You SUCK at the basics, can't you drive normally?

Even if you aren't a professional driver, you should have mastered the basics before you took your road test. Furthermore, if you actually passed the test yourself, unlike my evil Aunt Satan who had someone take the test FOR her back in the Stone Age, you knew how to drive appropriately at one time. So, if I can safely make that assumption, I have to ask you, what the fuck happened between then and now? Did you suffer an amnesia-inducing head injury directly after you got your license in the mail? Maybe drugs and alcohol have finally taken their toll and you've lost the necessary brain cells to continue driving. I don't give a ripe fuck what occurred, but I do care that you are still driving on the same roads that I do. I'm not ready to take my dirt nap, and you aren't going to be the one to speed the process, fuck nut. I'm going out kicking and screaming, not in a tangle of metal and broken glass on the side of the road.

When you weave in and out of traffic, and you know who you are, ballbag, what do you hope to accomplish? You realize that you aren't getting to your destination any faster because you'll eventually get stuck behind two cars riding shotgun and then you'll have to drive in one lane like the rest of us. Zigzagging back and forth only puts me in danger.  I shouldn't have to be looking out for the asshole who refuses to signal, yet wants to change lanes more frequently than I breathe. Not only are you forcing me to focus solely on you, but you are also asking me to be a fucking mind-reader and predict the exact moment you decide the person in front of you is not speeding as fast as you'd like them to...again. I'm fairly positive you aren't that important and wherever you are going, they don't need you there at warp speed. If you are running late, it sure as hell isn't my problem, don't make it mine. 

Weavers are usually also tailgaters. No, I don't mean the activity that takes place before a ballgame in the parking lot involving copious amounts of barbecued food, beer, and chips. I mean you window-lickers who actually believe that if you ride someone's ass close enough, they'll speed up for you. This may not have occurred to you, but traffic often comes to abrupt and unexpected stops.  Shit happens on freeways and highways that halts traffic in the blink of a fucking eye. How do you expect to come to a complete and safe stop when the nose of your car is up the asshole of the car in front of you?  To the contrary, you will the cause of mile-long chain of accidents because you are delusional about your driving superpowers. Riding my ass only makes me go slower. Spiteful, maybe. But I don't take kindly to someone trying to force me to do something their way, and I especially don't appreciate you endangering my life in the process, fuck knob.

While we are still cruising along on the freeway of love, let's discuss those who don't understand that the text can wait till they are at a full stop on the side of the road, or at their destination. If you have bluetooth, call the person if it is that important.  As long as you go hands-free, and holding your phone up by your mouth while having it on speaker is NOT hands-free, ass, it is in your hand...genuine hands-free-ness, I have no beef with you. But, when I see someone swerving and losing speed, I can be solidly certain that they are holding their phone with one hand, raised to steering wheel level, and are texting like their life depends on it. Guess what, fuckmonkey?  Mine does. When you have lost all focus on the road, your car, the gas pedal, and maybe even on life in general, you are screwing with the lives of everyone around you. When I can see your phone, it's pretty obvious you aren't seeing much else. Put it down, put it down NOW.

Ever get stuck at a stop sign showdown? It's like something out of the Louis L'Amour books my father enjoyed or a friggin John Wayne movie. You can almost hear the background music and see tumbleweeds rolling by as you sit there, staring each other down. The fun part, is you know who has the right of way, but the other asshole hasn't the foggiest clue.  And so, you sit and sit, and stare and grumble, cursing a blue streak because they should have gone already. Here's the basic rule, if you are there alone, come to a full stop, look in both directions, then proceed. If you aren't, yield to the driver on the right.  Seems simple, doesn't it? Yet, so few seem to be aware of this rule. Hence the wild west atmosphere at most stop signs in this godforsaken area. Next time I'm faced with a cowboy who clearly never read the driver's license handbook, I'll have the music cued and ready, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

The last thing that chafes my ass is the wide turn.  Should you be driving a semi, I completely understand and respect your massively wide turn. Have at it, good neighbor. But, if you are driving a miniature Japanese car that I can put on my foot and skateboard home, stay in your motherfucking lane. All too often, I am forced to turn next to one of you. You who think your Hyundai is an L1011 and requires two lanes to execute a turn. There is never a valid reason to swing out into MY lane while making any turn. I shouldn't have to swerve out of your way to allow for your poor driving skills. Maybe you have body dysmorphic disorder and there's spillover into other areas of your life, like your fucking pint-sized car. Seek therapy, lose weight, vomit, whatever...but get help before you fucking sideswipe my vehicle.

I never claimed to be perfect, but holy stinking piles of raw sewage, the drivers I come across on a daily basis are so far from even average, it scares the shit out of me. The only safe way to get around is to be accompanied by a motorcade, and since I'm not important enough to warrant one, I take my life into my hands every time I get in my goddamn car. Maybe I'll have to move to some rural, shit stain of a town where there are only 4 other cars, and three are pick up trucks. Perhaps a bit of space between me and the next asshole is necessary.  The fact that I am considering taking my car and heading for points cow-lined should tell you something.  This city girl can't stand the quiet, the stand-still pace, or the slow of mind, but for my safety and the safety of my family...I'll take a Xanax and give it a try. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

The good old days, continued

Remember phones?  Not your Galaxy or iPhone, but a real phone that you likely got from the phone company and came in unattractive colors like nude or olive green or yellow? Those of us over 40 can recall using a rotary phone and the sound it made spinning back after each dialed number. We can also tell you which phone in the house had the longest cord...for taking a private call.  Mine was the longest.  My white slimline rotary phone, covered in stickers, had the longest cord in the house. Not that I had my own phone number or that I had constant and consistent access to it.  Far from it.  The moment I stepped out of line with my mom, she marched into my room, yanked the cord out of the wall, wrapped it around the phone, and stuck it in her closet. Access denied. Yes, I had the phone taken away quite a bit during the teen years. And I was actually a GOOD kid. Imagine if my mom had to deal with a teenager like the ones being produced and tolerated today?!  They'd likely have her hand print on both cheeks and loads of practice dodging a flying slipper.

Yet, given the fact that dialing a rotary phone took extra time, they were heavy as hell, and took up way too much space for such an ugly item that needed to be out in full view, I miss them.  I miss the whole concept of using a phone to talk to someone, not punch in abbreviated words and emoticons that can be misconstrued or ignored. You spent time dialing out seven to ten digits, you waited for a person to answer, and sometimes had to ask to speak to the person you were calling because the phone was a family item, not something tucked into an ass pocket of your jeans. Phones had heft and felt important in your hand or tucked between your ear and corresponding shoulder. I actually have a hard time using my cell phone for actual phone calls outside of the bluetooth feature. Cellular phones are too small to press to your ear appropriately and often slip and result in a whole lot of "what" and "I didn't catch that, what did you say" instead of a smoothly flowing conversation. God forbid you want to do the shoulder tuck and free your hands up to multi-task.  Be prepared to drop that phone over and over till you get disgusted and either end the call or stop getting anything productive done. Yeah, that's a fucking laugh riot.

You know what else I miss? Public pay phones, the old school kind. Not only do I miss that type of pay phone, the kind that took a quarter, you made your call, and if it went over the time limit you could pop a nickel in and keep talking...but I miss having loads of them available to me. Before cell phones, you could still be out and about and make a call if you needed. Pay phones were on every corner back in Queens. If you were out and wanted to meet up with a friend, you could walk to the nearest pay phone and give them a ring.   Those were also the days when we were actually out and about.  We walked to the mall or the movie theater. We took a bus or subway when we wanted to go further than our own neighborhood. And we called our friends on the pay phone so they could come and do all this with us.  We didn't drive to the ice cream store that was three blocks away and text our friends a photo of the cone instead of inviting them to come along. Antisocial fucking zombies, that's what we are now.

There were other kinds of phones that existed when I was a child.  Driving along a highway, you could find emergency call boxes staggered by the sides of the road. Those were the days, my friends. If you had a flat tire or worse, you walked to one of those handy-dandy call boxes, lifted the receiver, spoke to the person on the other end, and asked for help. Then you had to wait...and wait. Why did we do this? Because cell phones hadn't been invented yet, and we were dependent on the kindness of strangers for assistance.  We couldn't just pick up our iPhone and text our mom, brother, or BFF and ask them to come get us. Nope, you stayed by your car and waited for the police, tow truck, ambulance, or all three to show up. Horrifying, huh? Calling AAA from your cell wasn't an option.
Yes, back in the day, we talked to people.  We talked to friends, family, and strangers. We picked up heavy assed phones and dialed numbers, which did require us to remember phone numbers because we couldn't program them into a monstrous rotary phone. For those who had bad memories, there were address books. Some of them were so cute, and you just couldn't wait to get home and transfer all your friends' phone numbers and addresses into the new book.  Rainbows, hearts, stars, clowns, whatever your thing, there was an adorable address book for you. Some of us used colorful pens, while others who were more cautious used pencils. But all of us enjoyed using them.  Who the fuck has them anymore?  Aside from me? We meet someone and we just program their info into our cell phones.  Now we don't even need to know their phone number or really use it ever again. We hit contacts, find their name, and tap it. End. Of. Story. No wonder there is a widespread lack of intelligence, I've found another contributing factor. No need to memorize a phone number anymore, and certainly not many of them. We aren't using our brains...and some just don't have them anyway.
Where has the time gone, and why can't some things just stay the same? If it ain't broke, don't fix it.  Isn't that the saying?  Why doesn't anyone follow it? Everyone wants the newest, latest, and greatest.  We lack appreciation for what we already have as we are constantly looking towards the next upgrade. How many of you utilized all your iPhone 4S had to offer, all the bells, whistles, and settings before you ordered your new iPhone 5? I just got iOS 6.0 and I am still learning how to use all of the fun shit. I have no interest in the new iPhone, I love the one I have...we are still getting to know each other. Everything is a toy, a gadget, a thing.  It holds no value. No one keeps anything for very long. Much like friends and relationships, all disposable, all just a placeholder while we look for the next best thing. Let me tell you this, I am not a thing. I'm a motherfucking person, and I will not be treated like yesterday's newspaper. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

I miss the good old days, before tech dependency became a disorder

Longing for the days before technology took over my life, I sit here at my laptop bemoaning its restart to perform necessary updates.  This put me completely off schedule, and I have shit to do. Because I couldn't possibly have grabbed a pad and pen and started actually writing this blog.  Oh hell no. God forbid I have to put ink on paper. What a gross inconvenience! Never in my life did I dream I'd say something so fucking ridiculous. I used to love to write, keeping journals, writing stories and poems, making lists, writing letters to friends and family.  Ladies, how many of you remember altering and tweaking your handwriting over the years, especially as a pre-teen? Swoops and loops, hearts and circles, and cute smileys were all a part of my handwriting repertoire at some point. My printing went through what could now be described as font changes over the years. By the time I was in my early 20s, I was printing in all caps and I thought it looked cool!
These days, nobody bothers to buy pretty stationery and pens that write in just the right shade of blue and smoothly glide across the page as you pour your heart out in a weekly letter to the best friend who lives in another state. I'm lucky to get actual paper cards for my birthday because most people think it's enough to post on my goddamn Facebook wall or shoot me a text on my iPhone. Newsflash fuckers, I like cards!  I still send them to you, and yes, I take great care and time choosing one that I feel suits YOU. When did it become too much effort to purchase, address, and mail a card to someone?  Do friends and family mean that little to you? We are only worth a quick text on the fly? Christ on the cross. The only time I get any volume of cards is during Christmas time, and let me tell you, that number has decreased significantly over the years...and so has my Christmas card list. Fuck me? Fuck you.
The mere fact that sending something via the United States Postal Service is now referred to as snail mail, speaks volumes about the society we've become. Aside from my odd animal loving daughter, who truly likes snails, they are vastly unloved. They are slimy, unattractive, dirty and icky.  By the same token, something that travels in an envelope with a stamp in the upper right-hand corner is equally repulsive? This is the beginning of the end. Who didn't look forward to a post card from a traveling relative? Can you honestly say you didn't have a pen pal as a child? How can you NOT enjoy having something arrive addressed to only you that you get to open up like a shiny wrapped gift on Christmas morning? What the fuck is wrong with us? It takes time, effort, emotion, and a sincere desire to communicate with someone when you place pen to paper and inscribe words to express yourself. We are devoid of feeling, heartless bastards.

So, when I felt utterly lost without the keyboard of my laptop earlier this afternoon, I recalled pounding away on my old Underwood Olivetti that used to be my Uncle Frankie's, and how much I enjoyed the actual act of typing. The loud clicks my fingers produced with every letter, the zzzziiiipppp zzzhhhhiiingggg sound when I pushed the carriage release lever to move to the next line, and joy I felt when I sounded oh-so-professional as I motored through another paper for school. Even a mistake held its own brand of fun, when else could you use correction paper? Sliding that small white sheet of paper with the chalky white correction substance on the back between the keys and the paper and slamming the incorrect key on it to annihilate the error was a powerful experience!  Kids today are missing out on great stuff.
While we are on the topic of me banging away on my old school typewriter, let's dive into why I was using it. Research papers, essays, and generally important documents for school. How did I do that?  What means was used to gather this crucial information to be later typed on my cambridge blue typewriter? That would be a combination of my Funk and Wagnalls encyclopedia set and the Maspeth Library's vast collection of BOOKS. Yes, books, with pages and pages of printed material containing all kinds of fascinating information awaiting perusal. Pulling the card catalog open armed with a small square of paper and what would be considered a mini-golf sized pencil today, you flipped through card after card, searching for pertinent information, jotting down the all-important numbers of classification.  It was then that you got to really do some legwork, strolling up and down the stacks, surrounded by the scent of old paper and ink, attempting to locate those treasured and much-needed books.
Today, Wikipedia has all but replaced real research techniques.  People actually believe they are researching a topic when they "Google" it. A small child can type something into a search box and hit the ENTER key. It takes someone with at least a basic level of intelligence to walk into a library and find all that information on their own.  Computers have made us soft and lazy. We Google, copy and paste, type out our rough drafts instead of writing them out on sheets and sheets of looseleaf paper to be typed up after we edited it by hand with a red pencil.  This generation has Microsoft Word to edit their papers, Grammarly.com, and a whole host of other online assistants to do the job we used to do all by ourselves. What's so hard about the way we did things? Why do kids have to have everything at their fingertips? Can't they work for results like we did, or are they actually LESS enterprising, less industrious, less creative, and dare I say it, less intelligent than we were 30-something years ago?
What would make me happy, you ask? I would love to bring back the good old days of letter-writing and flipping though the pages of a well-worn book to seek information. The elation we all used to feel when we ran to the mailbox to see if there was anything in it for us, excluding the bills we all now dread. Although, really, many of us choose the paperless billing option anyway, so the dread factor has been greatly reduced in recent years. The heady, intoxicating smell of an old book and feel of its smooth, time-softened paper as you gently turn the pages, reading real printed ink. Even the crack of the spine as you open a brand new book for the first time, making it yours and breathing in that "new book" smell. Words jumping off the page, pulling you in to a new adventure, to another time, or place.
Instant gratification, over-scheduling our lives, placing ourselves before anyone else and stifling the urge to actually connect with another human being...these things are contributing to the downfall of our society and quite frankly make me want to cry. There are way more douchebags and ass clowns surrounding me in 2012 than there ever were in the first 20 years of my life, giving me daily reasons to write to you.  If you want to lose the feeling of face-to-face human connection, the warmth of a bear hug, the feeling of creating something handwritten with your own fingers and a pen that can bring a smile to another person's face, the mental vacation that a book can provide for you, and just that basic "I did it myself" feeling...go right ahead. I'm going to continue sending cards and letters and filling my bookshelves with actual books that I happily read every chance I get. Am I excited about what the future holds if this is the direction we are heading now? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Keep your little snot rocket home or why there are wellness rules at school

As I sit here, blowing my nose for the 45th time today, the taste of DayQuil lingering on my lips, my brain swimming in a pool of snot, writing to you, I feel like stabbing you in the throat. Why?  Because you are the parent of a small child.  As such, you are quite aware of their tendency to carry more germs than the doorknob of a public bathroom. Yet, for some unexplained reason, you have no trouble leaving them in someone else's care when they are clearly on death's door. I realize you think that you are very important and your job is your life. The inflated opinion you have of yourself is evident every time you leave your child in day care when you are not at work and don't really need to. I've never been summoned by Starbucks to show up immediately, adults only.  Nordstrom has never called me to demand that I attend a shopping excursion with my besties. But they obviously do this to you, right?
Those reasons and the fact that you perform neurosurgery on an on-call basis are why you choose to drop your child off at school, green slime dripping down their face, coughing up thick goo, and looking like a zombie. I'm assuming that you didn't notice it when you were getting them ready this morning.  Very hard to see technicolor snot when you are helping them brush their teeth, right? Being two feet from their face isn't close enough to get coughed on, splattered with spewed mucus. I must be mistaken. The thing is, you do know. You are so aware of how ill they are, you've made the pilgrimage to Walgreens, purchased the cold medicine, the Tylenol, and administered the appropriate dosage to disguise most of the symptoms.
Guess what, douchecanoe, as a parent and a teacher, I can tell when you've done that. Not only is it physically obvious, but you didn't count on a very crucial detail.  Kids are honest to a fault.  They rat your ass out the second you leave the building. "Mommy gave me the pink medicine after breakfast! I had toast and butter and a banana..." Pink medicine translates to Amoxicillan for those in the know. That would mean your kid has some form of bacterial infection that likely causes a fever.  I'll bet you gave them the red medicine, too.  Maybe the orange one if the fever was really high.  In case you weren't aware, your child ratted you out on that, too. Red=Tylenol, Orange=Motrin. Yes, we know these little details. So, in three hours when the rainbow of liquid curatives wears off, and your child crashes like a ton of bricks, we'll have expected it.
When someone from your child's school calls you, after they've crashed and burned, don't question them like they have nothing better to do than lie to you. We don't call a parent unless it is serious enough to warrant a phone call.  We realize you are at work, or the mall, or whatever is more important than your child. Trust me, we hate to interrupt your day, but when we do call, answer the goddamn phone. The numbers you put on the emergency list should be working phone numbers of all those nearby and able to pick up at a moment's notice. This includes YOU, mom and dad.  Don't get huffy and start asking if they have a fever, how high is it, can't they just lie down somewhere, or are you sure they are sick enough to go home.  After your child has hurled chunks on the carpeting, spiked a raging fever, and is covered in mucus, we are fairly confident that they are, indeed, ill and need to get the fuck out of here.

Here's what you either don't realize or don't give a shit about. When you subject an entire class of children to your very sick, unable to cover his coughs and sneezes, jamming his fingers up his nose and touching everything in sight, child, you've basically told me that you want 20-something others to get just as sick.  What I hear, is that you even want ME to catch all those nasty ass germs, get sick as hell, and bring those germs home to my family, where I can then share them and infect my husband and daughter.  That IS your intent, isn't it? As long as you aren't put out in any way, I wouldn't want you to have to actually take responsibility for your own child.
Last year, my daughter had mono. Right when school started, sick as a freaking dog, high fevers, blood work, hepatitis, and just godawful malaise. She was immune-compromised and none of you knew that. See, it doesn't matter whether or not you knew, what matters is that you wouldn't have cared if you did. I had to make sure I didn't bring your kid's jungle funk home with me. The way you should handle sickness is assume everyone is immune-compromised and keep the germs as far away as possible. You don't know what is going on in someone else's house, but you should be compassionate enough to care. Your kid is important to you, she is your world.  Surprise, so is mine. And I'd ram a shiv through eye and into your brain if I knew you were the one that got her so sick.
If you make the decision to have children, be very aware that they are your responsibility first, and that when they are ill, it is on you to care for them. Other children do not deserve to suffer for your lack of parenting skills or absence of basic consideration for the rest of the world. Don't expect that teachers are best suited to deal with your snotting, hacking child.  Their pediatrician agrees with me. They need to be home, in bed, snuggled up to a favorite doll, not in school, dripping boogers down the front of their shirt. Am I happy that you've ruined another fucking weekend for me?  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Parental Pissing Contests, or school projects these days

Guilty. My kid may be a high school senior now, but she went through elementary and middle school like everyone else. And throughout those years, there were some ridiculous-ass assignments sent home with children way too young to actually do them, and not smart enough to understand. Things requiring power tools, hot glue guns, and an engineering degree. When I was in school, we had projects, too.  But I don't recall needing help from both parents and an architect.  Asking for a shoe box and maybe some odds and ends that could be found in our home was the extent of parental involvement back in those days. If I needed leaves and moss for a science project, I had to wander the neighborhood on my own armed with a paper bag and my eyeballs.
Never did I need my mom to drive me to three different craft stores to even begin to attempt a project.  For my own daughter, I've gone to Michaels, JoAnn, Target, and Home Depot.  This was for one project.  Over the years, these stores have gotten more of my money than I can begin to add up. It was particularly offensive in the younger years when she attended Catholic school.  I was already paying tuition and now her teachers wanted me to go out and spend more on wood, clay, paint, dowels, fabric, felt, poster board, styrofoam, and fuck knows what else.  Were they even thinking as they brainstormed the idea for this project?  Did they think to bounce it off of someone else before they handed it over to the kids, who promptly handed the supply list to their parents? The parents, who just got home from work, have already completed their schooling and have no desire to redo fourth grade.
One assignment in particular sticks in my head after all these years.  Third grade they had Mrs. P.,  a wonderful teacher.  I had to say that first, lest you get the impression I had no respect for the woman. She was a fantastic teacher in all other respects.  The kids loved her, she inspired a love of learning that most of the kids took with them and have to this day. They learned more than what you find in books from her and I will always be grateful for that.  BUT, this project was abso-fucking-lutely insane! This was the one that required an engineering degree and a Home Depot charge card. When I saw it, I could only shake my head. When my husband, who praise the baby Jesus, HAS an engineering degree, saw it, his eyes lit up like Times Square at night.
What she would have done without his help, I'll never know. Based on simple machines, this project required you to incorporate ALL the types of simple machines to create something.  Something that used all of these machines to function. For those not familiar with third grade science, simple machines are the lever, inclined plane, wheel and axle, wedge, screw, and pulley. All pretty basic on their own, if the assignment had stated make small individual items utilizing these machines, it would have been child-appropriate.  No, you had to make them all work together. She had eight year old children attempting to make a Rube Goldberg-like contraption. Was she high the night she dreamed this up?
Crap, I am assuming most of you are smart enough to know what one of Rube Goldberg's inventions looked like.  Hell, I'm probably shitting up a rope thinking half of you know who HE is.  Here's an example of how his mind worked.  A complex answer to a simple question.

An entire Saturday, countless amount of dollars, some help from the two kids who were supposed to actually DO the project, and almost no help from the dad of the other girl, this bad boy was completed and in full working order.  It looked fucking amazing. Now, I am sure you are saying to yourself, "What have the children learned if you did the work?" You'd be 150% correct if your answer was, "Absolutely nothing." Well, that's not totally accurate. They learned that in order to get an unappealing and difficult job done, you must delegate tasks to those more suited.  Maybe they also figured out that most of these projects are a fucking joke and not really meant to teach them anything they haven't already gone over in class, done for homework, and will be tested on...oh, and that there were more curse words than they were aware of BEFORE the actual project started. 

Believe me, most children are more than aware of their limited capabilities when it comes to these assignments.  They also know that most parents won't hand over the table saw to them with a smile. And all parents resent the shit out of the teachers by the end of the year when they've assigned more asinine crap for us to do and force us to buy endless expensive supplies for shit we wind up doing for the kids, anyway. Perhaps some parents enjoy doing this stuff, turning in things that it would have been impossible for their kids to do, getting graded on their spectacular, Martha Stewart-rivaling creativity. Maybe they are trying to make up for their shitty report cards the first time around and are living out elementary school again through their children.

Here's my take on this...if you want my kid to learn anything, make the assignments age-appropriate.  Ask them to use things they find around the house or in the neighborhood. Don't expect working parents to spend their evenings and limited time with their children shopping in multiple stores, scouring the aisles for  expensive items to make something that they can't even do themselves. Kids don't need the extra stress, they are already over-booked with extra-curricular activities and sports and on the verge of little breakdowns.  Parents don't need more to do in their schedules, especially when it means reliving elementary school. Do your job in the classroom and it won't have to spill over on to me. Do you honestly think I have the time or patience for this shit?  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Don't cry poverty to me, you have champagne tastes with a beer pocketbook

Why do you do that? You waltz around with Coach purses, gel manicures, wearing True Religion jeans, driving a new car every two years...yet when I tell you I am going on vacation, you sigh sadly and claim you can't afford a vacation right now. Do I appear blind to you? It's abundantly clear that you aren't wearing jeans from six years ago like I am, you can easily afford a little getaway. When I hear you tell someone how you wish you could go to a concert with them but it costs way too much, I want to take your Louis Vuitton key chain and shove it down your lying throat. There's a vast difference between poor and cheap. I am one of the cheapest people you will ever meet, so I know.
As someone who uses L'Oreal Preference to color her own hair because I cannot fathom giving someone else $65 to do the same thing I can do in my own bathroom for $7.99 on sale, I completely understand the cheapo mentality.  Shopping at Ulta instead of Sephora for the same reason, and managing to paint my own nails more often than I visit Lily at her salon, I am the ultimate skinflint. The word clearance for me is like a day at the spa with wine and cheese for most others.  It's like winning the lottery, finding something on sale, marked down again, and you have a gift card jammed in your wallet just waiting to be spent. That's true elation...for me.  It's not that I can't afford the finer things, I can.  I cannot see forking over wads of my hard-earned cash for something I know I can get cheaper elsewhere or online.
Now we can discuss those other people.  You know at least one, or five of them. They complain about gas prices, posting nonsensical bullshit on Facebook about "Flinstoning" their cars if the prices go up any more.  Yet, they drive Mercedes Benzes!  Maybe you should trade that fancy set of tires in for a fucking Prius and shut your hole. I'm not claiming to drive a Honda Civic and wax poetic about how frugal I am on this front. We drive a Lexus RX 350 and Nissan Murano in this house. Some things are worth the extra scratch. However, you also won't hear me moaning and groaning about gas prices or posting all over FB and Twitter about how oil companies are raping my wallet. It is what it is, and no amount of snarky stati will change it.

Please bitch to me about how broke you are while you are on your way to yet another expensive dinner out. Whine about your empty wallet with a mouthful of caviar and a glass of wine in your meaty paw. You are so convincing. Have you ever heard of cooking? That room in your house with the fridge full of wine, champagne, and beer? You've been in there, haven't you? Starbucks is one of my favorite places to visit, but I'll be damned if I am going to spend $3.55 or more on every cup of joe that passes my lips. I make a mean pot of coffee and have cute mugs from which to drink the elixir of heaven. And as you go out to another lunch, keep your lament over how little is in your checking account in your head. I carry a lunchbox to work and make my own lunch every day.  My cooking is pretty slamming, leftovers make a fine and FREE lunch, dumbass. But that would put a wrench in your complaining, wouldn't it? Sucks balls.
Your very young children have their own iPads and iPhones, and wouldn't dream of not having the latest and greatest video game consoles and coolest theme parties. Tell me again how hard it is to make ends meet.  Spoiling the shit out of your spawn and buying them everything their little hearts desire is bad enough. Bewailing your financial status while texting your 3rd grader on their smartphone, makes you look like even more of a dim bulb. As if you weren't already. Christ on the cross, do you even hear yourself or do the words fall out of your gaping hole without your consent? Kids don't need tons of things, they need time and attention.  There's where you should be giving till it hurts, bitchass.
My mom used to say some people cried poverty with a loaf of bread under their arm. I never fully understood it until I was an adult.  Now, surrounded by all these people who just left the very pricey bakery, I totally comprehend what she was telling me.  You people are fucking ridiculous. Buy all the shiny, sparkly, brand-spanking-new, top-of-the-line shit you can possibly fit in your refinanced times 3 house. Eat at all the finest restaurants rather than actually treating your children to a home-cooked meal, I'm sure they'll thank you for the great memories you haven't made. Pamper the shit out of yourself on the outside.  That is what matters right?  Leaving a HOT corpse behind for your family to admire.  But for Christ's holy sake, don't fucking bleat on and on to me about how little money you have. I'm pretty good at math, and I can add in my head. Don't expect me to believe you are impoverished while toting around that Louis Vuitton purse in your very regularly manicured hands. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Pajamas at the supermarket...is it so hard to get dressed?

The other day while walking across the parking lot at Lucky's, my family and I all noticed this guy at pretty much the same time.  An older dude decked out in his red plaid pajama bottoms, matching red t-shirt, red socks, and slip-ons.  My daughter and I laughed out loud and then composed ourselves enough to just snicker.  Sadly, I couldn't contain myself for long, and started laughing so hard, I had tears streaming down my face. The only way for me to stop was to run through the store after him and snap his photo using my iPhone. Immature, maybe.  Mean, probably. Entertaining, hell yes! The main reason I did it was for all of you.  I wanted to share my laughter with you. Wasn't that generous of me?  My husband thought it wasn't very nice of me, but really, do you care? Didn't think so.  You want to see the fashion fuck up, too!
It's not just pajamas that have made their way out in public.  Truly, I can almost understand wearing pajama bottoms all day long. They are comfortable as all hell. Some are awfully damned cute and could possibly pass for pants. Others, and you know the ones, the kitty-cat, cupcake, lollipop, rainbow kind? Those should never leave your house. Men, the brightly colored, obviously pajama-plaid, same rule applies. In reality, all nightwear should stay home. I don't want to see something you are likely to be going commando while wearing. Ladies, you know why.  And men, freeballing may feel good, but we can see your twig and giggleberries when you do.  It's fucking gross. Dangling junk is never attractive.

Varying forms of dance/workout wear should stay indoors and in their appropriate settings. Strolling into Starbucks wearing yoga pants and a sports bra is just nasty. Many reasons, but certain ones come to mind more vividly. Yoga pants without a long top look atrocious on almost everyone but dancers. Usually they not only have the bodies to sport such an outfit, but they also know the proper undergarment to wear WITH the skin tight pants. They've had years of practice avoiding VPL and camel toe. You are not only bulging in all the wrong places, but your vag may as well have a flashing neon sign on it saying, "MOOSE KNUCKLE ALERT, AVERT YOUR GAZE!" Sports bras are meant for under your workout wear.  They aren't a type of shirt and shouldn't be used as one. The women who wear them as such are also usually either flat-chested or require something more industrial-strength to haul up the water bottles they call tits. Wear a friggin t-shirt.
In the summer, we all love spending time at the pool. Nothing is more relaxing than lounging poolside, drink in hand, good book open, and a gentle breeze floating over your body. I get that. I can relate to running out of your favorite beverage and the need to run to the store to replenish the supply.  Throwing on a pair of shorts and a tank top appears to be a thing of the past these days. No longer do we care about being in the public eye. This is why I have seen ladies pushing shopping carts wearing see-through tiny sarongs over their barely-there bikinis. If you are someone who can wear a bikini and not have spill-over, bust-out, sparks shooting out from the thigh friction, or exposed crotch-fro...it may not be quite as offensive to the eye.  But no, the women doing this commit all of those crimes and more.  Blinding me and those around them, they strut around like fucking bunnies on the Playboy Ranch.  You bitches are killing me slowly.
Going back to workout wear, which I have no issue with if you are going to or coming from the gym. What does make me laugh at you, is when you are wearing it while having no intention of breaking a sweat. Did you think the rest of us couldn't tell? When your hair is immaculately coiffed, you've applied your makeup with a trowel, are wearing tons of jewelry, and have taken a whore's bath in your favorite drugstore perfume, we know you are full of shit. Likely, you've never seen the inside of a gym or yoga studio. Of course, there are the even dumber shits who wear flip flops or sparkly sandals with the fancy workout gear solidifying my opinion that you are just a poser in track pants.  You can dress for comfort without looking stupid, and you look fucktarded.
Nobody is telling you to dress for the prom every damn day.  I certainly don't, why would I expect more from you? I'm not even saying you need to iron or sport business casual when you go to 7-11, because, Lord knows I've been known to throw on ripped jeans and an oversized A's sweatshirt to run errands. Hell, I may even wear that outfit to work, maybe substituting the torn jeans with ones sans air conditioning. Wear whatever makes you happy, I'm all for rocking a look.  My daughter is pierced and I have tattoos, I won't judge your form of expression.  I will point and laugh when you commit grotesque fashion faux pas in my line of vision.  I may even snap a pic with my phone if you make tears stream down my leg.  Ladies who have given birth, you know what I mean. All I am asking is that you take a look in the mirror BEFORE you leave the house. God gave you common sense...exercise it more often. Don't expect me to keep quiet when you don't. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

All the single ladies...and men, quit whining about the lack of fish in the sea!

The world we live in is vastly different than the one in which I grew up, I am painfully aware.  People have changed, and not for the better. Relationships have become disposable; we've become dependent upon technology and often, haven't even seen them in person before our first date; some are so self-focused they don't know how to make time or expend effort on someone else; and since chivalry is all but dead and women are so interested in being equals they've forgotten how to allow a man to hold the friggin door open...courtship has flown out the window.  No, this isn't the dating I remember at all.

Don't get me wrong, I am not saying we should rewind back to the 40s or 50s.  Women have made great strides since then and I'd hate to lose ground now. However, have we lost our fucking minds? It is not insulting when a man pulls out your chair for you.  Do you recognize politeness when you see it? Or are you too busy climbing the corporate ladder in your bitch suit to notice a man showing you some respect? Then you complain that men are selfish and boorish. Really?  Have you taken a look in the mirror?  The only thing you don't do in a manly fashion is scratch your nuts.
I am the first one to say "anything you can do, I can do better" to a man. With the exception of peeing standing up, we have tremendous capability of being fairly equal. Let's not forget a few basic facts, as well.  Women are capable of multi-tasking almost always successfully, men are not. Women have a much higher pain threshold than men. One of the many reasons men aren't built to give birth. We eat healthier, have higher IQs, are more hygienic, sport stronger immune systems because we have a secret weapon...estrogen, we live longer, and handle stress better even though you think we don't after witnessing a little PMS.  Those facts being stated, it is clear that we are at the very least equal to men, even if we still don't always make the same pay for the same work.  But that is another topic, and right now I am focused on this one.
Men, let me know if I am off-base here, but I think you are more afraid to approach a woman now than you were years ago.  You've been getting mixed signals and doors slammed on you and you have no idea why. While I understand the confusion, it doesn't make up for your dating flaws. Call when you say you will, text after a date to let her know you had a good time...don't make her wait.  These days, she will move on.  Pick up the goddamn tab at dinner, going Dutch does not impress a chick, trust me.  We may be ABLE to pay our own way, but if you asked us out, it is implied that you will be paying the bill. After you've been dating a while, the rules change and it is acceptable to split costs. Especially if you are getting serious, inevitably you will be splitting all your shit down the middle, anyway, why not start now?
Here is where you both go horribly wrong. Both men and women are guilty of this, so I won't specify anymore. There's a new belief system in effect, and it's called the, "They aren't good enough for me" philosophy. Single folks these days seem to find fault with everyone they meet. It's no joke, the standards are so high, who the hell actually can meet or exceed them?  People are rejected on the most ridiculous criteria.  A potential partner can be too short, too tall, too thin, too fat, too much hair, not enough.  And it get dumber.  Some partners have been tossed aside for having freckles or curly hair. Seriously? What the fuck makes you a supermodel? Imperfections define beauty, not detract from it. What makes us different is attractive, not our similarities. A scar, a mole, an oddly shaped birthmark catch the eye. They shouldn't make us wince.
Look in the mirror and look hard. Unless you just came back from a cover shoot for Vogue or GQ, chances are pretty good that you aren't perfect. I'll even venture a guess that you aren't even incredibly handsome or pretty.  You are probably average like the rest of the world. Get over yourself, butt wad.
Of course, others may not be quite as superficial and use different measures to gauge compatibility with a possible partner. These are no more fair than the looks-based ones, nor are the ones using these tests even up to par with their own standard. They want someone from a certain financial background, a certain geographical location, a particular college, a very specific career pool. Because a mechanic or construction worker can't make you laugh and hold you when you cry? Waitresses don't know how to dance or care for you when you are sick? Do you really think that if someone is a wealthy, pedigreed snot-rocket, it makes them a better husband or wife?  What it makes them is a spoiled fucking brat who is accustomed to the finer things in life and not having to wipe their own asses.  Are you willing to sell blood and semen to give them the life they expect?  Will you wipe their buttholes FOR them? Didn't think so.

Terminology like "diamond in the rough" is offensive to me. It means you are judging someone unfairly based on your perception of their situation, background, job, or even haircut. Until you get to know someone, really get to know them, hold off on your ignorant discrimination. There's a reason you are still single well into your forties, you know. The fact is, you are the asshole. Your unreasonably high standards, your judgmental attitude, your inflated opinion of yourself, and the mere issue of being unwilling to give a little instead of taking with both hands are many, yet not all of the obstacles preventing you from finding that special someone. Seriously consider pulling your fat head out of your ass and taking a good look at yourself. Unless you have just as much to offer as you are expecting to get in return, lower the fucking bar. Prince Charming, you're not. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Euphemisms suck. Man up and just say it!

I despise euphemisms.  They are weak, vague, and speak more about the person spouting them than they do about the actual subject. Slang is one thing, I happen to use it profusely. Candy-coated flowery terminology for the down and dirty doesn't suit me at all, and it doesn't do much for you either. Perhaps if you are at work, they are necessary. Trust me, when you work with a room filled with 3, 4, and 5 year olds, you get awfully creative with vocabulary. Spelling out words works for quick little blurbs, but really, creative license works far better, especially when you are trying to be descriptive. Naturally, I've become quite adept at manipulating the English language having been in that world for thirteen years. Nobody can tell a bawdy story using creative substitutions quite like I can.
Let's talk about "adult entertainment" for a moment.  What exactly is considered entertainment and what constitutes the adult version of it? A child who can read will just believe that it means the stuff mommy and daddy watch after I go to bed.  Partially true. But really, is it just Weeds and Dexter-type shows? Sure, they have what is considered to be adult content, but are they adult entertainment? Nope.  Adult entertainment is what 15 year old Johnny watches on his computer when he wants to spank his monkey. Oops, another euphemism!  Johnny doesn't really have a monkey, does he? And if he did, would he really use capital punishment on an innocent animal?  Probably not. Let's face it, at 15, Johnny isn't an adult either, so this ridiculous euphemism makes absolutely no sense. Like most of them.
There are more alternate ways to say prostitute than are truly necessary.  What's wrong with hooker, or whore? Streetwalker can apply to any any pedestrian.  Anyone living in a city walks the streets to get where they are going at least half the time. I don't really think lady of the evening fits the job description at all. These women are not ladies and their job isn't time specific. One of my personal favorites is "escort" because I'm not quite sure these are the women you want on your arm at a corporate function. And as far as the term "working girl" goes, I don't believe that what they do represents the usual definition of work.  Correct me if I am wrong, but sex is a form of recreation, not mental gymnastics or heavy labor.
Of course, people don't take a piss or head to the head anymore. They visit the restroom. What the fuck makes it a RESTroom?  Did you grab a pillow and blanket on the way in? Is there piped in New Age music and incense burning? Can actual rest occur in a room where you do some of the most disgusting things you will do all day? Does the smell of shit put you in your peaceful place? To say you need to powder your nose is such an absolute lie!  Do you really think anyone fell for that as you excused yourself, stomach making inside fart noises as you back away from the table? Needing to sit on the throne, King Diarrhea? Draining the main vein, Sir Piss A Lot? Come on now, we all know where you are going, it's not a "powder room" unless you are going to shower first, and I'm positive you aren't seeing a man about a horse.  Unless you shit in the woods, the likelihood of meeting up with a large animal is slim to none. Call it like it is, go take a goddamn squirt, pinch a loaf, pee like a racehorse, but please don't park your breakfast or hose the porcelain.
Pregnancy has its own set of softer variations. Some like to say that a woman is "with child" but anytime I take my daughter with me anywhere I am WITH my child...but I sure as hell ain't pregnant! Being in the family way makes me think you are standing in front of a guy followed by his wife and kids.  What way is family? Knocked up makes me think of being beat into a gang.  Sounds more violent than giving birth is to your vag. Saying that a girl is in trouble...for what?  Did she break a window, run a red light, rob a bank? What exactly is she in trouble for, pregnancy isn't a crime. Telling me to look at someone's baby bump feels intrusive and a lot like I'm observing some kind of slowly growing tumor. Unless you are baker, don't tell me you have a bun in the oven. That's a living human being inside you, for Christ's sake, not a pastry.

Some of the best euphemisms are for death.  I know I am not supposed to be entertained by the dead, but jeez Louise, these are funny! Bought the farm is a favorite of mine.  If you buy a farm, doesn't that just make you a farmer?  Maybe to me that is a fate worse than death, but farmers work hard, they certainly can't be compared with a corpse. Airports have arrivals and departures, so if a person is departed, did their plane just take off? I've been to Vegas more times than I can count, I know how to cash in my chips, and I know that I walk away with money when I do.  No one has tried to kill me at the cash window, so how can that term really apply? What the fuck is with people? Asleep with Jesus.  I just found that one on the internet and I think I kind of like it.  Although, that could easily apply to all the old men in church on Sunday. Yet, they wake up in time for Communion and to leave. So, nope, they aren't dead yet, either. Shitting the bed is a fantastic term for death. Eventually, your body does lose control and all sorts of fun stuff happens, like shitting the bed, should you be in bed and dead when that stage of death occurs. So let's keep that one, use it freely.  But let's lose "kicking the bucket " because the worst that could happen should you kick a bucket is you break a toe or two, and since I've broken many of mine, I can assure you that you don't die as a result.
How about we all make a pact to just say what the fuck we mean? I don't want to have to wade through all of your verbiage to get to the meat of the matter. Just tell me the details, the way they were intended to be told.  Use the proper terminology, and we will get along just fine. I have neither the time nor the patience for your candy-coated, Leave it to Beaver vocabulary. Remember where I am from, realize blunt is always better, and get to the fucking point.  If you say someone is taking a dirt nap, will I laugh?  Of course, it's goddamn funny.  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Hypochondria alert! You aren't that sick, man the fuck up.

We've all had colds in our lifetimes. I think it's safe to say that we have all experienced a fever or two. I'll go out on a limb and say everyone has had a headache at least once. Maybe I'm pushing the envelope a little too far, but I will assert that we've all had to use a band aid, too. Yes, we all survived childhood and beyond.  Nobody died from a paper cut. Pulled muscles aren't contagious. Mosquito bites aren't cause to stay home from work. Most cramps are just that, cramps, not a deadly disease.  Why am I stating the obvious? Because I can and because I believe there are many who actually require this information. Many who, if given the opportunity, will milk these things for days and use them as excuses for not functioning like the rest of us. To those guilty of these heinous offenses, you can suck my ass.
I have to bite my tongue every time someone gets a headache and needs three days off to recuperate.  Unless it's a migraine, I don't even want to know about it. Take Tylenol, or stronger if you are lucky enough to have it, and move your ass. If I can function with one of my brain seizing, three day migraines, you can get off the couch and wash a dish. All too often I see people rubbing their temples and moaning aloud, seeking my sympathy. Not gonna happen, fuckwad.  Until you've experienced the intense, knife-like pain that wraps around one side of your head, makes one eye unable to fully open, causes your jaw to ache, turns your stomach upside-down, and turns the sound of a whisper into an ear-piercing shriek, you haven't had a real headache. Excuse me for my lack of concern, here's two Advil, shut your cakehole.
Colds are caused by viruses not the weather. That was a PSA for all of you who still make your child bundle up and don't allow them to play outside in the winter for fear of getting gravely ill. Also, since I grew up in NY, where snow is a common occurrence and the wind chill factor bringing the temperature down to below zero happens every winter, I have first-hand knowledge that being chilly doesn't kill you. Actually, thanks to my CPR/First Aid instructor, Rhonda, I can tell you with all confidence that germs can't survive in the freezing cold. This should tell you that your kids are better off playing outside in the winter, than being cooped up inside with your nasty germs. Back on topic, colds suck, I don't deny that. They don't debilitate. Treat the symptoms, and get on with your life. Leaving the symptoms untreated can lead to pneumonia, I learned that the hard way last February. But, a little bit of snot is not insurmountable.  You can drive a car, pour yourself a cup of coffee, and throw in a load of laundry. I promise you won't die.

If you have a fever, stay home. You are contagious and your germs aren't welcome in my body. Keep your shit to yourself. Most schools have a "no return until 24 hours fever-free" policy for a reason. Unless you have allowed your body to successfully fight off whatever it is trying to kill when it spikes a fever, you are still a walking disease. This is usually not cause to go racing to your doctor, clogging up their waiting room and using up an appointment spot that someone who actually needs a doctor's care would have used. Practice at-home triage. Unless your fever is lasting more than 3 days, put the phone down and leave the appointments open for the truly sick. You must be the same person I saw sitting in Urgent Care with a fucking hangnail.  Next time, ask me for help.  I'll rip it right out for you, no co-pay necessary.  Your scream of agony will be payment enough.
Everyone has pulled a muscle or had a backache.  It hurts like hell, I know. But really, unless you caused this pain competing in the Olympics or working in construction, I'm pretty sure an OTC NSAID will do the trick and allow you to join me at work. So unfeeling, so cold. Yup. I have scoliosis, so backaches are a way of life for me. Some days are worse than others, like today, and usually I blame old age, take some Aleve and do my job.  Yes, I may move more slowly, but I'm not sitting on my ass or asking for the day off so I can cry in my pillow. The S shaped curves in my spine are a part of me, and I do what I want when I want. Lifting heavy boxes, moving furniture, walking long distances, and carrying my own groceries up the stairs.  In 26 years, my back has only laid me up twice.  Think about it the next time you want to cry to me about your aches and pains.

Oh no, you have a skeeter bite?  I'm so sorry to hear it.  Are you allergic to them like my daughter? Does the site swell up like a giant, red skin mountain? Has your elbow ever ballooned to twice its normal size after being bitten?  No?  Didn't think so. Guess it ain't that bad, now is it? Being itchy blows chunks, I totally agree. But really, whining incessantly about it while scratching yourself like a flea-ridden dog is taking it a step too far. Having a flair for the dramatic is great when telling a story, it sucks moose balls when you are complaining about something minor. Know the difference. I do, and I can help remind you by punching you in the throat if you'd like.
Of course, there are real allergies, and the made-up, I'm really just paranoid kind. To revisit my class from Saturday, some people have such serious peanut allergies that just being in the room with peanuts can cause severe anaphylactic shock and require being stabbed with an EpiPen. Scary shit. I hope I never have to do it, but I will should the need arise. Then there are the "I've never given my child peanuts because I fear any kind of reaction, even a rash scares the beJesus out of me, so I will just say he's allergic to them anyway" allergies. This type makes me want to shove a heaping tablespoon of peanut butter into the mouth of the one with fake allergy, screaming, "See, you stupid bitch!  He lives, he lives! Now put your tit away and let him drink cow's milk, you filthy pig."
One of my favorites was the mom of a child who clearly liked bandages with cartoon characters on them, and was told that the ones from school "bothered" him. Right.  Latex allergies suck, and yes, my daughter has one. She found out in a particularly enjoyable way. We ignored the red marks band aids left on her skin, chalking it up to being sensitive. OK, so the marks looked like raw meat and we were fucktarded about it. Fast forward to she is ten years old, and needs braces. Not just the basics, nope.  Bring on the rubber bands!  Required to stretch them in unattractive and odd directions, she was told she needed to use them all day every day, and to bring them with her everywhere just in case one snapped or she ate and needed fresh ones. Imagine our horror when she wore them for an extended period and her mouth and lips swelled up so badly, she looked like she had the shit beaten out of her. That's a latex allergy.
Allow me to remind you, for every ache, pain, stuffy nose, skinned knee, and hemorrhoid...there is most definitely at least one person out there who has it way worse than you.  The reason you aren't aware is they've not uttered a word of complaint.  You haven't give them the opportunity, nor do I truly believe they would, anyway. Cancer, Parkinson's, heart disease, diabetes, leukemia, or MS just to name a few. People in my family, people in yours. Suffering silently every day, yet going about their lives with great gusto and enthusiasm.  People have real debilitating diseases and painful disorders and live normal lives. Why can't you? Is that paper cut so painful it has clouded your ability to use common sense?  Don't look to me for sympathy, my heart aches for those in my family who are really ailing. Don't even ask for a tissue. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Keep your shitty opinion to yourself...9/11 affects ALL Americans

Eleven years ago today, our freedom was ripped right out from under our feet.  Hate-filled terrorists for whom life holds no value, hijacked and flew planes with no intention of ever landing, of ever surviving themselves.  The actual attacks resulted in the deaths of 2,996 people. The FDNY lost 340 firefighters, a chaplain, and two paramedics. The NYPD lost 23 officers, while the Port Authority Police Department lost 37. Eight EMTs and and paramedics from private emergency services were killed. Weeks later, the death toll more than doubled to over 6,000. This act took the lives of the innocent in the name of a higher power.  But these people are more than just statistics.

These people were mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, grandmas, grandpas, husbands, wives, friends, and co-workers.  And they left behind broken hearts and empty spaces that can never be filled. This day deserves to be memorialized. We are more than entitled to a moment of silence, flags flown at half mast, and people feeling a little more patriotic than usual.  A reminder of what we lost that day, the memory of those we lost, and sadness for the pain of those left behind. If I want to post a photo of the American flag and an old NY City skyline pic, I am entitled to express myself in whatever way works for me.  If I want to wax poetic about never forgetting, I have every right.
As a native New Yorker, I do feel this a bit more strongly than maybe someone in the Midwest, and I understand that.  They may not have a husband who worked in the World Financial Center and traveled by subway everyday, exited at the WTC and walked to his building. They may not feel the relief of having moved out west five years prior to the terrorist attacks that leveled both towers of the WTC.  Some may not feel the guilt resulting from feeling relieved about having moved.  Maybe they don't have friends who were directly affected by the attacks, losing relatives and friends to this senseless act.  I respect that because I also know, that even though you don't have as close a connection to the scene of the crime, you are an American, and you feel the same horror that I do.

Most of you, that is. I've noticed recently that there is a growing number of folks who have decided to place limits on how long a person is entitled to mourn, how many years is appropriate for memorializing the day our country was attacked by terrorists, how and when it is fitting to be grateful to the first responders, NYPD, FDNY, EMTs, and all the other heroes who gave their lives to help others that day, and just how patriotic we are all supposed to be. Who the fuck died and left you boss? I do not disagree that we should always be thankful to the everyday heroes who stay up all night so we can sleep safely, who leave their families at home to protect ours, and who risk their lives without hesitation to save the lives of others.
How DARE you bitch and moan about another 9/11 memorial celebration? Who are you to decide that enough is enough? Here's a suggestion, stay off of Facebook, don't watch the news, or read a newspaper one day a year. You won't have to SUFFER through any more supposed forced patriotism or empty sentiments reminding us to never forget.  I wouldn't want you to be put out in any way. I know how hard it is to scroll past all the bullshit that bugs you to get the really important stuff, like who had their nails done today and where. Who the fuck asked for your opinion on the subject, anyway? In some countries, you'd have your fingers chopped off for posting your complaints about something like this. Maybe we need to take better notes.
I have another suggestion, you can get the fuck out of my country and don't let the door hit you on your fat ass on the way out. Love this country or leave. The last thing we need is a bunch of whiners who haven't had enough hardships or loss telling the rest of us how to deal with it. Clearly you haven't experienced tragedy or real pain in your charmed lifetime. Praise the baby Jesus, you lucky bastard. Some of us have experienced enough for you and a few others, so I guess you'd call that cosmic balance.  I call it totally fucking unfair. Perception is colored by experience. When you've had none, I suppose your perception of what happened eleven years ago is vastly different than mine.
If you think it's ok to celebrate Memorial Day, Pearl Harbor Day, and your birthday...then what do you have against remembering 9/11 every year with solemn respect?  In whatever way is comforting and appropriate to another American? Otherwise, don't expect me to wish you a happy birthday next year, it's just another day, and seriously, how many goddamn years is enough for you? Or do you only celebrate American holidays that give you the day off from work? That's patriotism to you? Christ would fall off the cross if he only knew your twisted rationale regarding respect and honoring other human beings. I know you make ME sick to my stomach.
I've always had a live and let live philosophy.  Do whatever makes you happy as long as it doesn't hurt someone else. Worship who you want, or not at all. Skin color and sexual preference matters not, character shines through and is the basis by which I judge. But, have a negative opinion about how a country chooses to remember innocent people who died in a terrorist attack...berate those who pay their respects to those left behind by flying a flag only once per year...mock those of us who choose to block the pain out but once a year and allow ourselves to remember briefly...and my philosophy changes slightly. When the color of your character is tainted by disrespect, you don't deserve my respect at all or the respect of your fellow Americans. I'll tell you what we tell the children in our classroom.  We all have mean thoughts sometimes, but they stay in your head. And now I'll tell you one more thing, shut the fuck up, keep your poisonous opinions to yourself or don't expect the rest of us to sit quietly and idly by.  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Stop sugar-coating it!

"He was a nice man, a quiet man" and "I really can't believe this.  He was so quiet and kept to himself" are two of my all-time favorite quotes that can be heard on the news any time there's a reporter at the house of an alleged killer.  How is it that they are all nice, quiet men?  Either you had almost no contact with Mr. Bludgeon-Man or you are quite possibly the worst judge of character on Earth. I'm voting for worst judge on Earth. Everyone comes into contact with their next-door neighbor once in a while.  Usually, there's at least some eye-contact and a smile.  Most will even say "hello" before going inside or to their car. No warning bells went off for you every time he put his head down, smiling to himself, and muttering while he was walking up his driveway? Quiet is one thing, maniacal is definitely another. And frighteningly enough for your poor family, you can't discern between the two.  Someone doesn't need to walk around swinging a tire iron and laughing to look crazy.  But, in your case, they have to for you to notice that something is a little off.
Seems to me that all too many people have taken to sugar-coating their lives instead of calling it like they see it.  Maybe life is too overwhelming for the veals of today. It's easier to pop those rose-colored glasses on, adopt the "glass is half-full" mentality, and ignore anything unpleasant. You are a fucking flaming idiot and shouldn't be allowed to share my oxygen supply. How did you live this long? I am sitting here wondering if you also need reminders to breathe. Do you? The original theme song to Weeds is now playing in my head as I envision life through your obviously incredibly fucktarded eyes. For those of you lacking a refined sense of humor and interest in the darker side of life, the original theme song is Little Boxes, and my mental image of your life looks a little something like the town of Agrestic, which is featured in the video. You Brady Bunch motherfuck.
Have you taken a look around at the world we live in or do you put your head down just like your serial killer neighbor? I'm not telling you to live in abject fear and that you should piss yourself every time you leave the house. I'm encouraging more awareness of the world around you. Telling your children that everyone is good and kind and that they are perfectly safe, all while driving them up the block instead of letting them walk alone is sending mixed messages.  Not only that, but face it, you are raising walking, breathing targets for all sorts of predators.  Just like you.  So unaware of reality, stupid fucking smile pasted to your face, saying "how are you" like you give two shits to everyone you pass on the street...you almost deserve to have the shiny, happy beaten the fuck out of you.

Look at statistics if you need a dose of reality. There were 4.2 homicides per 100,000 US residents in 2010, with 52% of them being committed by someone with whom the victim was acquainted. If this doesn't open your eyes, I don't know what will. This means that the nice, quiet neighbor could be part of 2012's statistics. Maybe it has something to do with being raised in Queens and having to get myself around, alone, using public transportation that made me a little more aware of my surroundings than most of you lily-white suburb dwellers. City living breeds street smarts than many just don't have, and should.  Now don't accuse me of thinking I'm a badass.  I KNOW I am. You are a panty-waist. Now that we have our titles in place, we can discuss more important things.
Like why you choose to ignore potentially upsetting things and leave yourself wide open for things like theft and crime. People around here leave doors unlocked, windows wide the fuck open, and don't think twice. What planet did you fall from right before you landed on this one? When I left NY and moved out to sunny California, we moved into a relatively safe, family-friendly neighborhood. At first we lived in a gated apartment complex, and yet I never felt completely safe. Then, three years later we bought our own place.  And what was one of the first things we did to the new house? You guessed it, we added a second lock to the front door and a jimmy proof door guard. Would you believe people actually asked why?!?! How much faith do YOU have in humanity?  At the time, I had a four year child and there was no way in hell I was taking any chances.
When I was about nine or so, some crazy bitch looking for my next door neighbor made her way into our building and pushed our apartment door open, heading straight for my mom's bedroom. It was fairly early in the morning, so we were both still sleeping. Thank God my mom was even ballsier than I, and sat straight up and asked the psycho who they were and what were they doing in our apartment.  All this while the woman held a pair of scissors in her hand, poised to stab my mom. Luckily, her cool demeanor diffused a potentially deadly situation, while I slept, unaware in my bed. Now, ask me again why I would add more locks to my front door and keep them locked all the goddamn time? Surely you jest.
By this time, many of you are calling me paranoid and shaking your heads at me.  Some are pointing their fingers and expounding on the evils that lie on the dirty, filthy, unsafe streets of NY. A few may actually fear ME at this point. That part is wise, I'm very unstable. However, my way of thinking is safe, secure, and doesn't take a whole lot of effort.  What is does require is a functioning brain and a IQ above idiot. This is where you probably fall short. You keep smiling at strangers and leaving your door wide the fuck open. I'll watch as you become a statistic, all while sitting on my couch, with the door bolted shut. Will I ever relent and become like you?  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Facebook Meltdowns...who needs reality TV?

When I first discovered the joy that is Facebook, it was like a walk down memory lane for me.  People I hadn't seen in over a decade or more were right there!  I could reunite with old BFFs, catch up on lost time, see current photos, notice that I look way better and way younger.  It was like a playground for adults and I was lining up to be first on the twistie slide, dammit. Oh was it fun for a while.  Reconnecting with old friends, picking up where we left off, sharing laughs again...this was the most amazing concept and I wanted to shake Mark Zuckerberg's hand, motherfucking genius little shit.  It was like being back in high school without the zits and the drama. Or so I thought.
For a fairly decent amount of time, there was just a flood of reuniting and joking around. Inevitably, it became a place to post pics, new and old, discuss a variety of topics, create typed sing-a-longs, share a funny, have Tourette's with great abandon.  Oh wait, that last part was just me. Still, it was a really cool place to be online to just kick back and have fun. Until it got personal. I don't mean the kind of personal where someone decides to post a pic of the beer they are presently drinking, because I do love beer and don't mind vicariously partaking in your beverage. I don't even mean the gratuitous self-aggrandizing, photoshopped, self-portraits posted daily by many.  Although, they did drive me out of my fucking skull, I could deal with it. Even the vacation photos were ok, sharing a sunset or two is lovely.
Here's where it went completely down the shitter. When certain people decided that Facebook was cheaper than a good therapist, and started posting every goddamn problem they were having, every fight, and every time they got a sniffle.  If it had stopped there, maybe it could have been contained and easier to digest.  But it didn't stop there. The "why me" folks were joined by the "look at me" people who brought along the "bipolar disorder rocks" freaks. The next thing I knew, it was total chaos. Online Disneyland for grown ups became internet therapy for losers. One breakdown after the other, status updates looked more like the results of misfired synapses that create someone's private journal entries...in a sanitarium.

At first, you want to be compassionate.  Years ago these people were your friends, and part of you still cares.  You comment sympathetically with each status explosion, hoping your words will soothe the inner turmoil they are obviously suffering. This puts a bit of a rain cloud over Facebook and it's not much fun for you.  Not wanting to seem insensitive, you keep reading the new stati and notice a pattern.  The same person who was bemoaning their lot in life, bitching about their rotten, cheating husband has now posted a photo of the two of them frolicking on the beach yesterday. Um, ok.  The other person who felt that everyone in her life was out to get her and that she couldn't trust anyone just posted a status about Girls' Night Out and what a blast she and her bitches had at the club.  The same bitches who were stabbing her in the back and heart simultaneously three days ago.  Yeah.
Now you are beginning to wonder why the fuck you wanted to reconnect with these ass clowns.  Maybe there was a legitimate reason aside from time and distance that you stopped being in contact with them.  Some subconscious part of you knew they were a raging basket case and you slowly backed away, heading for safer ground. Sadly, the birth of Facebook made you long for the good old days when we were all partying together, not realizing how much mental fucking illness was running rampant in the hallways of our schools.
I'm happy, I'm sad, I'm ecstatic, I'm forlorn.  I'm the Queen of Facebook.  You all don't deserve me, I'm taking a FB break to focus on me, myself, and I. I'm baaaaaack, and I know you missed me because you all were begging me to come back.  Giggle, giggle, snort. This is where I have to step away from the laptop and grab a drink because I cannot deal with the absolute insanity being flung at me from all directions without the aid of alcohol.  Shaking my head and wondering why the hell we were ever friends in the first place, I sit back down and begin Spring cleaning my friend list. I've gone through that process approximately 8 times.  Does that tell you anything?
This all goes back to keeping your personal life to yourself.  The over share is becoming all too common and I am sure I am not alone in mocking you when I read that your knickers are in a twist about yet another very personal problem you are having.  When you post gory details in all their dysfunctional glory, we snicker, we point at the screen, we even message each other to make sure we all saw and laughed together. Soon to be the laughingstock of FB, you rant on and on, wildly swinging back and forth between a contented, happy cow and a raging, angry bull.  And we laugh, how we laugh at your expense. Part of me wants to beg you to stop.  But the other part of me, and she usually wins, wants you to publicly implode so she can watch.  Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Let's talk religion and other taboo subjects!

When I was a child, I was always told there were verboten topics that were not discussed in polite company.  Politics, religion, and sex were the big three.  For years, I'd watch family gatherings, parties, dinners, and noticed that they really were NOT discussed. Even then, I thought it was so ridiculous, given the fact that my opinions on everything else were encouraged as a means for growth and learning.  Yet, these biggies were totally taboo.  Decades later, higher education under my belt, and scads of life experience, I have a whole new perspective on the subject.  Fuck that noise!  Opinions are like assholes, everyone's got one and most of them stink like death.  However, because we all have them, we should be entitled to share them freely when the need strikes.
Just because I have told you in the past that your opinions don't matter to me, doesn't mean they don't matter at all.  I have no need for your input into my life, you haven't a fucking clue how to handle me and my issues.  Plus, I don't find you particularly intelligent, so anything you say will be discounted as such.  BUT, there are some that value your insight and you should feel comfortable imparting this wisdom on them, regardless of the topic.  They are your friends for a reason, although I'm not certain what that reason could possibly be.  You clearly share common values and beliefs.  Hell, even if you don't share many, you respect each other enough to tolerate the differences.  Right?!?!
Then let's get rolling, shall we? Hmm, I really enjoy politics, so let's start there.  Way back when we were all 18 and were registering to vote for the first time, we had to make a very important decision.  Would we be Democrats or Republicans?  Back then it seemed like a life-altering choice. We didn't realize that we could change party lines over and over throughout the years.  Not to mention, your affiliation only really affects your voting in primary elections.  After that, it's a fucking free for all. Our voting decisions should be based upon who we believe to be the better candidate. Doing the research, and learning about these folks to determine who has similar beliefs and who has a platform that claims to fix what we think is broken in our country. None of that has to do with political party.
Yes, you can say that Republicans are conservative and Democrats are liberal. And really, there's nothing like gross generalizations when choosing the next President of the United States. Voting strictly along party lines is for feeble-minded dumbshits.  All this tells me is that you can't be bothered to do your homework and learn a little something about the candidates.  It's called making an informed decision, but you opted out of that, didn't you?  In all likelihood, you are the same political affiliation as your parents were, and you didn't question that, either.  You just followed tradition blindly.  Yet, the US government allows you to participate in the voting process that determines who will run our country. Holy shit, what a fucking oversight! This scares the living shit out of me.
Religion is a great topic!  People avoid it like the plague, but not me.  No siree BOB!  I'm diving in and splashing around like a toddler wearing big Thomas the Tank floaties.  What religion do you believe in, if any? Scared yet? Most people are...they fear rejection based on the answer to that simple question.  Do you really hand out a questionnaire to potential friends and base your compatibility on the answer to it? Sick motherfucker. I grew up Roman Catholic. I've since lapsed, meaning I don't really go to church anymore.  It doesn't change what I believe. I have some friends who attended Catholic schools with me and have since converted to Judaism.  More power to them!  They've found something to believe in that gives them comfort and meaning. Excellent. I have Muslim friends, Lutherans (although I really don't get the concept), Protestant friends...and it doesn't matter to me one iota.
But, ask an atheist how they feel about those of us who have faith in something they don't understand and see their reaction.  That's all it is, really.  They don't have the capability to understand believing what you cannot see or touch or measure. Here's the main difference between them and those of us who are a part of an organized religion...we don't care about the fact that they aren't. Flip that coin and ask them what their opinion of us is and you'll get a whole host of insults about our intelligence, shared links about science proving the Bible wrong, and just an ass load of pooh poohing our beliefs.  Glad to hear that atheism has made you a much nicer human being. I've not tried to prove anything to you. Notice I haven't knocked on your door selling salvation, have I?  Because I don't care what you do.
That's a whole other ball of wax, isn't it?  The fucking Jehovah's Witnesses and Jews for Jesus that insist on knocking at my door, always at an inopportune moment, trying to convert me.  My daughter likes to yell, "Hail Satan!" at them, and usually scares the pants off of at least half of them. I've told them that I'm Wiccan and about to perform a ritual sacrifice, and that usually ends the conversation.  But try to be honest with them and tell one of these douchebags that I am Roman Catholic, and thank you, but no.  This opens up a whole discussion about how their beliefs are better.  Better? What the fuck? How can a belief be better? It's just like an opinion, it's neither right nor wrong. Guess nobody told them.  I'll have to just revert back to telling them I'm a witch and boiling the neighbor's kitten and can they get back to me another time.
SEX. Loaded word, means more than one thing and causes many to snicker when it is spoken out loud. Why? Well, starting with the fact that we all are still teenagers under the skin and the same things that made us laugh in 10th grade still send us into fits. But, what really sets people off about this word, is the vastly differing opinions about what is right or wrong concerning it. What could possibly be wrong? Sex could just mean gender. Male or female. Nothing touchy about that. Maybe you are talking about the process of human reproduction.  Yeah, you wouldn't be here without it, so don't blush like a fucking schoolgirl. Or, perhaps we are referring to sexual orientation and preferences.  Mother of Mercy, she went there!!!  Yes, I did.

Nothing makes me sicker than people who discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation. I don't judge your bedroom antics, don't stand in judgement of someone else's.  It's none of your goddamn business who someone loves.  It doesn't affect you.  I am all for healthy, mutually respectful, loving relationships.  I don't care which permutation of gender combination it may be, as long as they are happy, rock on. All you are doing when you bash someone on that basis is waving a huge flag that tells us you are lacking confidence in your own sexuality and that your are a gigantic mouth breathing window licker. Don't you dare use religion to back your small-minded slanderous opinions either.  No religion supports being cruel to another human being. Cock-knocker!
Fetishes are a-ok with me, too.  You want a whipping, step right up.  Enjoy feet?  Suck a toe or two. Feel like wearing the clothing of the opposite sex?  Own that shit and rock your look. As long as you aren't involving the innocent in your fantasy life, I support you 110%. If you are into children or animals, I'll have to rip your head off and shit down your neckhole. Otherwise, do what makes you happy and fuck anyone who has the balls to cluck disapprovingly. Their lack of acceptance means two things to me.  Either they aren't getting any, or they are just unhappy people who want company. They can both kiss my white ass.
So, if you have opinions, share them...just not with me, I didn't ask you for them.  If I had, you'd know it.  No topic should be taboo.  Keeping things under wraps only causes undue stress and leads to speculation and misinformation. Let's create safe forums to discuss what's really important.  We feel completely free to gossip and bash others publicly and behind the their backs.  Why can't we talk about crucial shit as easily? I, for one, am going to start voicing my stand on a variety of topics.  Like I haven't already!  Now, it's time for you to join me.  I promise I won't criticize you for sharing.  Are you friggin kidding me right now???