dayna Cristina: "I thought you were taking it slow."
Me: "We ARE taking it slow..."
Dayna Cristina: "Yeah, I can totally tell by the DNA that's still under her fingernails."

"I knew it couldn't possibly last when I heard myself say the following words: So we were fooling around in her treehouse the other day and..."

Jen MacKenzie: "Sorry about your back."
Me: "What you mean the fact that you're part wolverine?"
Jen MacKenzie: "Well...I think it's safe to say I have an 'ear thing'."
Me: "The blood on my shirt agrees yes..."

"Sweetheart, asking me to massage your thighs is like asking a drug addict to sweep up the leftover cocaine you just spilled on the floor."

Alli Rykowski: "I may just make two accounts, but it's so much work, it's like living two lives."
Lissette Wilensky: "And being double the Harry Potter nerd."

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Survival of the Fittest: Epic Fail

Okay, so I’m driving to work this morning, in the rain.  *Side note* I love the rain.  I realize that most of you Californians hate the rain and miss the sun immediately when there is any sort of cloud coverage, but for me, the rain reminds me of home.  *End side note* Everyone who lives in Southern California knows that when it rains, traffic slows to almost a zombie shuffle no matter what road you are driving on.  It turned my normal five minute transit to work into a 35 minute crawl.  However, the best part of this drive was at the end.  I’m sitting at a red light with one of those “Keep Turn Clear” spaces marked behind me.  There is a semi-truck turning out into that “Keep Turn Clear” space.  There is a guy on a bicycle on the sidewalk opposite of me.  Said bicyclist jumps the curb of the sidewalk and proceeds on the road.  He then cuts across the two lanes of “same-flow” traffic, crosses the yellow line, swerves behind me into the “Keep Turn Clear” space WITH the semi-truck still turning by the way, cuts IN FRONT of the truck with a whole three feet of clearance, causing the semi to slam his brakes and skid. The bicyclist then jumps the curb on that side of the road onto the opposite sidewalk and continues on. 

Where are the gods of Survival of the Fittest here?  Herbert Spencer and Charles Darwin are rolling over in their graves at the moment.  I’m not saying this guy should have died, but let’s be honest, he should have at least been in a semi-serious accident resulting in the permanent loss of all procreative abilities.  A semi-truck, in the best environment already has such a hard time slamming on his brakes for any reason, when you throw rain and slick pavement into the equation you’re just asking for trouble.  If you’re idiotic enough to ride your bicycle in front of him, I think that nature should punish you. 

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Quote of the Week

And the quote of the week goes to Mrs. Gladis Akers. Congratulations!

"Facebook Post"
Me: I just ran head first into a pole so hard it knocked me off my feet and onto my butt. Yup kids. That just happened... Moral of the story. Texting while walking is ALMOST as dangerous as texting while driving.
Gladis: Lol I hope ur butt n u r ok!
Me: We're fine ;-) luckily I have a lot of padding back there. Now had I fallen on my chest we may have had a problem lol
Gladis: Lol that's why I got my girls... Just to protect my face from a fall....

Thank you Gladis. You made my whole day!!

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Doth My Eyes Deceive Me

Okay, so it’s been a while.   I apologize.  I could lie to you and say I haven’t written because I had an awakening, so to speak, where my level of patience was dramatically increased therefore lowering my annoyance level.  However, let’s be honest, we ALL know that’s never going to happen as long as I’m still forced to drive a vehicle in California.  So the real reason I haven’t written is simple.  I know you will all find this very shocking, but I’ve actually been working, at work.  Crazy right?  I haven’t had any time to do my normal daily routine such as blog and stalk unsuspecting Facebook victims *ahem* users.  It’s been sad really.  Before I lose everyone’s interest though, I feel like I should probably at least try to keep up.  Let’s start with the most recent peeve.  If you know me, which hopefully all of you do, because if you don’t then this blog has gone viral and the world will soon end in an outbreak of impatience and annoyance, I digress, if you know me, you know that I am a big fan of amateur fiction.  You know, the unpublished short (and sometimes long) stories that people post on random sites.  Some of it is Fanfiction where they basically steal some hardworking author’s world and characters and continue the story long after the original author has given up, some of the stories are like an ongoing soap opera of awesomeness, and some you finish with a blank look on your face wondering why someone hasn’t tracked down the author’s IP address and put the poor schmuck out of his or her misery.  So DRU, what exactly IS your peeve, you may ask.  Well I’ll tell you.  Being someone who reads pretty much constantly, I consider myself a fan of detail.  What I absolutely HATE is when people write stories and don’t even pay attention to their OWN details.  Latest example: 

I was reading a story last night about a young girl in Seattle.  The author started the story with a comment on the weather.  Actually, the author went on for two whole paragraphs, in graphic detail, about how it was raining outside and how much the main character hated days when she couldn’t see the sun because the sky was laced with thick, dark clouds and so on and so forth.  TWO WHOLE PARAGRAPHS.  In a story that was only about twelve paragraphs, I almost felt like I was reading Moby Dick again.  Okay, detailed writing, I love it, I really do.  I know how protagonist feels; I know what the weather is like down to how many rain drops are falling per second.  Everything is good, until four paragraphs later, when the author completely backtracks on EVERYTHING HE JUST SAID by making some offhand, pseudo-romantic cliché of a statement about how the protagonist couldn’t take her eyes off of the way the SUN made this boy’s golden hair just shine. Excuse me?  Doth my eyes deceive me? What sun? IT’S RAINING!!! IT’S BEEN RAINING FOR DAYS!!! UGH!

If you’re going to add fluff because you don’t have enough actual storyline to go with, at least read through your story before you post it online.  I can’t be held responsible for the comments I make about how you should not be allowed near a computer until you learn to idiot check your pointless words.

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Give me Back my Guilt-Free Fatty Goodness!!!

I really hate fast food menus that have the calorie counts right beside the meal.  Listen, if I was WORRIED about how unhealthy the Large Triple-Baconator with extra cheese I just ordered was I wouldn’t be at this artery-clogging gift from God in the first place!!  Not only have you turned my favorite guilty pleasure into a counterfeit “health conscious” brick to the average teenage girl's self esteem, you’ve also jumbled up my menu so badly I have to look twice to see if my fatty goodness is eleven dollars and twenty-seven cents, or if it just has 1127 calories.  You give so many excuses: It’s so the health conscious parents will have something to eat while their children get to eat the food that they love, or the healthy friend who gets dragged into the fast food chain. 

A.      If the parent is that worried about the calorie count of their own food, more often than not, they’re not going to let their piglet children slurp down three cheeseburgers and a milkshake either.

B.      If your friends know you’re a health freak and DRAG you into an establishment that they’re well aware in no other world you would ever find yourself in, you can’t really call them friends. If you believe in living a healthy lifestyle, your friends aren’t going to blatantly mock it.

Don’t even get me started on the “Weight-Observers” approved section of my fast food menu.  You know the portion that’s usually a light green or peach color in stark contrast to the rest of the menu that consists of chicken (which you can then make less healthy by having it crispy), salad poured out of a bag and a wrap or two, that (by the time you put all of that ranch dressing on it) is just as high in calories as everything else. 

I understand wanting to be healthy.  I understand the fact that you may not want to eat a 900 calorie burger for every meal.  It’s called WILLPOWER. Get some!  You should love who you are.  If you’re THAT vainly worried about your weight, maybe you should try fasting….ad infinitum.

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Didn't Your Mom Tell You "Don't Talk With Your Mouth Full"

People who approach me and try to have a conversation with me, while they’re eating, annoy me.  What you have to say is SO important that you can’t even finish your banana before you open your mouth to astound me with your theories on why the bartender at your favorite bar is giving you ALL the signs that means she wants you?  I have two things to say to this:

A.      She doesn’t want you.  It’s her JOB to flirt with you. She makes more money from your intoxicated attempts to seduce her if she humors you and makes you think you have a smidgen of a chance.  Otherwise you’d move on to the next bartender pursuing the exact same thing, and she would lose her sells.

B.      You’re an idiot… Don’t get me wrong, I have flirted with my fair share of bartenders, but the difference between you and I, is that I actually realize the game she’s playing.

That out of the way, back to my coworker’s eating habits.  I don’t want to see the mashed up fruit on your lips every time I attempt to give you the eye contact that is minimal to maintain some level of decency in a conversation.  And when I give up on the eye contact completely, I really don’t want to have to hear the smacking, digestive noises you make while you struggle to form coherent speech around sticky mess that’s inside your mouth. I hope you realize that the look of concentration on my face isn’t because I’m listening so intently to what you have to say, it’s because I’m exerting an insane amount of energy in my attempt to make you choke on that banana with my brain power alone…

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Here's to you, Mr. "Faux-Trendy Music Buff"

So what’s your biggest pet peeve?  And before I start that…where did we even come up with the term pet peeve? 

*Research Break*

Okay, after 15 minutes of solid research on the origin of the term pet peeve I’ve discovered that no one really knows where it came from, but EVERYONE is quite certain it originated in the year 1919…odd…

Anyway, before I get away from the topic of the day by ranting about how idiotic people can be on the internet, let me continue.  My biggest pet peeve is the “Faux-Trendy Music Buff.”  You know those people who always seem to know everything about the music you’re listening to, even if the band happens to be a cover band from your home town in Arkansas that has a population of 102 people.  The same people who, before you go see a show, spend at least an hour in front of their computers researching the band’s history, member biographies, discography, and in some severe cases, even band name etymology. They like to impress us with their knowledge of the band thereby proving that they are “in the scene.”  A subset to this Faux-Trendy Music Buff category is the “Music Stalker.”  Music Stalkers are some of my least favorite people.  Upon meeting a new person, said Music Stalker immediately goes to your Facebook profile seeking information that could be added to their own profile to make it appear as if they have more in common with you than they actually do.  Randomly adding the names of your favorite bands to their profiles and then subtly commenting on the fact that you have “great taste in music,” (which by the way you do! Kudos!) they usually end up browsing the band’s discography briefly so they can answer the dreaded question: “What’s your favorite song by (insert band name here)?”  Fortunately these people are pretty easy to spot because of the fact that they almost always will list the most popular song by the band because it was the first thing to pop up when the Music Stalker googled the band name.  Here’s my helpful advice to all you Faux-Trendy Music Buffs out there.  The next time you buy a random CD of a band you’ve never even heard of just to seem cooler than you actually are, break the CD in half, and slit your wrists with it.  Your blood is worth WAY more to me than your opinion…

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Quote of the Week

Quote of the week:

Me: I can just follow you from city to city until we’re 30 and we have to get married. And have little nerdy babies.

Ken: Pancho, Druita, and Thor!

Me: Thor? Why not just name one of them Bruce Wayne?

Ken: Too obvious Dru. We have to be subtle.

Me: Because Thor is REAL subtle.

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How About an Extra Shot of Serotonin???

So I’m going to introduce something new today: quote of the week.  Let me just say, that I have awesome friends, awesomely RANDOM friends who say awesomely RANDOM things at any given time. I’ve decided to incorporate some of these wonderful quotes so the rest of you can enjoy them as much as I do. Without further adieu, the quote of this week goes to one Miss Monica Mercer: 

“I love it when you wake up and your voice sounds like you just gargled a big glass of sex…”

Now, the pleasantries are over and the ranting begins.  WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND STILL WRITES CHECKS???  I’m standing in line at Starbucks this morning and the lady in front of me is ordering her coffee (if you can still attempt to call that coffee).  Aside from her taking five minutes to order her “Venti ristretto, extra-hot, no-whip, half-sweet, sugar-free skinny peppermint white chocolate mocha,” the lady then begins to write a check for $4.72, then proceeds to BALANCE HER CHECKBOOK while still standing in line making the rest of us wait because her prehistoric payment methods involve math that her under-educated brain refuses to perform. Maybe if you didn’t put so much crap in your coffee, your brain would be able to function on the normal day to day level of a six week old gopher.  Do us all a favor and remove yourself from society by any means you see fit.  I suggest adding an extra shot of cyanide…

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Chestnuts Roasting on a Not-So-Well Contained Fire

Let’s talk about the ongoing trend of people failing to grow up shall we?  I’ve been noticing this for a while now.  I thought it was a high school thing.  Everybody knows high school is FULL of drama.  At every turn you never know what is waiting behind the corner just to smack you in the face and then laugh behind your back.  The good thing is, it’s only four years right?  Wrong.  It continues into college.  It even continues into your day to day job as a professional “whatever-you-do”.  It’s the drama that follows constant gossip, rude jokes, continuous flirting, and, in some cases, outright sexism.  Immaturity.  The inability to think about the consequences of what we do BEFORE we do it.  I’ve narrowed the culprit of this growing trend down to the fact that people of this generation have far less responsibility than earlier generations.  We don’t have to remember anything because we have electronic devices to remember for us, they even alert us when we’re about to miss an important date, meeting, birthday, etc.  We don’t have to visit (or going calling on) our family and friends because we can just pick up the phone, or sit down at the computer.  We don’t have the burden of marrying at age 16 and (unless you’re from 19 and Counting) supporting a family of 9 children just so we can have help on the farm.  It starts with a decline in discipline.  Children these days run WILD.  They have no curfews, no bedtimes, no limitations. No EXAMPLE. We’re so scared to physically discipline our children for fear that someone will report it as abuse that we let them run rampant through whatever public venue we happen to be visiting.  Most people these days are having children at such a young age they don’t even know how to train a dog, much less a child, so the responsibility that comes with actually “raising” a child falls backseat to just making sure the kid is eating and still breathing.  With this gradual decrease in responsibility, the age of maturity has definitely gone WAY up. 

Case in point:  My job entails quite a bit of contracted equipment, it requires a fair amount of working alongside contractors. One of these civilians I work with on a regular basis.  To protect the innocent, we’ll call him Ted.  Ted is a married, mid-forties man with two grown children.  Ted also gossips more than a teenage girl running for homecoming queen.  Ted likes to spread hate and discontent wherever he goes and since, at forty-something, with a full time job, the only place you really go is work, you can see what I’m getting at.  Ted has been reprimanded numerous times for sending sarcastic, unprofessional emails, making lewd, suggestive comments, or sheer disrespect for authority.  Ted’s attitude creates so much animosity between the people he works with, that I have had people completely skip talking to him and come straight to me instead, essentially doubling the amount of work that I have to do. 

So here starts the actual rant.  GROW UP!  You are forty plus years old and you are acting like more of a baby than my four year old niece.  High school was so long ago for you that I don’t know how you can still even remember to act that way.  Two-Face was a villain in Batman.  Sexual harassment is NOT something to joke about.  Mean Girls and Bring it On are NOT guide books on how to live your life.  My favorite though?  If you tell me one more time that “women belong in the kitchen” I will personally put my steel-toe boot so hard into your groin, you will be roasting your own “chestnuts” in the heartburn you constantly complain about. Thanks for listening.

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Stick On Those Memories

So I saw a bumper sticker on my way to work this morning that, in big rainbow letters, stated “MY CAT WAS VOTED PET OF THE DAY AT ****** PET DAYCARE”.  I’m going to just come out and say it.  What the hell are these people thinking?  I understand the concept of moving to the GAYborhood and settling down with your Sig Oth.  I even get the concept of starting a happy family, which for the GAYbors who can’t/don’t want children usually this involves a cat or dog.  Let’s be honest though, even for the typical gay family this is taking it a little too far, why don’t you just dress the cat up, give it a backpack and enroll it into Catholic school?

END RANT

While we’re on the topic of neighbors and bumper stickers, let’s talk about my neighbor’s bumper sticker (which I absolutely adore).  It says “Remember what you wanted to be when you grew up” which got me to thinking.  When I think back to my earliest days, I wanted to be an archeologist.  I could think of nothing more exciting than unearthing things that haven’t been seen by human eyes in hundreds of thousands of years.  When I started getting into the world of History and Social Studies however, I realized that I, as a child, loathed all things historical, thus my dinosaur chasing days were numbered.  I quickly moved on to marine biology.  I was always a Discovery Channel®  shark week junkie, even in my pre-teen years.  Then, there was the traumatic jellyfish experience of my 14 year old self and that desire flew out the same open window as archeology.  After marine biology, there was no set of goals to become any one certain thing.  A doctor.  A lawyer.  I went through all of the normal phases, none of which included navigating gigantic ships using a nautical chart and spherical trigonometry.  I had never even heard of sextants or alidades, range finders or amplitudes.  Yet, here I am never staying in one place for any period of time, out to sea more often than on dry land.  When I think about that bumper sticker now and really wonder if I’ve turned out the way I wanted to, I think I have.  What do I really want from life?  I want to help people.  I want to be a good person, a good friend.  I want to love and be loved.  I want to give back to those who have given to me, and even to those who haven’t.  I want to be a turn the other cheek kind of person, but not to the extent to where I’m letting people walk all over me.  When I really take everything into account, I’m still “growing up”.  I’m on my way to being everything I’ve ever wanted to be: Myself.

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The Only Man in my Life

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Welcome to my Head

Apparently my coworkers think my rants are entertaining.  One of them thought they were so entertaining he decided to make me a blogspot.  So let’s start this thing off right shall we?  How about a rant *ahem* blog about how much rude people annoy me?  Yesterday I was walking my more than adorable best friend Lancelot (pictures to come), when out of absolutely nowhere this un-leashed dog ran out into the street and was hit by a car (a black Nissan Maxima with California tags and a male, blond haired driver to be specific).  The driver whom I speak about, drove off like nothing had happened and left this poor dog in the middle of the road whimpering.  Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on how you view the world) I have an extremely soft spot in my heart for animals.  So I tied Lancelot’s leash to my belt loop, picked up this dog, who weighed about 60 pounds, and whose name was Gracie, and started hiking the seven blocks back to my car so I could take the poor girl to the Emergency Vet.  When I got to the EV, I called the number on Gracie’s collar and left a message on the machine. About three hours later, I get a call from this ridiculously sweet lady who is from Carlsbad. For those of you who don’t know the California geography, that’s 40 miles from San Diego. That’s a LONG way for a dog to go in a couple of days.  I felt like I was part of a “Homeward Bound” sequel when this lady and her grandson walked in to get her dog.  All that said, Mr. Black Nissan driver: you best hope I don’t see your car parked on the street where I run, or Carrie Underwood will have NOTHING on me.

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