Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Don't cheat on your nail salon, you pay with more than guilt

Guilty.  I am absolutely guilty of this heinous crime.  I've cheated...twice.  My heart is heavy as I type this and admit to you my failure to be faithful to that sweet, Vietnamese woman who takes such good care of my hands and feet.  Lily welcomes me with the most enthusiastic greeting and bright smile every time I walk through her door.  She helps me choose the right colors, gives the best massages on the planet (this is no lie), and sometimes even feeds me.  How can I NOT love this woman?  Everyone who works for her is just like her...not perfectly so, but damn, do they come close!  And they all try their hardest to speak English!!!  If they don't, one of them will translate for you to keep you in the loop and part of the conversation.
Most nail salons employ ladies who barely speak English and yap away to each other the entire time you are there, forcing you to feel like you are being trash-talked for approximately an hour, sometimes longer.  It is the most uncomfortable feeling in the world and there is not a damn thing you can do.  They are wielding sharp instruments and believe me, one slip and you are dripping blood.  A fair amount of the time you sit there, with your hands in theirs, you are smiling and nodding and hoping to hell they like you.  At least enough to not "accidentally" file your nail so hard they leave a gash in your finger. Guys, you may think I am totally bullshitting, but ask any woman in your life who has manicured hands if she has feared for her fingers' safety while getting her mani.
Forget about the fact that even if you research the shit out of the place you choose, they still may not be as clean or hygiene-conscious as you'd prefer.  Germs lurk everywhere, especially in tubs at the base of those oh-so-comfy spa chairs you enjoy.  The massage remote control provides distraction from the possibility of soaking your feet in a tub filled with raging bacteria which could leave you with boils at a minimum, fungal infections or e-coli if you are really lucky.  Nail clippings and powder from tip applications shouldn't be on every free surface.  These should only be seen as you are getting your nails done, and cleaned as the process is happening.  The tub should be sparkly clean and the water should be filled in front of you.
My own daughter cheated, too, and found herself in a salon where they thought that it was perfectly fine to dump the dirty water in which she had her hands soaking into the tub where her feet were currently soaking.  Fucking nasty.  I don't care if it IS my own hands, don't mix the goddamn water.  That is unsanitary as hell, and I won't stand for it. Sanitizing is not an option, you are dealing with skin.  Skin has teeny tiny cuts on it all the time whether you know it or not.  These are like little germ huts, waiting for the next bacterial infection to come oozing over and inhabit the place.  Pretty hands and feet should never land you in the ER.
Back to my own glaring infidelity issues.  My daughter asked me to accompany her to the nail salon that her best friend frequented, and reluctantly I agreed.  I feared change.  I feared betraying Lily.  My fears were not unfounded.  We arrived at the salon and were greeted by what can only be described as a sweat shop-like atmosphere, filled with employees and rich, white, Walnut Creek women.  The RWWC women are a whole other topic, so I won't get into that right now. Let's go back to the sweat shop atmosphere. The door was wedged open to reveal wall-to-wall employees, milling about, some shouting back and forth to each other, while others would walk away from their clients to buy fruit from a man in the parking lot selling out of the back of his truck .  At this point, I started to sweat a little.  These were the women who would be holding my hands in theirs and using those sharp instruments I mentioned earlier.  I felt stared at and very uncomfortable. Scarce was the amount of English I heard while sitting and waiting for my turn.  Finally, I was called to sit down at a manicure table. Tracy asked for my name and asked what color of gel polish I'd like.  After I told her, I anxiously awaited what was supposed to be a relaxing, enjoyable experience.  She moved quickly, soaking one hand while filing the nails of the other.  OK, fast I don't mind, carry on, Tracy.  Next stop, cuticle cutting.  This is actually one of the parts I look forward to because my cuticles grow at warp speed and this process prevents me from chewing on them like a hungry animal. Tracy seemed to fear my hands because I barely felt the friggin cuticle clippers touching me, nor did I see the usual amount of skin being cut from my overgrown fingers.  Bitch, do your job!  Clip that shit OFF!  Not wanting to anger her, I didn't ask her to dig any deeper.  I figured, this isn't the worst offense, let's see how the rest goes.  Speeding through the rest of the preparation process, I wasn't too horrified, so I sat quietly.
GEL TIME!!!  I love gel manicures.  They are so perfect-looking and they last without chipping for two weeks.  This may not sound as exciting to you as it does to me, but this is cause for celebration.  I am very rough on my hands and this process is nothing less than miraculous.  She paints on the clear coat and so far, so good.  Next, the espresso color I chose to start my summer break.  This choice was made because when I consulted with my daughter about the shade, and was vacillating between a shell pink and something a bit darker, she told me to go big or go home.  So, I went with an almost black shade of brown.
She slapped the first coat on quickly and had me stick my hands into the UV light boxes to cure the polish.  This part is particularly enjoyable to someone like me with perpetually cold hands.  When she gestured for me to take my right hand out for the next coat, I held back a shriek.  My nails looked like they had undulating waves of thick shit on them.  I launched into a panic, and began showing Tracy my fingers and demanded she do something about it.  Her reply still echoes in my head.  "OKAY, OKAY, DON'T WORRY!" This was said in the kind of impatient tone you reserve for the most annoying child you know. Luckily for her, she smoothed the waves out nicely.  However, my nails looked like a drunk painted them with a paint roller because she missed several large spots on four nails.
I didn't want to argue with her, I had neither the time nor the patience.  The bitch got no tip, naturally.  I don't reward shitty work and bad attitude.  We left with me telling my kid, never again, never will I step out on Lily.  What did I do today?  I had to get this now grown-out gel shit removed and re-done.  I sheepishly went back to the place I swore I'd never set foot in again.  Why?  Because I didn't want Lily to know that I had been disloyal.  This is a vicious cycle that must be broken.  Today was the last time.  Fortunately, my nails came out much better than last time.  Unfortunately, I've put myself in the same fucking position as before.  Will I soak my own nails at home to remove the gel this time?  You bet your sweet ass I will.  Lily can never know my secret.  Will I whore myself out and go back to that other place? Are you friggin kidding me right now???


Monday, July 30, 2012

When they discover the center of the universe, many will be disappointed to learn they are not it

The world does not revolve around you.  There, I said it.  Now that it's out of the way, let's explore why you think it does. We all have a friend who thinks they are the center of the universe.  Want to plan something with them?  Their schedule is the only one that matters.  Last minute dinner out?  You may require a babysitter...that's ok, your kid is old enough to stay home alone right?  Um, she's five?  Not that this applies to me, but you get the picture.  Leave your spouse home, I'm ready now.  Grabbing this person by the shoulders and shaking them till they vomit is not an option. You just keep repeating yourself, asserting that your life is, indeed, as complicated and busy and you have a schedule to be worked around, as well.  They only half hear you.
They actually only half hear anything you say.  How is that possible?  Do they only have one ear?  Nope.  Two fully functioning ears on this ass hat.  They only hear half of what you say because they are already thinking of the next thing they want to tell you.  And the only topic that interests them...is themselves.  Shocking!  Did you ever notice that when you are telling them a story, their eyes are everywhere but focused on you?  They fidget around, shift from foot to foot, crack their knuckles, scratch imaginary itches, everything but give you their full attention.  It's not that they don't like you, or care about you, per se. They just really care about themselves MORE.  There's really nothing you can say that would be more interesting than the thing bouncing around in their fat head waiting to erupt out of their yap.
You want to like them more.  You try to understand it from their point of view.  What is going on for them is huge!  Colossal!  Mega-fucking-important!  I know you just lost your job, your pet ran away, and your kid has the measles...but this new phone I just bought fucking rocks!  Wanna see all the apps I have?  What the fuck?!?! Didn't you just hear me? Yeah, yeah, of course I did.  Bummer, dude.  So, check out the new ringtones that come with this killer phone.  Holy shit, does it get worse than this? Sure does.  Ask them to show up on time for something you want to do. Or even just be available.  They won't. Something always inevitably comes up.  Remember, their lives are very, very full.
If you have something bugging you, call your parish priest or the local deli before you dial this butt munch's number.  Support is not coming anytime soon from this good buddy. They can't relate to you because their mind is filled with all sorts of stuff, all pertaining to them.  Have you ever had this conversation?  You call them because you are having a problem and really need someone to bounce it off and get some advice. You are rattling and prattling on, getting so much off your chest, and it feels good!  Until you realize they haven't heard a goddamn thing you said! OH MY GOD!  Their response is so far off the mark, and why?  Because they listened half-assed while playing X-box and eating a sandwich.
Now, reverse the situation.  They call you, doesn't matter what time or where you are, because believe me, they have a clue, they just don't care. Did they wake you?  That's ok, they are having yet another crisis.  The difference is, to them, it's important, and you better be paying close attention.  Why, you ask?  Because they check in throughout the conversation, looking for valid responses. You actually HAVE to listen.  If you miss a word, they know, and don't hesitate to call you out on it. It's a one-sided friendship, for sure.  And you are stuck.  For some reason, you'll never escape their clutches.  They've gotten under your skin, and they plan on staying there. You want to walk away, you try to run.  They pull you right back.
This is the same friend that seeks out constant validation on their favorite social media site, or sites.  They actually believe that every meal they eat, every place they go, every move they make is post-worthy.  Sadly, these people also have a host of sycophants who will comment repeatedly every time, making sure to inflate this bozo's ego to epic proportions. How do they do it?  How the hell does everything they say become attention-sucking?  They've gotten under the skin of others, too.  I wish to hell I knew how they did it.  The cure for any disease comes from knowing its source.  This is most definitely a disease...a social and emotional disease.  If there's a cure, feel free to leave it in the comments section.  Somehow, I think you'd make quite a few people dance with joy.  I know you'd make me fist pump, Queens-style, are you friggin kidding me right now???

Friday, July 27, 2012

She wouldn't need to be a cougar if...



Don't you just love the word COUGAR?  It's become so popular these days for describing older women with younger men. Some ignorant ass clowns seem to think it's weird or perverse for an older woman to date a younger man.  Why?  Older men have been balling girls young enough to be their daughters since the beginning of time and nobody bats a fucking eye. That's right, because societal opinions are male-generated.  Sort of a fraternity of people thinking with their little heads and high-fiving each other's conquests. A woman's view on the topic seems to be unwelcome.  
The 80's were a great time for singles. Meet, bang, begin again. No strings, no bullshit. Eventually, you met the person you were to marry and a new chapter began.  Fast forward to 2012, couples are divorcing at warp speed for a variety of reasons. Disposable marriages are more common than most would care to admit, but it's the truth.  Don't fix what you can toss out and buy new.  We do it with appliances, TVs, shirts, cars...fuck it, add humans to the list.  I'm not standing in judgement of your decisions, so don't jump ugly with me about the completely valid, to YOU, reasons why you are no longer with your ex.  To each his or her own.
The sexually-peaking 40-something woman finds herself thrust back into the dating pool with all her clothes on, completely unprepared.  Where does she even begin?  Where can she meet a man?  Match.com?  Oh hell no, we've already gone over the dangers of doing that. The collar and cuffs NEVER match.  No internet dating of any kind...see the face that goes with the hype and decide that way.  So?  Where does she meet Mr. Right Now? You guessed it, ladies.  At a bar.  Forced back into your early twenties, you reenter the bar scene hesitantly because you're so goddamn out of practice.
Depending upon which bar you choose, you may be labelled accordingly.  Some places call what you are now a sexy divorcee, while another may resort to that lovely moniker, cougar.  All the name-calling pisses us off.  If we are at that point in our lives where we are back at the bar, it's only to add a few names to the old score card.  We've now got some years and bitterness under our belts, and name-calling, labeling, whatever you want to call it today, will only piss us off.  Pissing off a forty-something can be dangerous. We carry dental floss and aren't afraid to castrate with it.  Watch your tone, buddy.
Well, well, well.  You've met someone new, now what? Use your filter, babe.  Does he have half a brain?  Does he appreciate the same music?  Does he have nice biceps? Then, girlfriend, get on it.  It's 2012, you program your digits into each other's smartphone, of course.  Then what?!?!  You wait.  There are new rules and you don't know them. Don't worry, I'll share them with you as they have been shared with me by a dear friend of mine.
RULE #1
Do not text first!  Asking innocently if he'd like to meet for a drink later on in the week will be interpreted as requesting his hand in marriage. Guys, get over yourselves.
RULE #2
When he does text, and he will, tell him how great it is that he has texted AND that you are sorry, but you are busy.  Always be busy, for at least three days.  Even if this means spending quality time with your cat on the sofa eating Cocoa Puffs and watching a Will and Grace-a-thon all weekend.  Never seem anxious or readily available.
RULE #3
Never, ever talk about yourself.  He gets center stage while you listen in what he thinks is rapt fascination about his ex-wife, old girlfriend issues, his mother, and his pecs. Why? Because you are a middle-aged woman who is desperate for male attention and should be grateful.  Or at least, that's HIS view.
RULE #4
Try to ignore the fact that these men have more baggage that a transcontinental flight filled with trannies.  They hold all the cards, and you don't.
What the fuck are you supposed to do?  Enter into yet another dysfunctional relationship much like the one you just left?  You could. You could also get root canal with no novocaine.  Whichever you feel will bring you less pain.  Or...you can consider dating a much younger man.  This part is easy, period, no question about it.  Why is it so easy? Because they are too young to be jaded, suspicious, or smart enough to even think you may have some hidden wedding agenda.  What they are, is horny and willing.  The typical text, email, or Facebook message goes a little something like this, "Wanna get together and fuck Friday night?"  But wait, it gets better.  This message can come from YOU!!! No waiting, pretending to be busy, feigning interest in his life, none of that shit.  He's excited by your willingness to go at it multiple times in one night and not ask for a cuddle or sleep-over privileges.  Slam, motherfucking, dunk.  
All the labels in the world can't compete with the complete and total satisfaction you can expect to derive from this information I've provided.  No strings, no drama, no bullshit. Now get out there and use what you've learned.  Pass it on to others, don't be a bitch about it.  There are plenty of younger men out there, some people have been breeding like flies and you stand to benefit from it.  Now, when one of those middle-aged train wrecks wants to exchange phone numbers with you, say with great confidence, "Are you friggin kidding me right now?"

Thursday, July 26, 2012

MUST you do that??? Your annoying habits drive me bat shit.

Everyone has at least one annoying habit.  You do, and it drives me out of my fucking mind.  I'm sure you'll tell me that either you don't or you do, but don't even realize you're doing it.  Fear not, I am here to put you at ease. You do have an irritating habit and you DO know you are doing it.  You just don't care.  For whatever reason, you've incorporated your twitches and tics into your normal daily movements like walking, talking, and eating. Now they've become a habit, and Lord above, you do it all the time. Most often I won't say a word to you, I'll just become increasingly agitated and figure out a way to escape your proximity.  Whether it be ending the conversation, or running far and fast in the opposite direction, I can't be in your presence for an extended period.
There are a select few habits that irk me.  I'm not completely without tolerance.  Let's start with the mucus aficionados. Oh, you know who you are. Not the nose pickers, nope. The sniffers. The sniffers and their equally disgusting and more congested sidekicks, the snot garglers. Have you ever heard of this fantastic new invention called the TISSUE? These ass clowns are everywhere.  In stores, on the streets, at the movie theaters, on buses and trains...friggin everywhere.  The sound of someone inhaling the contents of their nasal cavity and adjoining sinuses makes me cringe. The incessant sniffer is bad enough. Sounding like you have a ferocious coke habit is not pleasant for anyone around you. And you, the gargler, what the fuck is wrong with you?  Do your honking globs of booger taste so good that you feel the need to suck them back like you're at an oyster bar and swallow them with as much gusto?  Address the cause of your profuse nasal blockage and do something about it.  Take a goddamn Sudafed and blow your effin snot locker.
Staying with the facial area, please stop licking your lips!  When that giant frog-like tongue of yours begins its journey out of your cakehole and slaps itself across your lips, I get physically ill.  Having dry lips is one thing, it happens to everyone.  The makers of ChapStick and Carmex depend on that.  What I don't understand is why I am seeing your tongue more often than your significant other.  It belongs on the inside of your mouth. Some of you are discreet about it, thank you.  Others, and you know the type, make a meal out of their faces.  These are the ones I want to bitch slap, but don't for fear of being slimed by the copious coating of spit across their faces. Trust me, it ain't sexy.
Those of you who are hair-focused make me loony, too.  The tossers are on the top of this list. Why?  Because they are the ones who actually invade my space.  It's never the chick with short to average length hair who does this.  No, it's the one with hippie-length hair who looks like she hasn't had a haircut since before puberty.  She won't cut it but it seems to be perpetually in her way.  I say this because she wouldn't be flipping it to and fro and tossing it side to side if it was at all comfortable just being there in all it's unruly and split-ended glory.  Fifteen inches of hair is bound to slap someone across the face if they aren't nimble enough to duck the offending wave of dead keratin. I appreciate the fact that usually the hair is washed and smells halfway decent.  But, I don't need it whipped across my face, up my nose, and stuck to my lip gloss.  Keep your tresses to yourself. And if it's in the way, put it the fuck up!
Speaking of those who put their hair up, once it's up, leave it there.  Nothing is more distracting than talking to someone who cannot seem to decide whether it's a ponytail kind of day.  Up, down, up, down...with such fanfare and drama.  Jesus H Christ.  This is not a life-altering decision.  If you are hot, put it up.  If you've spent time styling it that morning, and a hot flash hasn't attacked the back of your neck like a flame thrower on acid, leave it down.  See, easy? Not for these dimwitted damsels.  It's up, it's down, it's a ponytail, it's a messy bun.  Over and over and over.  You may think I'm not paying attention to what you are saying because my eyes are constantly drawn to the show on top of your head.  Dizzying at best, but like a train wreck, I have to look. Find something else to do with your hands.
Like tap your fingers, for example.  No, actually, don't.  That is incredibly annoying and distracting.  People who do that strike me as the type who would rather be anywhere but here.  Like they have somewhere better to go and you are just wasting their time. Guess what?  I'd love it if you left.  That sound makes me feel tortured.  Repetitive noise, like something insurgents use to break down POWs, is not my idea of fun.  So, if I'm boring you, don't let the door hit ya on the way out, fucker.
Maybe you'd like to join your friend the leg bouncer?  This guy, and it is almost always a guy, is not only a pain in the ass, but he is a space invader.  Never across from you, this fuckwad will most definitely be seated right next to you, the offending leg touching yours. He bounces that leg so fast and so hard, you'd almost think he invented a new way to stroke his love monkey in public.  Dude!  I'm getting seasick sitting next to you, and I wouldn't hesitate to wretch my guts all over your perpetually moving lap.  Much like other unwritten rules, this one exists, as well.  Keep as still as possible when in such close proximity to another person that you are actually maintaining any form of physical contact. This means don't jolt my ass almost out of my seat or cause your leg to molest mine by virtue of the speed at which it is being rubbed by your spastic movements.
Finally, I'd like to bitch about the inappropriate laugher.  We all know at least one if not a few of these dumb shits.  Every sentence is punctuated with an awkward sounding staccato laugh.  Do you mean what you are saying? Is everything a joke to you?  Should I take you seriously when you ask me to call an ambulance for you?  You're laughing, how the fuck should I know? This is very disturbing to the person you are speaking to...ask anyone who has had the misfortune to have had a conversation with you. Personally, I find it almost impossible to engage you in any kind of conversation.  Is there a laugh track stuck in your ass?  Do me a favor and pull it the fuck out and turn it off before we talk.  I can't gauge the tone of the conversation with someone like you.  Keeping it real also means knowing where you stand...and you, my friend give NO indication as you once again laugh oddly at the end of another sentence.
I'm sure if given enough time and maybe a chance encounter with a few more schmucks and fuckwits, I can muster up a few more habits that piss me off.  I guess, now that I've had a moment to think, it doesn't take much to frost my cookies.  But, I'd be willing to wager you've nodded your head in agreement with me at least once today.  Don't pretend that you haven't.  Nobody is that saintly, are you friggin kidding me right now???

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

My personal space...or keep your goddamn distance

One would think having grown up in a city with wall to wall people, this wouldn't bother me.  You'd imagine I became accustomed to the feeling of stranger skin on mine.  Dear God, no, I have not.  Nor will I ever want you to graze, or heaven-forbid press your stinky, sweaty, hairy leg up against mine on a train.  Never should I be able to smell your breath waiting on line at Safeway. Tons of empty seats on the bus, sit in them!  Don't rush over to park your ass in the one next to me. I love my space...I don't love you in it.  You can say this could be an only-child thing, never having to share anything.  With all confidence, I say to you BALLS.  This is all me and my own quirky way of going through life.
I was the kid who broke out into a sweat when informed that a relative was coming over to the house.  Why?  Because Italian relatives love to TOUCH you!!!  They hug, and kiss, and massage, and pinch your cheeks, and fucking just plain touch you.  This was my worst nightmare. I was not a very physical child, my joys came from verbal interactions. Yet, someone in my family would inevitably approach me with arms outspread, giant heaving boobs, having taken a whore's bath in some god-awful perfume, wanting to smother me with love.  Kissing me all over my face, leaving giant bright red lipstick smears from cheek to cheek. Then of course, her husband would bumble along and want to pinch my already flaming cheeks.  Not a gentle pinch, hell no!  One of those tightly grabbing, face jiggling, painful pinches using the knuckles.  Mother of God, I can still feel it!
Maybe this is why I don't want you so freaking close to me. When I am walking on the sidewalk and there is a ton of room on my left, because I am walking on the right, like everyone should...why is it necessary to come so close that you slam into me and my purse?  I'm not a very big person to begin with, and usually the person doing the slamming isn't either. Delusions of self-importance?  Body dysmorphic disorder?  No sense of body control?  I can't explain it, but I can tell you that if you do slam into me, I'm going to slam back.  The person doing the slamming almost never apologizes.  Which leads me to think that my initial belief that they may be deluded about their own importance is likely to be the reason.  Nobody needs THAT much room.  Even the Pope can walk without nailing an oncoming pedestrian.  Now, HE's important.  You, not so much.
This is the same person in the store who can't navigate an aisle without bumping or shoving me out of their way.  Is excuse me in your vocabulary? Again, I don't take up a hell of a load of space, you can walk around me. You choose not to...why? Is this an expression of anger or are you that goddamn clumsy that you can't walk a straight fucking line? Either way, stop shoving me.  When I shove back, you may just hit the floor.  I won't say excuse me either.  More likely, it'll be something along the lines of, "Back the fuck off, bitch" or something resembling that. Manners have gone out the window these days, I know that.  But basic common courtesy isn't that hard. Nor is keeping your body to yourself.  Try it.
And no, I don't want you to talk so closely to me that I can see the empty gums where your wisdom teeth used to be.  Smelling your breath is not on my list of things to do today, and it won't ever be, so step back. Close talkers are the worst offenders of personal space invasion.  Their proximity causes me to be forced to not only see them more closely than I'd ever like to see someone not in my bed, but worse than that, they are likely to be touching me and worst of all, I have to smell them.  I work very hard at smelling good, and assaulting my senses with your stench is unacceptable.  What you think smells good, probably chokes all the oxygen out of me.  I can hear you even at a few paces back.  No need to be nose to nose, thanks.
Am I a bit odd?  Probably.  But rest assured, I won't invade your zone of privacy anytime soon, so odd or not, you are safe. Am I going to keep walking to the right and avoiding the shit out of everyone who passes by me?  You bet your ass I am!  Stepping back as you creep closer while emitting your dragon breath at me? That'll be me. Will I keep quiet the next time one of you gets all up in my grill?  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Small guys in big trucks or the ever-popular Napoleon complex

Give me a moment to stop laughing at the visual I'm getting right now.  Can someone please explain to me why short men insist on driving gigantic vehicles?  Do they actually believe they look taller? Sorry, my man, but I can see your Napoleonic stature through the window.  The manly feel of being up high and making lots of exhaust noise is likely to be the reason behind the car choice.  I want you to know that when we all see you pretending to be a big boy, we are indeed laughing at you.  Not with you.  There's an instinctual need to impress members of the opposite sex for breeding purposes, I get it.  But, dude, you are a wee man.  Own the shit out of it.
Many of you own it to death. Like the mini-"guidos" who like to work out 8 hours a day in order to look like what can only be described as miniature Schwarzeneggar replicas. What they don't realize, is that the wider they get, the shorter they actually look!  So pump that iron, Sal, you look like a stocky garden gnome now.  What I enjoy about these guys is the more muscular they get, the more bad ass they believe themselves to be. Their speech patterns change and they start to sound like extras from the set of The Sopranos. Here's a little advice, tiny Tom, working out doesn't make you Italian, so try talking like the little WASP-y nerd that you are.  I'll respect you more and you won't look quite so fucking retarded.
And please, tell me why these puny little shits all think they are comedians?  Maybe I don't share their comic genius or maybe, just maybe, they aren't funny at all.  Just loud.  What they lack in size, they make up for in sheer volume.  Jokes that aren't funny don't BECOME funny at increased decibels. Joe Pesci pulls it off quite nicely, he's short and funny.  YOU aren't Joe Pesci.  Don't adopt an accent, don't try to sound tough, and don't...do not try to be funny. You either are or you aren't, no in-between.  Little man, you don't look any bigger by increasing the volume on your bad jokes about women. Generally, that is the topic spewing out of these dwarfy little fuckers' mouths.  
While we coasting along that highway, why do these diminutive macho men all sound like woman-haters?  They criticize and judge each and every woman that passes them on the street.  Because you are such a fucking catch???  Really, my friend, are all the mirrors in your house broken?  We come in all shapes, sizes, and altitudes.  Maybe that frustrates you? Maybe because you know we wouldn't give you a second glance if you weren't screaming out your opinion of our appearance. I really don't give a moose testicle what you think...shut your fucking piehole when I walk by and nobody gets injured. You nudge and comment to your buddies, trying to sound like you are so hot. The fact that I can look directly into your eyes and probably have more muscle tone than you do should scare you, at least a little bit.  Plus, the reality of the matter is, I wouldn't hesitate to junk punch you right in front of your cronies.  Put a little perspective into your life...Queens-style.
How about that same wee-man at the bar?  Talking big, gesturing wildly, getting louder by the minute.  He finally screws up by saying something about someone else's girlfriend and all hell breaks loose.  The boyfriend turns to you and asks if you have a problem. You, in all your pint-sized glory, open your flap to respond and what comes out embarrasses onlookers FOR you.  Threatening to kick the boyfriend's ass was likely to be what you believe to be your finest moment, and what we see as your dumbest. The amount of aggression shown by you, French fry, is disproportionate to your deluded actual ability to carry through your threats. The other guy doesn't really want to beat the living shit out of you...your vertically challenged state makes him look like a bully for even wanting to hit you.  But, you are of age, so you go flying across the bar, sending glass and alcohol sailing everywhere.  He walks away, satisfied that you've learned your lesson...and you are lying on the bar floor screaming for him to come back so you can finish him off. Do you ever shut up?  Nothing phases the blissfully stupid, or the totally deluded assholes like you.
Ladies, unless you are excruciatingly tiny, do not date this guy.  Life is too short to dance with little men.  Life is too short to deal with their overcompensation for not being man-sized. Unless you enjoy being able to throw him over your shoulder and carry him like the petulant child he is, take a pass on this dude.  Would I ever date someone shorter than I am...are you friggin kidding me right now???




Monday, July 23, 2012

Surviving Catholic school in the 70's and 80's

What fond memories flood my head when I think about having attended a Catholic school during the late 70's and early 80's.  The joy of being taught by nuns, women who are angry and sexually deprived, and so are even more angry, and dislike children with a passion.  Ah, what fun.  There's nothing like going to school dressed like everyone else, in ugly maroon and gray plaid with a sexy criss cross tie cutting across that foxy Peter Pan collar, while wearing what can only be described as black orthopedic shoes and knee high socks. If that doesn't scream HAWT, I don't know what does.
Of course, the P.E. uniform rivaled the regular uniform by forcing you to wear those GOD-awful shorts that are, for unknown reasons, back in style.  You know the ones I am talking about...the wedgie-producing running shorts with the piping around the legs and up the sides.  Oh yeah, now you get it.  Couple a pair of those in maroon with gold piping and add a nice manly golden t-shirt to that, and you've got some nice-looking kids playing dodge ball in the gym.
Does anyone else remember wearing the P.E. uniform UNDER your jumper because there were no such things as locker rooms in grammar school?  One week on, one week off of P.E., wearing that uniform under your jumper because you had to change in the classroom with all 29 of your classmates right there with you.  Draping your polyester nightmare over the back of your chair so it would be there waiting for you to come back sweaty and smelly. Then you'd slip that thing on right over your wet, stinking gym clothes and go about the rest of your day, ignoring the mounting stench oozing from your pre-pubescent armpits, trying to look innocent and clueless as to the origin of the odor. Wasn't that FUN?!?!
Let's talk about those jumpers.  What the fuck was the material?  When I first started school, they were made out of cotton and quite soft. Then suddenly, without warning, they began making them out of what can only be described as fireproof nylon.  Itchy as hell and literally almost fireproof.  I can say this because my friends and I tested that theory in high school by trying to light our skirts on fire...and failing miserably.  I guess they were concerned about our safety.  Having them come to mid-knee was probably a safety precaution, too.  Ugly as homemade sin and fire-retardant.  Out-fuckin-standing. The boys were lucky.  Navy pants and a white collared shirt, maroon tie...not very offensive at all and totally unfair!  We could wear polyester maroon pants in the winter if we chose, but rarely did we.  They were disgusting and heinous, making the jumper, and later the skirt and vest seem almost attractive.  Elastic-waisted, form-fitting to the knee, and never the right length so your mom had to hem them causing them to be uneven at best.  I always opted to freeze my legs off, even in the snow. Most of us did. Better to be cold than unattractive, right?
But the best part of going to a Catholic school HAD to be the fact that the nuns were actually allowed to administer corporal punishment.  A term they translated loosely and to suit their particular cruelty preferences. They certainly all had their own brand of mean. Some yelled, some hurled insults in front of the whole class, while others liked to send a nasty note home to mom that had to be signed and returned the next day. The verbal shit was bad enough. Like asking if someone was dropped on their head as a baby because they couldn't answer a question about the reading, or telling a girl she was going to hell for having her skirt too short. As we got older, we developed a thick skin to that kind of bullshit. We had to pay a certain amount of money every time we put our feet up on the crossbar of the desk, or had lip gloss on, or a fancy hair clip, or chewed gum in class. Then we'd donate that money to the missions. Our class had more mission babies than students. Maybe we were bad at following rules, or maybe the nuns needed to focus on our education, not checking to see if our legs were crossed daintily at the ankles with feet tucked under our chairs. Yeah, that was another offense that was assessed a fine.
But as the saying goes, sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.  Unless you heard the same fucking thing over and over again until you started to believe it. Words paled by comparison to the interesting ways they found to inflict physical punishment on us for basically just being kids. Get a math problem wrong on the blackboard, get smacked across your ass. Get caught talking in class, have a ruler whacked across your knuckles. Shoot spitballs, ok I know, that's bad and should be punished.  But should you get hit in the back of the head by a pissed off nun?  You did. Goofing off and fooling around, if the hitting didn't stop you, one nun in particular would stuff you in a trash can and shove you and the can into the hallway. That same nun would threaten to staple our knee socks to our legs if we didn't pick them up.  Good times, good times.  My favorite teacher of all, was the one who was the most creative when it came to discipline.  If you were talking, passing a note, or basically doing something you were not supposed to, she knew.  She could be in the closet getting out art supplies or at the board with her back to the whole class, writing notes...and goddammit if she didn't know what was happening and WHO was doing it.  Without a word, she would grab one of those dusty ass blackboard erasers, spin around at lightning speed, and launch that thing directly at the offending party, nailing them squarely in the head.  Every fucking time.  I was the lucky recipient once.  I say once because after 8 years in a Catholic school being monitored by these psychotic women, I learned how not to get caught.  Except for that one time.  I don't remember who I was talking to or what it was about, but in retrospect, it had better have been pretty friggin important.  What I do remember was the eraser missile making direct contact with my right temple, scaring the shit out of me, and depositing an ass-load of chalk dust into my hair. Dear Lord, how humiliating!  What did I learn that day?  Not to talk in class?  Oh hell no. I learned that I had better improve my method so I didn't get busted again...that eraser hurt!
We weren't always tortured little souls.  We did learn how to memorize entire chapters worth of material in order to successfully get through recitations without being yelled at or spanked.  We all knew how to set up what would now be called the anally-retentive notebook of someone suffering with OCD.  Was it a positive experience?  Who knows? Does it make for great stories to tell our kids when they complain about school or a particular teacher, fucking A it does!  Would I want to do it all over again? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Friday, July 20, 2012

Mammograms and other objects of female torture

Nothing like a nice mammogram to start the day, right ladies?  You will never hear one of us say that, EVER.  I know they are important, and I know they save lives.  That doesn't mean I have to like them.  Nothing that takes your boob and smashes it into a flesh pancake will ever be something I enjoy.  Some say that it hurts giant gazongas more, some claim it's the teeny ta-tas that feel the pinch.  All I can tell you is, if you have boobs, it's going to KILL.  The end.  Notice that men do not have a comparable medical exam. They never walk into the doctor's office and get told to drop trou because today we are going to put your ballbags into a tortilla press and smash those puppies into a quesadilla. Not that I am aware...not being a man and all.  But trust me, if that were to happen, it would be all over the news.  Men everywhere swearing off modern medicine and hiding out in huts, shaking.
Tampons suck. They are uncomfortable to have jammed up inside you, they are awkward to insert, sometimes they hurt coming out, and if they are even slightly crooked...holy shit, there's no sitting down till you fix it.  Yes, they do come in sizes. But they don't reflect the size of the owner's vag, oh no, they are designed with volume of liquid in mind. So, even if you are virginal in size, and you bleed like a wounded animal, you'll be wearing the ULTRA size. There's lite, regular, super, super plus, and ULTRA.  Lite looks like a little pencil, and is probably the most comfortable to wear...and fuck you bitches who get away with it every month.  Regular is more like a Sharpie and is also quite easy on the vajayjay. Oh, and fuck all of you who get to use those. Super and super plus are almost the same, honestly, and are more like a mid-sized carrot. This is where the discomfort begins.  But then, oh dear Lord, then you have the ULTRA.  This fucker is similar to having a paper towel roll with a rope hanging off the end jammed up in there, where nothing that big and dry should ever go. But those of us lucky enough to have a Dexter kill-room kind of period get to use them. And you wonder WHY we get bitchy?
Who here just loves a trip to the GYN?  Come on, shout it out!  Hmmm, not one hand raised, I see. Men, do you know why that is??? Lying on a table with the hospital gown open to the FRONT, with your feet in stirrups, being asked to scoot down to the edge of the table is only the beginning of the joys you get to experience during this visit.  It's awkward enough having someone stick their finger up there as far as it will go and then pressing down on your lower abdomen, particularly with no kissing involved.  But to have them tell you to let those knees drop and relax as they take the biggest, coldest metal object they can find in the room and stuff it up your hoo ha, takes serious balls.  Relax, my ass. The speculum has to be a medieval torture device and women are fortunate enough to endure its usage yearly. Ah, the joys of womanhood. I haven't even gotten to the good parts yet.  After they unceremoniously slide that wand of hell inside you, they grab another lovely device to swipe some of your cervix off.  Yes, I know, it's called a Pap Smear. Have you seen what they use to collect the specimen?  It ain't a Q-tip...it's more like a very long mascara applicator.  That's right, a mini bottle brush.  Don't anger or distract your doctor now, close your eyes and stay very still. Save the questions and chit chat for something safer, like the breast exam. For those of us over 40, we have the female equivalent of the prostate exam.  Oh you betcha, they jam a finger right up there without so much as asking if you are into back door action. So, men, before you bitch and moan about your prostate exams, give thanks to your higher power that you don't have the accompanying exams that go along with OUR trip to the gynecologist.
I'll wager that not one woman will argue the elation we feel at the end of the day when the bra comes off!  Bras come in all shapes and sizes, just like the load they carry.  Some are more comfortable than others, that I cannot deny.  However, at some point, they all start to feel like a strait jacket for your headlights.  Constrictive and binding, eventually, a bra will start to dig, pinch, or crush your ladies. The creator of the underwire must have been a man because no woman would have chosen to put something metal under her yabbos that has the potential to poke out of its cloth shroud and jam straight into her skin. Nope, I promise you that is not how it went down. Another fine male creation.
Notice, men do not have one thing equivalent to the many forms of torture we must bear as women. You get up, you shit, shower, and shave. You visit the doctor only when you have to, and even then it's a walk in the park compared to our yearly trip. I haven't even touched upon the miracle of childbirth...the miracle that women do it over and over again after the first time! Now that you have some clue, a peek into our hell, try to be more compassionate with your wives or girlfriends. Hand her a tissue if she's crying, listen if she wants to vent, hug her if she seems down, steer clear if she's angry, and for love of God, do not complain about any of these things. You really have no idea, buddy, are you friggin kidding me right now???

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Speaking about things you don't know or hey, dude, tell me more about my uterus

There's one in every crowd.  The fountain of knowledge, the expert on all topics, the guy who knows everything.  Definitely a follow-up to my original blog "Your expert opinion or been there done that BEFORE you"... I just feel compelled to continue that thought. I suppose I should say thank you to those who fit the bill.  You do give me hours of entertainment and pages of blog to cover. Possibly the most entertaining part about this dude, is you cannot argue with him. He has research, news articles, TV shows, and just plain genius on his side.  That is exactly what he will tell you.  And you will attempt to counter his every point. I understand the desire to do that. You think it will shut him the fuck up.  Sorry, that's been proven false.  All it will serve to do is keep him going and going, like some kind of psychotic, rambling Energizer bunny on crack. You will develop a raging migraine and he will experience that same satisfaction he always attains when he thinks he's won yet another debate.
Sometimes you just can't argue because it may be a topic you know nothing about. Then, of course, you run the risk of repeating what he's said to someone else.  Usually, that someone else will be the person who not only does know a little something about the topic, but has studied it extensively and likely works in that particular field.  Now you are the asshole, spouting ridiculous bullshit and making a complete and utter fool of yourself. This is why you can never, ever believe Mr. Know-it-all.  Even if it's something as basic as the weather report. Grab your smart phone and double-check his ass before you text your friend about heading to the beach. Looking stupid is not an option...for you.  For him, it's a way of life.
We all enjoy feeling smart. I do. We all like to be right.  I definitely do. He turns it into a goddamn career. You are from NY, he can tell you all about what living there is like.  He's visited once.  He will tell you which neighborhoods are safer, which restaurants are the best, and how to deal with the natives.  But you ARE a native!  Does that matter to him? Hell NO!  He knows more than you.  He watched a news special all about it, and can quote directly from it for you, if you'd like. No matter what you say, regardless of how factual it is because, that's right, you lived there for 25 years, he can refute it.  God bless his small, ineffectual little mind.
Did you go to a Catholic school?  He can tell you all about that experience.  No, he didn't attend one, he graduated from a public school.  That doesn't stop him from expounding on the virtues of being taught by nuns and how lovely that is for a child in their formative years.  REALLY!?!?  Those of us who lived that nightmare can call bullshit on that one...after we open our eyes and stop cringing from the horrific memory burned into our brains of the "lovely" treatment we enjoyed in Catholic school.  He will disagree, stating that these are women of God, and he will in all likelihood be able to rattle off the vows that the novitiates make when becoming a nun. The fact that he knows the word novitiate will throw you for a moment, causing you question if you actually lived that terror-filled scholastic history or if he actually may be telling the truth.  Snap out of it, ass monkey! You attended Catholic schools your whole young, academic career.  You were smacked with a ruler on your ass more times than you care to remember.  You practiced duck and cover on a daily basis to avoid the blackboard eraser missiles launched across the classroom. Yet, he'll still argue his point. And your cranium will throb, yet again.
Let's consider the fact that his wife is female and has given birth at least once. Thus, making him an expert on all things gynecological.  You didn't know that?  Don't worry, he'll tell you all about it. Cramps? He knows exactly how you feel. Just walk it off.  Oh ok, so when I take a pair of BBQ tongs, reach deep into your gut and twist as hard as I can, feel free to walk it off.  Childbirth? Pshhh, he's got that one in the bag.  It's not all that bad, and hell, women have been doing it since the dawn of time, out in the fields...piece of cake. Indeed, it certainly is a piece of cake, my friend.  When you pass a nine pound eggplant out of your ass, we'll compare notes.  And, by the way, why don't I have another?  Hmm, let's see...I'm done?  Oh, but you're so young.  Wrong again, buddy.  See my blog about being your child's grandparent. But wait, you have the research and notes detailing the number of women having children well into their fifties!  Excellent!  I'm all over that like white on rice.  Nothing I want more than to use my old ass eggs to produce a child who won't be able to refer to me as Grandma to their children. I'll pass, but thanks for doing the legwork FOR me.
I could go on and on about this guy...he irritates me on so many levels. I'll just wait for the next time we get to chat, and he is trying to sell me on his expertise on some fucking topic...and attempt to sell he will...and I'm going to be at the end of my rope that day, having dealt with ass clowns, fucktards, and dimwits...and I will have to ask him, "Are you friggin kidding me right now???"



Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Your personal grooming habits...keep them personal

We all know at least one person who is guilty of this heinous crime.  The chick on Facebook, Twitter, social media site of choice who insists on regaling us with her every fucking move.  She either believes that we are truly interested or is, perhaps, attempting to make the rest of jealous.  Here it is in a nutshell...I couldn't give a ripe fuck what you do or how often.  I'm thrilled that you choose to tame your eyebrows by having them regularly waxed at the very expensive salon that you credit each and every time you walk through their front door. Nobody likes a hairy chick, and unibrow is so offensive I cannot even look at one without gagging, so thank you.  But seriously, every time a hair is yanked unceremoniously from your Don King-esque brow, I do not need to be made aware.
Is it just the brows? Oh no, it's everything.  Bully for you getting your hair cut and colored every two weeks like clockwork.  Fan-fucking-tastic.  My heart just skips a beat even thinking about it.  Some of us haven't the time, energy, or disposable cash flow to keep up with you.  You know that.  Quite the aware little puppy, aren't you?  That's why you do it. Look at me, my hair is perfection, not a strand out of place, not a root showing or gray hair to be found.  Congratulations on prioritizing your appearance over all else and sending that fabulous message to young girls everywhere.  Because jealousy, competition, and anorexia aren't already problematic enough...thanks for helping us along that path to depression or worse.
Somehow, she actually believes I have a deep-seated need to know each time she has her nails done. The mani/pedi is a wonderful thing and I do partake as often as I can. While she goes every two weeks, and I know this based on her faithful chronicling of each visit, complete with photos, I do not.  I go when I can, and when I can justify the expense. You just never know the exact day nor the color I choose.  Why?  Because I don't think you give a flying fuck.  I'm right.  You don't and I don't.  But that's right, it's not just that she went, it's the fancy overpriced salon where she checked in using Foursquare! When I DO actually get my nails done, I go to the same Vietnamese woman in Pleasant Hill almost every time. Good service doesn't require water with cucumbers floating in it and piped in New Age music.  I don't need a robe to have polish put on my nails.  Lily is nice enough to make egg rolls once in a while and gives a killer hand and leg massage...all in her little hole-in-the-wall joint.
Thank God she's all dressed up again!  My jeans and concert t-shirt were just begging for someone to overshadow them by dressing for the prom at 40 years old...again...for no apparent reason.  Even more fortunate, she's nicely had someone snap a photo to be shared on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and possibly even to be sky-written over my house. I don't know what I would do if I couldn't fully admire her from yet another angle. The bitch may just be THAT considerate.
Holy shit, she just had a drink at yet another snazzy bar!  Lucky me, I know all about it.  I even saw the close up shot of it in case I wanted to drink vicariously THROUGH her. How thoughtful!  Spending money hand over fist can be a barrel of laughs.  But in the current economy, is it wise?  Does she care?  Hell no!  How else can she rub her amazing life in your face and mine?  Going to the clearance rack at Old Navy and nabbing those jeans you've been eyeing for a month at the low, low price of $8.90 isn't her idea of a bang-up time.  It's something I celebrate wholeheartedly...but I'm a cheapo...forgive the digression.
Ladies, don't be that chick.  We are too evolved to truly believe that we are in competition with each other for the attention of cavemen. The world is overpopulated enough, we aren't battling to breed.  Take it down a notch, or two, or five. Nobody wants to know every time you apply lipstick or take a shit.  No, really, I swear we don't.  There's something to be said for an air of mystery once in a while. If we are close friends, I may know this stuff already, so you certainly don't need to broadcast it publicly to everyone else.  You are only asking for it the next time you ask if you should go blonde or redhead, complete with accompanying photos...asking for me to shout, type, and possibly rent a billboard begging to know, "Are you friggin kidding me right now???"

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Breastfeeding after a bike ride...have you heard of a juice box?

Before you jump ugly with me and attack my stance against breastfeeding, understand that I don't care. My opinion is the one that matters right now, and if you want to expound the joys and benefits of having a child dangling from your tits all day long, there are sites geared toward your little obsession.  I'm sure you can tell me all about how your way of feeding your child is better than mine.  The joys of breastfeeding, the lasting benefits, the development of immunities, the crucial moment of bonding, the IQ enhancements.  Yeah, all a fat load of bullshit. No really, it's bullshit, plain and simple.  Whip out those studies, pamphlets from La Leche, the advice given to you from your doula or midwife, the books, the videos...and then stuff them up your ever-expanding ass.
Oh, I can hear the thunderous sound of women everywhere, racing to their little child-rearing libraries to prove me wrong.  Is it really about the baby, or is it about the promise of losing the baby weight more rapidly than those of us who chose the bottle option? What guided your decision to feed your child using a bodily fluid?  That IS what breast milk is...a bodily fluid, like snot and spit.  The last time I checked, I found out that I am, indeed, not an animal living in the wild and do have access to supermarkets.  Information that assisted me in my decision-making process. We do live in the United States, right? This hasn't been deemed a Third World country, has it?  We do have modern technology, running water, and flush toilets, right?
Holy crap, I can feel your righteous indignation through the laptop screen.  Let me help you out...your kids haven't been sick, haven't cried when you've left them, and are two points short of genius on the IQ scale, thanks to your decision to feed them through your nipples.  Am I close?  Or is that the perception you were fed, you swallowed it hook, line, and sinker...and now can't get the little leeches off your fun bags? I'd like to say that I'm sorry for your misguided screw up and wish I could help you.  But, personally, I think it's more fun to laugh at you and your dumb ass choices.  I've seen breast-fed children who are roly poly little munchkins with asthma and a host of other afflictions.  Care to explain?
Neither I nor my child were breast-fed.  We are both only children who are neither overweight, nor afflicted with strange immune deficiencies.  Oh, did I mention we were both straight A students all through grammar school, and I all the way through high school?  Hmmm, blows your theory completely out of the water doesn't it?  Should I mention that my IQ was tested as a child, and would likely make you cry out in a jealous rage, perhaps wanting to shank your doula for ever feeding you that pack of lies?
Watching women with infants in their arms, covered by a little blanket while breast-feeding is not offensive to my sensibilities. What is offensive is those same women, four years later, whipping out a sweater puppy to nurse, and I use that term so disgustedly, a preschooler.  If the child can ride their bike up to you at the park after playing tag with his friends, and ask you for a drink of your ta-ta fountain, it may be time to pull the plug on that form of hydration.  Who benefits from this practice?  Have you heard of MILK?!?!  They sell it in all sizes, flavors, fat contents...and it tastes sooooo good when it's frosty cold right out of the fridge.  MMMM, I can just imagine a cold glass now.  Why the hell would you subject your kid to drinking your broccoli-flavored, warm tit waste when he could be enjoying a nice glass of chocolate milk with his friends?
Boobs are decorative.  Boobs fill out t-shirts.  Boobs are fun to play with, so I've heard. They are not drinking fountains.  We don't live in grass huts scattered throughout a jungle with no access to shopping.  Let's get into the current century, let's exercise some common sense. Let's question the advice we are given when it sounds so wrong.  I have, and I will again the next time I see a woman feeding her intelligently-speaking toddler from her chi-chis, exclaim loudly for all to hear, "Are you friggin kidding me right now???"

Monday, July 16, 2012

The attention-whore's little brother, the perpetual frat boy

Bet you didn't know she had a sibling.  Oh but she does, and we tend to suffer him gladly because he's so damned funny.  We all know at least one, and if we are lucky, several. You know him, he's the guy at the party with the 25 year old concert tee, battered jeans, and flip flops.  The party where the rest of us are dressed in business casual.  Yet, nobody bats an eye.  Why?  Because he came in singing at the top of his lungs and invited us all to join in.  Yes, "Margaritaville" is catchy and we all know the lyrics, so why not?  Maybe because it's someone's 85th birthday party and we are at a fancy restaurant???  Ah, that's ok, someone will inevitably say, while some of the older folks are fidgeting and scanning the room for the level of responses to Mr. Delta Gamma Phi.
He's great to have around at the ballpark, cheering louder than anyone around you, rousing the crowd in support of the home team.  Shouting loudly and sometimes incoherently because he's already had a six pack on the way there.  But, bless his heart, he's the first to make a beer run for the whole row. Gotta love that! So what if he sloshes some on you as he climbs over your chair?  He happily pays for the round, how can you complain? And you don't. You grab that beer, toast to him and the whole stadium, and chug it down.
His drunken antics are the life of every baseball game, BBQ, birthday party, and holiday soiree.  Everyone knows him by name, even those who've never met him before.  He dances with all the women and enters into a bromance with all the men.  By the end of the night, you've become friends for life.  How the hell does he do this?  He's never grown up.  Peter Pan has nothing on this guy. Sure, he has a steady job, probably a wife and a couple of kids.  All the prerequisites for acceptance into "real" adulthood.  Yet, he is the first one at the party and the last to leave.  He drinks even the proclaimed wooden legs right under the table and keeps on dancing. Dancing and dancing, stealing smooches from each person he passes...smooth devil.
Do we all quietly worry about him?  Of course we do.  Have we all driven him home on several occasions because his B.A.C. was through the roof?  You know you have, and you'd do it again for this lovable dumbass.  Everyone agrees that an intervention is necessary, but nobody steps up to the plate. Why, you ask?  Well, duh, who wants to be a buzzkill?
Taking him down off the throne would throw a serious wrench into everyone's fun, and you know it would.  Who else could get an entire section of a baseball stadium to join him in a sing-along?  Who else would start a conga line leaving a church?  Who could get the priest to join in that conga line???  He gets the wallflowers to dance and the quiet ones laughing.  He tells your grandma dirty jokes, and she LIKES it!  I, for one, am not gonna ruin the fun.  Nope, I'll just keep watering down his drinks at the end of the night and driving his pickled ass home.  His antics are the stuff the YouTube was created for and what makes him the life of every occasion.
Will I throw a shot back with this dude?  Uh yeah, are you friggin kidding me right now???

Friday, July 13, 2012

I expect service in a restaurant...what nerve!

Imagine the balls on me, expecting to be served in a restaurant.  I know, pushy as hell. Who do I think I am?  A friggin paying customer, that's who.  There's nothing that can ruin my appetite more than being treated like a second-class citizen while attempting to dine out.  Restaurants are busy places, and I know it gets hectic for the staff.  What gets me, is when you are dining at a heavily ethnic joint and you are ignored because the waitstaff has chosen to favor only those who speak their language.  REALLY?!?!  Are you making money in the United States?  I think you are.  How dare you tune my ass out?
Last night, we had a hankering for some Pakistani food after walking around in the Mission and smelling the heavenly scents of coriander, turmeric, and cardamom.  Mouths watering, we headed to an old favorite anxiously anticipating the cuisine we have come to love.  Glad to be seated right away, we start scanning the menu to select the evening's fare.  After making our selections, Kev goes up and orders our food.  At this place, they don't come to you, you walk right up to where they are cooking.  Seems easy, kind of foolproof, right?
That's where the fun began.  We sat, and sat, and sat.  Others came in after us, ordered food and actually got it rather quickly.  How did they manage this nifty little trick, you ask? Let me tell you.  It seems that if you hail from the same town and likely dirt road as the those who run the establishment, you get preferential treatment.  Nice, huh?  You are in MY country, making MY money, enjoying MY freedoms and you are playing favorites instead of doing your job?  Do you think I didn't notice that your homeboy got his food already and I'm still sitting here starving to death?  I noticed...and I got pissed.  Holding my tongue and my temper, I waited a little bit more in the hopes that the food was on its way. After a series of errors because the waiter had trouble remembering what food went to which table, we finally got our food, and it was delicious.  Shocking that his memory should be so spotty, since he made sure his "people" got theirs right away. This isn't the first time this has happened here.  This isn't even the first time I've been ignored at an ethnic food establishment while those of the "proper" ethnicity got the royal treatment. Reverse racism sucks...all racism sucks.
Here's the thing, I don't expect to walk into an Italian restaurant, have the employees notice that my last name ends in a vowel, and have them treat me like the only person in the place while the other patrons sit there drooling.  Although, maybe I'm missing the point.  Maybe that is how it is supposed to be.  If that did happen, every other person would get angry, rightly so.  They'd probably even complain...and they'd likely get something free as an apology from the manager.  But, sadly, I'm going to go all ethnocentric here, certain cultures think it's perfectly acceptable to ignore Americans and favor their own kind.  I am all over ethnocentricity.  Love your culture, love it and embrace the shit out of it.  I do.  But don't treat others like crap while you're doing it.
I felt like a stranger in a strange land.  I felt awkward and out of place.  I was discriminated against in my own country...by people who are here by the grace of God and the generosity of my government.  I didn't want free food, I just wanted to be treated like a person, like an equal.  I thought that's what we all were, that we all enjoyed the same rights in this country.  I guess not.  Am I going to take this sitting down?  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Thursday, July 12, 2012

I'll just have a salad, and other lies you tell

We've all eaten with this person.  You are scanning the menu for some fried happiness, and they are sitting across from you with a holier-than-thou look on their face saying, "I'll just have a salad, dressing on the side."  Excuse me while I run to the bathroom to change my pants, I think I just peed myself.  Do you truly think I believe that is your normal choice of consumption, Jumbo McLardAss?  Before you jump ugly with me about the weight comment, I must inform you that I have a huge yo-yo weight problem of my own and have done Weight Watchers for over six years in the hopes of never weighing THAT much again.  So, yes, I can throw stones.  Jumping right back in, I'm not sure which part is funnier to me.  The look on your face, clearly judging my desire for chips with queso...or the fact that you think your miniature salad plate makes you look thin.  Babe, trust me, those leaves aren't covering much!  I'll let you in on a secret, I don't always eat the chips with queso.  But when I do, I know when to back away from the chip.  That's right, back away and nobody gets fat.  Instead, you'll order the salad with a squeeze of lemon, drink water, and all the while you are fantasizing about the Twinkies you have tucked into your nightstand waiting for you when you get home.  That's healthy eating right there.
How about our good friend, Mr. No Offense?  If you feel that you have to precede anything you say with the disclaimer, "no offense," I want you to realize, I am already taking offense.  By the time you are halfway through the supposed non-offensive statement, I'm probably dreaming of thrusting a shank deep into your liver.  You know exactly what you are saying and you DO mean to offend.  I suppose you were taught at a very young age to pussyfoot around the subject to get your way.  Tiptoe through the tulips...here's a thought, chicken-shit, either keep the venom to yourself or man up and say it with pride and conviction.  Either way, we will all respect you a little bit more.  Looking over your shoulder to see who is around you, that's another wimpy thing you do right before you let us know that you mean no offense.  Why are you scouring the area, then?  Who are you afraid of exactly?  If you believe what you are saying, then by all means big boy, say it.  I wonder if you just lack conviction...or balls.  Probably both.
"I love that shirt" or whatever the fuck I am wearing.  You really don't have to comment on a new item I am wearing.  It's not your style, it's mine.  The need to constantly flatter someone else even when you don't mean it says more about you than about what I am currently sporting.  Maybe you are from the same neighborhood as Mr. No Offense...the one where you need everyone to like you so you say what you think we all want to hear. My neighborhood has a no bullshit policy, so if you are talking to me, keep it real.  I rarely compliment people, it just sounds so phony when it flows with such regularity from the lips of some folks.  Maybe it's because I don't care if you like me.  Perhaps it's just because I prefer not to lie to you, less for me to remember.
The phrase "my friend" gets bandied about nowadays about as frequently as I say the word fuck.  Not everyone is your friend.  Really.  You have work associates, colleagues, acquaintances, people you pass on the street...but friends, real friends...you can count those on one hand and have fingers left over.  But I know some people who insist that everyone is their dear, close, intimate friend.  Who the fuck are you kidding?  Half of the individuals to whom you are referring wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire.  Yet you think they  are close and worthy of invites to your parties and such.  Are you so insecure that you need to feel surrounded?  Do you think you need to convince me of your popularity?  I know different.  We all do, so let's start using proper terminology when referencing someone you just met, shall we?
My child would never...stop yourself right there.  They would and they have, you are just too busy inspecting your colon since your head has been up your ass while they have been snowing the shit out of you.  These are the parents that really make me laugh till tears run down my leg!  Kids are kids, and that being the case, they are hard-wired to test the waters, to push limits, to experiment. And don't even tell me you didn't and that is why your kid won't.  Those are two bald-faced lies, and we've already established my no bullshit policy.  Never puffed a friend's cigarette?  Never took a sip of a beer out of a red solo cup?  Never made out in a car?  Did you grow up in a convent or monastery?  Didn't think so.  Then why on earth do you think your kid is immune to all this?  Because you told them not to?  OMFG!  One more second while I change my pants yet again...I've got to start wearing Depends, you guys kill me!!!  Wake up before it's too late, people.
The next time you feel like bullshitting me, find another brainless ass hat to entertain.  I'm not going to hold back when I hear the phony spewing from your hole anymore. You will hear, "Are you friggin kidding me right now???"

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Are you your child's grandparent? None of us can tell either.

Following yesterday's blog, I thought it was only fitting to continue along those lines and dive right into older parents.  Now, I know this is going to piss a ton of people off, and frankly, I don't give a rat's ass.  You are all entitled to my opinion, I'm quite generous that way.  Has anyone else noticed that parents are getting older and older?  Again, we fall back on the very worn-out excuse of putting the career first, family second.  If you were a Supreme Court judge or neurosurgeon, I'd totally understand focusing on your career and getting all your ducks in a row before adding to your family.  But, most of you, and yes, I am using gross generalization, don't have such illustrious careers that require years of effort before having children.
What I am seeing is an entire generation of selfish bastards who want to live like married singles for as long as humanly possible before finally deciding that the one thing they don't possess in their lives of excess is a child.  By this time, you've already become very set in your ways, don't deny it.  A child is not another acquisition. Not that you'll treat it as such, but that's how it starts.  Let's see, we have a house, a summer home, a boat, three cars, a dog, and a cat.  What are we missing?  Oh yes, a child.  Wouldn't that be lovely, darling?
Yes, a child would be lovely if you had the time, patience, or ability to keep up with the rigors of parenthood.  But you are older now.  Last minute vacations, weekend jaunts, drunken parties till the wee hours, spending all your cash frivolously...that all comes to a screeching halt!  You're thinking that you should be able to fit your child into your lives quite seamlessly.  Think again, ass wad.  This new little person is going to turn your lives upside down.  Gone are the impromptu spa days with the girls.  Kiss those bar hopping long weekends goodbye.  Were you expecting to be able to keep up that lifestyle?  Such a shame, dementia must be setting in, you ARE old.
When I see folks in their late forties with toddlers, I have to laugh out loud.  They look haggard and worn.  Wonder why?  Could it be that children require energy that you no longer possess?  Ah yes.  They run, they scream, they flit from one thing to the next, they require you to childproof.  You may have to put your bong on a higher shelf now.  They do tend to put everything in their mouths.  Very overwhelming to older folks who are so far removed from childhood that these things actually sound foreign.
The other danger of waiting too long to become a parent is that common sense seems to fly out the window. These children of aging parents are spoiled rotten for the most part. Could be due to the fact that the parents are so focused on work, they've decided to allow day care to raise their child and feel guilty about the lack of actual time spent with them. Had you started younger, you may have considered staying home to raise this little bundle of joy yourself, making sacrifices when they weren't quite so challenging and life-altering. Now, you probably need to work to support a lifetime of very expensive habits, a huge mortgage, and a lifestyle you aren't willing to give up.  The spoiling could also stem from the fact that you are a lot more mellow and grandparent-like.  Not that grandparents are a bad thing.  They have their place in a child's life.  But, in general, it is not to raise them.
The kids of these elderly parents are quite often so overindulged.  You can spot this child from a mile away.  He's the one in designer jeans, holding an iPad, and demanding an ice cream cone NOW!!!!  His parents are the ones who will gently negotiate with him, attempting to come to some sort of adult compromise while making sure he doesn't get too agitated.  Heaven forbid we say something damaging to his delicate self-esteem.  You must be the parents who are advocating against the use of red pens on tests and using the standard grading system of A-F.  Yeah, those things really fucked me up.  Are you serious?
One other thing that does concern me about these older parents is one basic fact.  You probably won't be around for a good portion of your child's life.  There, I said it.  The later you start, the more likely it becomes that you won't live to see your own grandchildren.  In actuality, many of you won't see your child graduate college or get married.  Does this bother you at all?  It should.  Did you think about that while you were putting off having children?  Did you consider the lasting effects it would have?  Probably not.  You were busy being selfish.
I had my daughter when I was 24 years old.  To many of you, that sounds so young.  It was, and it was young enough for me to be up all night when she was sick, to have the ability to chase her around the park, to stay home and make sacrifices since we didn't have much at the time, anyway, and to have the common sense necessary to raise a child in today's world.  Do I wish I had waited till I was older?  Are you friggin kidding me right now?

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Does anyone marry for love anymore?

Nowadays people are waiting longer and longer to get married.  They claim to be putting their careers first.  I say balls.  Many of you have jobs, not to be confused with high-powered, heavy-hitting careers.  The fact is, either you are so unmarketable in the dating arena or you have become so picky, nobody meets your unattainable criteria.  Let me let you in on a secret...you aren't perfect!  Nobody is, and expecting them to be is unrealistic.  I know marriage is a contract, and to a certain extent, a financial agreement.  However, I am seriously starting to wonder when it became such a cold process?  Where do you work, how much do you make, what does your father do, where do you live, what college did you attend, what's your five year plan?  WTF!?!?  What happened to sharing things in common?  Enjoying the same movies, music genres, tastes in food...those used to be part of the dating litmus test.
More and more people seem to have such high opinions of themselves, usually unfounded, and as a result, there are a lot more single people well into their 40's. Coincidence, I think not.  These are the same people creating desirable versions of themselves on dating websites.  Trust me, nobody believes half of what you are putting on there.  Everyone becomes outdoorsy, well-read, cultured, motorcycle riding, water skiing,  travelling foodies in their dating profiles.  Riiiiight.  Totally convincing.  Looks good in print, doesn't it?  Wait till you have to prove it.  You'll look completely retarded...but that's ok.  Your date will, too.  He'll be balding, fat, and dress like he shops at the clearance racks at Kmart.  But he said he was a gym rat who ran five miles a day, had hair you could run your fingers through on a moonlit night, and dressed in Ermenegildo Zegna.  Trying to hide the shock on both your faces will be exercise enough.  More than either of you have had in years, although your profile says much different.
This brings me to the morphing some people tend to do from relationship to relationship. They begin to take on the characteristics of the person they are currently dating. Suddenly, the punk-loving, poetry-reading, night owl transforms into a country music aficionado who line dances, rises at dawn, and sky dives.  You do it so convincingly at first because you don't necessarily have to prove it yet.  Then it happens.  He makes sky diving plans and you are totally invited!  Holy shit, now what?  Sure, you can get "sick" the first time and beg off the invite.  But then he asks you to go to some honky tonk with him to line dance.  Country music makes your skin crawl.  You've made excuses, now it's time to put up or shut up.  The next thing you know, you're buying Jason Aldean CDs and wearing plaid shirts. Who the fuck are you?  Do you even know anymore?
Pretending to be someone you're not in order to maintain a relationship is no relationship at all.  You can't keep it up forever.  One day you think it's just trying new things, the next day you are taking catechism classes to convert religions!  It's not normal.  Eventually, it will wear on you and the person you are with at the time.  It's not you and keeping up the facade is way to much work.  Is this person really worth changing everything about yourself?  Shouldn't they love you for YOU?  Not some made-up version you've created to suit the situation?
This seems to be the rule rather than the exception as far as I can see.  It's horrifying to watch people you've known for years morph into clones of their current partner. You know different, you've seen them at their best and their worst...and this person is NOT the one you know at all.  It makes you want to scream and shake them, hoping to wake them up from their embarrassing imitation and bring them back to reality.  But you can't. They won't hear you.  They're in LOVE.  Or so they think.  The need to partner has taken over their ability to be logical and rational.  Could be the ticking of a biological clock, could be loneliness, but more likely it is the desperation of someone who has waited too goddamn long to get married and now they are willing to wear a freaking mask to snag a mate.
People who tell me that I was a baby when I got married at 21 just sound jealous. Marrying for any reason other than love was just not an option.  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Monday, July 9, 2012

Samples not supper...a Costco trip goes so wrong, again!

Costco is a lovely place to shop.  Oh God, I tried to say that with a straight face.  Dear Lord, why the hell do I subject myself to that nightmare?  I need toilet paper. Yeah, that about sums it up.  Toilet paper.  They sell it by the boatload.  Otherwise, what else could I possibly need in hotel-sized quantity so badly that I would put myself through the horror of the immigrants and their endless children brigade that has become synonymous with Costco shopping?  They break every one of the unwritten rules in the space of one store. Keep to the right is absolutely forgotten by these ass clowns.  While I know carts have no turn signals, there is a way to get over without slamming into me or running me into a display.  Wait your friggin turn!  There's nothing they sell that is suitable for an emergency situation, nor can you access anything immediately since you have to wait on those mile-long lines serviced by the slowest cashiers on Earth.  Pushing me out of your way is never a good idea.  I push back.  With force, with malice...and while cursing a blue streak. Don't want to subject your children to my inappropriate language?  Steer clear of me and my cart.
When did it become acceptable to carry on personal conversations that look like international summits in the middle of a busy aisle?  You are pushing a gigantic metal monstrosity loaded with more rice than in all of China, flanked by 4-6 kids, and you think it's perfectly fine to jackknife your cart across the aisle along with a couple of your friends and their broods blocking my access to the eggs?  WTF?!?!  Is this the only place you can socialize?  And is it MY problem?  I always say "excuse me" first.  Being rude comes only after I've attempted to nicely persuade you to carry on your little meeting elsewhere so I can pass.  Once I realize that I am either being ignored or that you speak no English, I get a little fussy.  By fussy, I mean loud and obnoxious.  But you deserve it.  Get out of my goddamn way!
Costco store d'oeuvres are a fantastic way of figuring out if you want to buy a new item. They are NOT a means to feed your ever-expanding family.  Do not shove your child in front of me while I've been waiting properly on the line for several minutes to try the babaganoush.  Your child doesn't want it, and it's rude.  I have no problem telling your spawn to go to the end of the line, while staring you directly in the face.  I figure you BOTH need to learn manners, I may as well address you both.  Zipping across the aisle diagonally to be first, cutting everyone off in the process is unacceptable.  Maybe the other non-English speakers will allow it,  but I won't.  Yesterday, I was waiting patiently to try the chicken tikka masala which had coaxed me over with its heavenly smell and promise of wonderful curry taste.  Lo and behold an entire Indian family raced over, multiple children in tow, and attempted to force their way in front of me.  Did I stand idly by and allow it, hell no!  I turned to them, and told them that it was unnecessary for them to rudely push their way ahead of me to feed the whole family on something they make at home!  No, I didn't say it as nicely as all that.  Why should I?  They had no problem being inconsiderate boors, why would I need to temper my tongue?
Don't expect me to be polite when you are getting between me and my toilet paper, how much patience do you think I have...are you friggin kidding me right now???


Friday, July 6, 2012

Did you see your kid's clothing before they left the house?

Being a parent isn't the easiest job on the planet, I know.  Parenting a teenager is probably the hardest thing you'll do in the course of this job.  However, opening your eyes and having a peek at their ensemble before they walk out the door is not really a ton of effort.  I swear most parents today are either blind, stupid, or are so focused on themselves, they have no idea that their children look like little porn stars and white rappers.  This seems to be running rampant in all corners of the  country, but I can speak with more accuracy about the Left Coast epidemic of tacky teens. 
Your daughters are leaving the house in those God-awful leggings!!!  Have you seen them?  These girls think nothing of pairing those leggings with cropped tops exposing about two feet of skin.  These tops are generally quite translucent, and the girls seem to believe they are Madonna-reincarnate as they wear nothing else underneath but a bra.  WTF?!  This is way more than needs to be seen by your average dirty old man on the street.  Some girls have chosen to be a little more, and I am using the term so loosely you can drive a camel under it, classy by sporting skirts and dresses.  Ah, you say, a skirt or dress is so lovely on a young girl.  Yes, it would be if it so much as covered her ass!  Rule of thumb, if you are yanking at the back of a skirt or dress every 3.5 seconds, it is too SHORT.  I should not be able to see glimpses of butt cheeks when I drive by my daugher's high school, but all too often, there they are in all their glory.  Even shorts these days are more Daisy Duke-like than is necessary.  ASS everywhere!  Girls, cover yourselves.  Not just ass is being exposed.  Why must these girls wear pants so low that a Brazilian wax is required first?  If I can see your anorexic litte hip bones jutting out two inches above the waistband of your pants, they are way too fucking low.  I don't want to have to guess if you shave or wax.  This much of you shouldn't be out in public.
Guys, I didn't forget you.  In case no one told you, the era of the white rapper and his saggy pants is OVER.  Consider yourself told.  You are waddling like a duck, all I see are your underwear du jour, and the funniest thing to me, is the fact that you lose usage of one hand while you walk because it is used to hold on to the front of your jeans to prevent them from hitting the sidewalk.  Seriously, this is the most unattractive look and I cannot imagine any girl looking at you and saying, "Girrrrl, I gotta get me some of THAT!"  Unless you are playing dress up with your Daddy's clothes, and you are five years old, your clothes should never be that big on you. I've seen some waistbands close to knees!  All your kibbles and bits are out and about.  They don't belong there.  Keep them in your pants.  I don't care if  your boxer briefs are covering them, they belong on the inside of your jeans.
Parents, wake up and open your damn eyes.  Open your mouth and say something.  Don't let them out looking like poor white trailer trash anymore.  It's not that difficult, so don't make excuses.  Are you friggin kidding me right now???


Thursday, July 5, 2012

The joyous tampon commercials make me feel a little stabby

Menstruation.  Not a very attractive word, is it?  It's right up there with scrotum and anus.  Yet, if you watch enough TV commercials, you may actually believe that having a period is the most fun you can have short of vacationing in Jamaica.  WRONG!  It doesn't matter how colorful you make the tampons or their wrappers, bleeding for 7 or more days, in my case, is never ever a good time.  As my pants start to look more like a crime scene than something cute to cover my butt, the last thing I feel like doing is dancing at a club.  Tennis is probably out of the question, and don't expect me to want to ride a bike with something resembling an adult diaper stuck to the crotch of my drawers.  White pants, are you high?  Nobody with half a brain in their head is going to take that risk.  I'd prefer NOT to announce to the world that a giant part of my uterus is falling out. 
While we are on the topic of having a period, jokes about it are always unwelcome.  Guys, you have absolutely no idea what it's like to shove a dry cotton log up your delicate man parts while allowing a string to dangle out between your legs as a constant reminder that you feel like shit.  Yes, in general, we feel like shit that week.  Sore boobs, migraines, cramps, backaches, nausea, exhaustion, breakouts...you know, stuff that would render you bros completely helpless and possibly require you to call out sick from work...are not enjoyable, yet we are expected to go about our day like everything is peachy neato keeno.  Is it any wonder we might get a little cranky?  As you crack your next, "She must be on the rag" joke, we are silently plotting your dismemberment with great joy.  The saddest part of your jokes, is that there is no male equivalent.  We'd love to be able to nail you with a good jab when you are acting bitchy, but asking if you are on the rag just sounds ridiculous. 
Speaking of the feminine products I adore, when we ask you to pick some up, please don't gripe and tell us how embarrassing it is to go down that aisle.  We don't feel like supermodels when we reach the cashier with an armful of ultra-sized tampons and humongous overnight pads.  And remember, we do visit the pharmacy to pick up our birth-control pills every month and don't bitch about it. Don't think we haven't gotten some interesting looks from male pharmacy technicians at least once in our lifetime.  We have.  It's just as fun as when we get that male cashier ringing up our mountain of pads and tampons.  Yes, I'm bleeding like a stuck pig, thanks for asking.  Just ring up the fucking sale and nobody gets hurt.
My message to the good people at Kotex, Tampax, and Playtex is keep it real, keep it simple, and please don't give the message that periods are a giant bag of laughs and line dancing.  I only wish you could hear me scream at the TV screen when one of your ads come on, and there's some skinny chick (no bloating there) dancing around in white leggings (there they are again!), "Are you friggin kidding me right now???