Wah, I'm an Ass Today Because I Went to Catholic School!

Please tell me you don't use this excuse in your everyday life. Via the beautiful land of social media it has come to my attention that people who attended Parochial schools back in the 70's are damaged goods. That's right, they are scarred for life and haven't recovered yet. So much so, that even today, they are forced to create groups for themselves where they can publicly whine and grouse about all the supposed horrors that took place in their classrooms. A place they can humiliate their old teachers, if they are still alive...otherwise I'm sure the surviving families appreciate the "homage" being spread far and wide across the internet. The vicious accusations and the criticisms for those who still send their children to Catholic schools...from people who haven't grown up since 5th grade! If you are still stuck back at ten years old, perhaps therapy would be more helpful than maligning a bunch of dead nuns?

Before you jump ugly with me and remind me of all the crap the sisters put us through back in the day, let me assure you, I remember them just as well as you do. I would never deny the fact that they did smack our asses and yell at us. Nuns in the 70's were cranky old bitches who were allowed to teach small children, of this I am painfully aware. Shiny-faced squat elderly broads who delighted in making young children quake in fear, these were the women who taught at my school. We truly believed they were sadistic little penguins put on earth to torture us. I'll go out on a limb and say this was probably true for the entire nation back in those days. Perhaps even worse for those who lived in the Bible Belt, where things aren't so different right now. That being the case, I can sort of understand wanting to put them on blast for the way they treated us. To shout it from the rooftops as a cautionary tale, shielding the innocent from the alleged abuse we suffered at the hands of the evil nuns.

Here's where it falls flat, in case you are too young to have had this experience...all teachers in the 70's used corporal punishment. Let me narrow the playing field a bit and say all teachers in the tri-state area and in the bible belt, including much of the southeast, hit unruly, disrespectful students. Did you catch those last three words? The part where I lay some of the blame on the children? Back then, teachers were allowed to discipline exactly as our parents would have in the same situations had they caught us behaving that way. As a matter of fact, many parents went down to the schools and let the teachers know, without hesitation, that they could smack their out-of-control, mouthy little shits because they wouldn't be there to do it themselves, and assured them that if they had done so that day, the child could expect a similar punishment when they got home, too. Because back in the 70's, parents didn't jump to their children's defense and make excuses for their poor behavior, they held them completely accountable and trusted that the teachers were doing their jobs in disciplining the out of control and rude.

Back in the 70's, parents actually parented. They didn't allow children to talk back and sass them, cursing like drunken sailors and threatening to call CPS. Back then, the police would drag a delinquent child off the street corner and back home to get a spanking from their parents. There were no laws against disciplining children back then. Certainly you couldn't beat the shit out of your child, nor should anyone. This is not what I am talking about. But a whack on the ass to jolt some sense and respect back into a brat, is not abuse. It's called tough love, baby, get over it. And that's what the nuns were doing, too. They were trying to knock some of the rocks out of the heads of those children who may have wound up in juvie had they continued behaving like little douche nozzles. Adults wanted the best for us, and at times may have gone about it in some weird ass ways, but the intent was honorable. Again, I say, a smack here and there isn't abusive. Neither is an elevated voice telling you exactly what you've done wrong, that you won't be doing it again, and why if you do, your life is going to go down the toilet.

Another thing the whiners are forgetting, is that we gave as good as we got. The nuns may have hit us, but we weren't the darling little, sweet little angels the bitching pussies would have you believe. I remember shooting spitballs across the classroom, aiming for the spot right next to where Sister Mary Heartburn was writing on the blackboard. My friends and I would make the oddest sounds right when she would turn her back, making her jump and spin around screaming for the culprit to come forward. We'd just sit and snicker. Can any of you recall the fun activity we used to engage in...you know, waiting until the nun was writing a long line of shit on the board, silence enveloping the room, and shoving the gigantic textbook off the side of your desk in unison with the rest of the class, creating a sonic boom??? Oh I do. It was fun...it was also rude, disruptive, and disrespectful. But we did it anyway, didn't we? There was a teacher who had a particularly poisonous way of speaking, and could have been considered racist, verbally abusive, and plain rude. But guess what else, she used to demand her water cup be refilled by the children...who would leave the room with her cup, fill it at the water fountain, and spit in it before returning it to her. Little angels, huh?

The point is, none of us are any the worse for the wear after attending Catholic school in the 70's. We have hysterical stories to share with our children and our public school friends. We can laugh at how easy the kids in Catholic schools have it now. But what we really came away with, is a sense of discipline, respect for elders and authority, really neatly organized notebooks, and the ability to memorize large amounts of information and spit it back...which as you may have experienced, helped you out in college and later on in life. So, instead of whining about how mean the nuns were in St. Holy Jehosephat's Catholic Academy for the Angelic, and blaming them for what a huge lame ass weenie you are today all over Facebook, Twitter, and anywhere else you can type your sob story...thank your lucky stars that someone stopped you from becoming worse than you already are today. You are probably the little shit that would have wound up in jail. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Let's Talk Turkey

With Thanksgiving a memory, we are being thrust into the anus of the Christmas season with brute force. Why? Because this is a very short Christmas season and retailers want us to hurry the fuck up and shop. And shop most of you will. This is not to say I won't be shopping, we have many small children in our circle who only know the holiday to mean tearing open gifts on Christmas morning. Really, it IS for the children. The look on their faces when evidence that Santa has made his yearly visit is worth all the effort and tiptoeing around after midnight, taking bites out of cookies and pouring out milk that's been sitting out for hours. I have no issue with this portion of the holiday program whatsoever.

Here's what chafes my hide...people who race out after shoving vast amounts of turkey into their faceholes to go wait on ungodly long lines at big box stores to buy crap in the hopes that the recipient of the crap thinks they are a fucking hero. What they are, what they represent is all that is wrong with the world today. Commercialism has grabbed us by the nutsack and tightened its grip so firmly that we are powerless to its demands. Kids who have iPads want the new one this year; kids who have cell phones want them upgraded; wives who have Tiffany jewelry want more! Seriously, this is out of control and nobody can see it. Gimme, gimme, gimme...hands outstretched, pouty faces, and the demands don't stop. Why do we kowtow to this materialistic shit every year?

I'll tell you what the problem is...we teach our kids that things matter. Things, stuff, acquisitions, possessions. Emphasis being placed on the gift and not the giver. I want, I need, give me. Fuck you. No, really, fuck you. Is that the world you are trying to create for our children and theirs in the future? Christ on a crutch, your priorities are beyond fucked. The thing is, you teach your children by example. Your constant shopping; buying; coveting the belongings of your friends; the race to catch up and go ahead with the bigger, better, faster version...sickening! To what end? In case no one ever told you, YOU CAN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU! That's not just the name of a play, it's a cold hard fact. The dead have no possessions. Your family rifles through the piles and boxes of crap, takes what they believe they deserve and the rest goes in the trash...unless your family is nice enough to donate it to charity. In which case, some other family gets your crap. Not how you pictured it, is it?

Allow me to assist you, to help you help yourself. Stop being such a materialistic douche bag! Remember what really matters...people, people matter. Create memories with your family, go out and do things, stay home and talk to each other, play with your kids. I'll let you in on a little secret, they won't remember anything you bought them. Sure, they'll remember their favorite doll or their first bike, but the mass quantity of shit you've wrapped and shoved under the gigantic trees each year will be but a blip in their memories. What they will recall fondly, look back upon with love...the time you spent with them. That's it, that's all...time. The fact that you stopped racing around doing shit for you and took a moment or two to really listen, to really hear what they had to say. The day you spent laughing so hard, your coffee shot out your nose holes...that's the day they will recount to their children, not the 80 foot pile of shit under the tree. Think about it. My memories of my mom, my daughter's memories of me will be of the TIME spent, not the cash. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

The Double Standard in the Media: Enough of the sexist bullshit!

In today's news, outcry over this commercial (seen at the bottom of this post), touting it as "offensive and disgusting" is one of the top stories on my news station. Are you fucking kidding me right now? When women wear next to nothing on many TV commercials and/or fellate their fingers while eating a goddamn burger, that isn't offensive? When the media stops objectifying women and the viewing public stops accepting it and enjoying it, then and only then can we be outraged about fully dressed men shaking their asses like bells to a Christmas song! These men are wearing more clothing in this commercial than the Victoria's Secret Angels who do nothing but flounce around and pose seductively like mindless whores.

By the way, Vicki's Secret,  who are you marketing to exactly? I buy my own bras since they have to actually fit my boobs...therefore requiring a regular fitting and actually trying them on in the store. 
Does Carl's Jr. think that men will eat more of their hamburgers if they see a woman licking the drippings off of her fingers as though they were a leaky schlong? Because on the flip side, they give us a lumberjack eating like a fucking slob, causing us to run for our Tide Stain Sticks from force of habit with our husbands who also eat like this poor schmo. And, it doesn't make me hungry or crave a burger in the least. 

When are the television media execs going to realize that women spend the most money after watching commercials and we hold the key to the family's bank account? Showing us scantily clad women acting like brainless skanks doesn't make us open our wallets and start forking over cash. I have an idea, entertain us with a memorable jingle that we are going to hum later on in the day. If you can't do that, if your level of creativity has sunk so low, then prove to us that your product is far superior to all the others on the market. We have brains and educations and would like to be treated like rational, thinking human beings. Can you give that a whirl? I know, just as doubtful as Santa finding his way down my chimney this Christmas. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

In the meantime, enjoy this hilarious commercial!!!

A grand start to our holiday season!!! 

Getting Old is NOT My Cup of Tea!!!

We're all getting older, day by day. Some of us more quickly than others. Looking in the mirror loses its appeal, unlike when we were in our prime and would turn toward any store front window that would reflect our image for our viewing pleasure. Now, I avoid those same windows. Who needs Macy's and their pointy-nippled anorexic mannequins reminding you of each and every flaw? Not me, no thank you. Wrinkles are just the icing on the cake. Visual deterioration can be masked, plumped, and serum-ed. Hell, for the brave and uber-vain, there's always Botox or plastic surgery. That's a route you won't find me taking in this lifetime, but if it's your thing, have at it. The art of disguising them has become my new talent. Those nasty little worry lines that's I've more than earned as a parent for 18 years, are easily camouflaged by all forms of bangs. Side bangs work if you aren't ready to commit to a full-on pin-up girl bang. Think about it, a slight change in your hairstyle can erase years...years, my friends! I am all over that shit like white on rice. Anything that keeps me miles away from anesthesia and scalpels is fucking A-ok in my book.

Gray hair can seriously suck the life out of a youthful-looking broad. Luckily for me, I only have about four...two on each temple. Be jealous if you need to, that's fine with me. I'm sure it's not the only thing you envy about me and others you encounter on a daily basis. That's your cross to bear, not mine. However, even having four gray hairs is too much for me. That's my personal appearance peeve. That and white trash roots. There's really no excuse for letting your hair age you prematurely. There are rows and rows of hair color in the stores, no need to spend a fortune, particularly if you are a cheap fucker like I am. This is not your mother's Miss Clairol, there are fancy, higher priced, better for your hair options now. Get on them and stop looking like a haggard old witch. Any improvement that can be done in the privacy of your own home and provide life-changing results in under thirty minutes is worth your effort, so get off your ass and make it happen.

The issue of boobs that need a forklift is not a pleasant one, but not insurmountable, either. Victoria's Secret provides a plethora of beautiful and sturdily uplifting brassieres for even us aging beauties. Those of us who had ta-tas that stood up on their own, proudly defying gravity and saluting the sun every morning...are now feeling the cruel pull of middle age boob-droop. That doesn't mean we have to put up with it! Go shopping, spend the $45, and get the ladies off your lap. While you're at it, remember, with droop comes the opportunity to not only shove them up...but together. That's right, cleavage! Work it, own it, and show it the fuck off. The last time I had decent cleavage before middle age was during pregnancy...over 18 years ago. I am due and am not going to let this ship pass me by before I get too old and it becomes tacky instead of sexy. Wrinkly cleave is a frightening sight in which I will not partake.

Beyond appearance, getting older has seriously unpleasant physical side effects that I'd rather not deal with, but am being forced to every morning. Yes, the random and frequent aches and pains. We can blame our mattresses and pillows for only so long before we must admit, it's not the padding in our beds but the less-than-lubricated, creaky old joints in our bodies that plague us. Becoming intimately acquainted with the merits of Tylenol and Advil is inevitable. Feeling like you can't stand straight or move your hands is unnecessary, drugs were invented to eradicate that kind of bullshit. Embrace them, they are your friends. I have and am not apologetic in the least. Call me an addict if you'd like, but I don't bitch and moan all day like you do. And you annoy the shit out of me.

Let's not forget the eyesight...or lack of youthful ability to see without doing the old broad stretch to see a fucking menu. Close up, distance, they are both starting to go and for fuck's sake, it's frustrating as hell. In the beginning of the decline it was manageable. Squint a little here, elongate the arm a bit there. All was swell. But when I seriously considered asking the closest person in the room to walk the reading material a few feet back so I could see it, I knew it was a losing battle. That and losing my ability to drive effectively at night. Independence is hard to maintain when you can't drive past 7pm. It kind of sucks balls, to be completely honest. So, I found myself at my annual eye exam explaining my vision difficulties to my optometrist to be told that at my age, at MY age, it was to be expected and how did I feel about progressives?!?! Holy shit! Progressives are for old people, why are you asking ME about them? Well, if you want to read and see far away and drive at night, you'll want one pair that does all that...you don't want multiple glasses, do you? Jeez, when you put it that way, do I have a choice? Good thing I look cute in glasses or I'd be squinting like a motherfuck.

Sweaters are great, but tell me why I now need one even in the summer time? I've become THAT person. Always cold, except for the random hot flash, I've now turned into one of those old ladies I used to laugh at when I was younger. Racing around the house to close windows my husband has left open yet again, wearing fuzzy socks in the house, and wrapping myself in a giant crocheted blanket in order to watch TV because I fear I'll freeze to death...this is my existence. Let me assure you, it's not all in my head. My skin is actually cold to the touch. So much so, my husband often tells me I'm dead but I just won't admit it. He's even been so kind as to offer to buy a shovel to make me a comfy resting spot. Admittedly, there are times I wonder if he may be right. But then I remind myself that I'm not THAT goddamn old! I prefer to blame it on my intermittent anemia. The uterine residents should be blamed here, not my advancing age. Yet, I know better. Nobody I know is getting any younger...nor am I. Some of us are just racing down that road to old age faster than others. One race I'd like to lose, thank you very much.

There are days I feel as though I am losing my mind. Not because I've gone crazy, but because I've walked into yet another room and forgotten why! My world has become a sea of yellow sticky notes, texts to myself, and other assorted forms of reminders so I can get through an average day. How on Earth did I become this person? I used to have an amazing memory...in school I didn't study, I memorized and got straight A's. So explain to me how this same person can't remember to turn off a light or put something back in the fridge. It's frustrating as hell and I simply don't have time to sit around holding my head, eyes closed tightly trying to remember basic shit. My long-term memory is still sharp as a tack, the short-term is slowly flying out the fucking window. Ask me about my childhood and I can regale you with story after story. Ask me what I had for breakfast and I have no friggin idea. Good times, good times.

Believe me, I am not complaining. Feeling this way, experiencing all the creaking and cracking, seeing the four gray hairs, working on disguising the wrinkles...all of those things means I've woken up and been given another day to enjoy. It means I am beating the odds, I am otherwise healthy and alive. Regardless of the "gifts" of the aging process, I'm still here and I can still kick your ass. Are some of these things annoying? Of course they are, who said they weren't? Do they slow me down? Here and there, naturally. Would I rather enjoy a few more years of youth? Of course, who wouldn't? But, the real question is, would I want to go back in time to grasp at those years? Fuck, no! I wouldn't be who I am without all of this and as I was once told, it sure beats the alternative. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Put it in Perspective, for Christ's Sake!

I've had it up to here with all the whining! Those of you who knew my mom know exactly where *here* is, those of you who didn't, sucks for you. so let's move forward. Everyone has a problem lately. My throat hurts; my shower wasn't hot enough; there was a line at Starbucks this morning; I'm too fat; I got my period; the cat threw up again; my husband forgot to take out the trash; my ass itches...these are the kinds of things plaguing Americans today. We hear it on the street, we see it on TV, we read it on social media. Life is so fucking hard. Yeah, it's rough. Waking up, going to work, making dinner, taking care of the kids, and falling asleep next to the person with whom you chose to spend the rest of your life. Damn, allow me to pass you the box of Kleenex and hold your hand. Your world sucks gritty donkey balls. If I sound sarcastic, congratulations on your ability to read my tone.

For those of you who had less than satisfactory showers, ask yourself if you'd have preferred taking a bum shower at the local gas station. Think that would have been warmer, more relaxing, and had a massage option? So, of course, I'm totally sorry your morning routine didn't meet your expectations. When my boiler broke and we took ice cold showers for three days until we were able to get someone to come fix it, I wasn't screaming from the rooftops about how miserable my life had become. Shit happens, I knew there was an end in sight and it wasn't worth my time or effort to bemoan it all fucking day long. It certainly wouldn't have repaired the damn thing. Yet, the second someone's shower head leaks or drain doesn't function properly, it becomes a media circus. Get a grip.

A long line at Starbucks? OH. MY. GOD. You actually had to wait for your venti four pump non-fat tuxedo mocha with the extra shot? Christ on a cracker, what is this world coming to? An extra five minutes has been sucked out of your oh so hectic day. I'd be furious...maybe you should write to someone. Hell, I'll help you compose a scathing letter to the CEO of Starbucks right now. Your time is precious, goddamn it. You have to race to Nordstroms before your Zumba class and get to your child's day care on time so you won't be charged a penny more. Priorities? Have any? I should begin by asking why someone who has nothing better to do than shop and work out has placed their child in day care? But that would open up a can of worms that you don't want to unleash. But what I really want to know, what really sticks in my craw...is the fact that you have no ability to experience delayed gratification. Yet, you expect children to wait without fussing. I feel sorry for the person with whom you currently making the beast with two backs.

"My ass is too fat." Trust me, if your ass is fat, chances are, there are many other body parts that have joined it in all its Rubenesque glory. Not that I am being critical in the least. I'd like to think that by now, you all know my opinion about weight and size. Rock the body you have and you'll always look fabulous. Dress it up with sexy clothes, slather it with expensive lotions, spritz it with beautiful perfume, and shake that curvy ass up and down the fucking street. However, if you are somewhat dissatisfied with the condition of your body, shut the fuck up about it and do something. Don't go on some ridiculous crash diet that you couldn't possibly maintain for more than a week without either passing out or alienating everyone around you because you've become positively demonic. For God's sake don't become that annoying gym rat that suddenly goes seven days a week, three times a day, and waxes poetic about the merits of spin class and Pilates. This is yet another thing that you will never continue for any length of time and will poison you for any further activity in the future. One bit of advice, it always works and alienates no one. PUT THE FORK DOWN. It's called portion control, try it.

Aw, crap. You got your period? Your uterus is working properly for yet another month? Dammit all to hell. A cramp, a twinge, a backache. Yeah, I get it. But please don't preach to this choir about how heavy your flow is and moan and groan about how many super tampons you've used. Until you have a uterus that is described by your very own Ob/GYN as a bouncy house of fibroids...and that children's ride that rests inside your body causes you to bleed through Ultra tampons and pee-pee pads and turns your bed into a crime scene...you've not had a bad period. We've discussed my issue before, so I won't belabor it. What I will tell you, is that every time you get your period...on time...it means your body is functioning correctly. Complaining about a working reproductive system seems almost bitchy. Think of the women who have bodies that betray them and their desire to have children. Their uterus doesn't work like yours, does it? Still want to complain?

The cat barfed, that's one of the most frequently utter sentences in my house. But you know what? I wouldn't trade my bulimic baby for anything in the world. Sometimes it's a hairball, sometimes it's her inability to exercise portion control and slow the fuck down. To me, it means that my little old lady is still alive and kicking! Instead of looking for shit to whine about, think of all the wonderful things your feline child gives you. Unconditional love, head butts, snuggles, loudly vibrating purrs at the sight of your face, company in the bathroom...can you really complain about someone who provides all that, unselfishly? And only asks that you feed, care for, scratch in all the right spots, and once in a while clean up a little puke? Come on, find your heart...if you have one.

Holy shit, your husband forgot to take out the trash? Maybe you should just beat him with a stick to teach him a lesson about responsibility? He came home from busting his ass at work all day, helped you finish dinner, set the table, played with the kids so you could watch your favorite show uninterrupted, and opened that stuck jar lid for you...yet he forgot one little thing and you spend the next day bashing him to anyone who will listen. Of course, you won't mention all the things he did do for you. It doesn't prove your point about what a lazy asshole he is and how he can't remember to do a simple task that you've asked him to do a million times. Couple of points I'd like you to ponder: you CHOSE him as your life partner, what does this say about you if he is an ass? The other point I'd like you consider, the question I'd like you to ask yourself is...does he hurt you? Does he hit you, twist your arm, pull your hair? Does he make you feel badly about yourself, scare you? If you can't answer yes to any of those...he's a good man and you are a ungrateful harpie.

Should your ass be itchy, there are creams for that. The real issue here, is that people today don't know how good they've got it. They don't appreciate what they have and who they have in their lives. As I think about my next phone call to my aunt to ask about my Godfather, uncle, second father...whatever name I assign him today...when I am calling her every night after work to ask if his condition has changed, if he has woken up and been lucid, if the doctors are offering any hope today, if the feeding tube surgically implanted in his stomach is working properly...I can't help but hate you and your First World problems. When I dread the sound of my cell phone ringing because it may be her and it may be the news I fear the most, and then I hear you whining about your kids fighting with each other or the price of gas these days...I want so badly to punch you in the throat, shake you until your brain beats around in your thick skull so hard that you have a concussion, and tell you what I really think of you and your *problems* once and for all.  So, the next time you feel a whine about to erupt from your lips, stop yourself. One day my restraint will fail. Feeling lucky? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

She's From NY...Ohhhhh.

What the fuck does that mean exactly? Those of you from any other state have undoubtedly said this in conversation with your friends at least once. Don't bother trying to deny it. Attempting to explain away something you don't understand or fear is more than slightly offensive. Are you trying to justify your own skewed opinions about a particular type of person who you assume is that way due to their state of origin? I'll wager that most of you spouting off about New Yorkers have never even stepped foot on a Manhattan sidewalk, never even hopped on a bus in Queens, or driven through Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Have you? I didn't think so. Yet you are certain you know us, inside and out. The way we speak, the way we dress, and the way we treat other people. Hell, I'm sure you think you could write a book.

Allow me to step right in and stop you from making a gigantic ass out of yourself in public one more time. You do realize how goddamn ridiculous you sound every time you drone on about what you believe to be facts...about people you've never met?! Even if you've had the privilege of meeting one of us, your opinion has already been set in stone, with no prior knowledge other than what you've watched on television or in the movies. Let me tell you something about Hollywood. Their perception of us is also a tad jacked up. This is not to say that they haven't a clue about our speech patterns or behaviors...some of the Hollywood bigwigs were actually born on the Right Coast. So, some do have a definite feel for us and the minutiae that makes us who we are. But, in general, they are trying to portray one side and one side only. The side that both intrigues and entertains you.

Are all NY Italians in the Mafia? God, no. But if you watch enough TV or film, you'd start to believe that it's a hardcore fact. Badabing, badaboom...whacking, being made, Consiglieres to right, Capos to the left. Men in the "waste management" business having basement meetings about who insulted "the family" and the proper course of action (who is whacking and how) and women tottering around on heels after them asking if they want baked ziti or stuffed shells tonight because they have to go buy more ri-gutt, while ignoring the fact that he was headed to his goumadas apartment, for which he pays the rent, for a nooner. Come on, seriously. I grew up a NY Italian and I don't recall anyone being in "waste management" in my family. We may have had ri-gutt (ricotta for those of you whiter than whites who don't understand bastardized dialects) in the fridge, but that didn't make us part of the *Family* that made the newspapers every so often.

While I am aware that our accents are different than yours, that doesn't make it bad or wrong. The way we pronounce most words can be considered more phonetically correct than some of the folks who hail from the Left Coast. That's right, it's an AH-range not OR-nge. Our accent is closer to British and therefore more proper than the rest of you boneheads. Clipped endings, absent "r" sounds...that's right, we are classy as fuck. Beyond that, I'd like to emphasize that just because our accent sounds a bit harsh, doesn't mean that we are an uneducated bunch of dumbasses. Some of the best doctors, lawyers, scientists...come from NY and boast the same accent as the rest of the residents. Now southern accents...those don't sound very bright, but that's a different topic altogether. My point is, our accent is just a minor part of who we are, just as your oddball way of speaking doesn't define you.

Moving on to a pet peeve of mine, our attitudes and manner of dealing with others. We are different, that's true. However, we are not inherently bad or mean. What we are is honest. Pulling no punches, not holding back unless absolutely necessary, never hiding behind a veil of insincerity...we are the most up-front and forthcoming people you will ever meet. Don't ask me if your outfit makes your ass look fat unless you really want to know. This honesty has been translated in some circles as mean and angry. Let me clarify, the truth isn't always pretty. If you can't handle it, don't ask. The next item I'd like to address regarding our demeanor is the fact that we are always angry or impatient. Blatantly untrue. We grew up in a city that moved quickly, time waited for no man, and we had to push to get a seat on the bus. Does this make us terrible people? No. It means we've learned to adapt to challenging situations that would flatten the rest of you on your asses and have you making an appointment with your doctor to increase your dosage of Xanax.

The way some of you portray us to friends, you'd think we were the meanest motherfucks on the planet. Don't tell me you've never lost your temper, screamed at someone, or said what was really on your mind with no filter present. You'd be lying through your teeth. The difference is when you do it, it's because you were pushed, backed up against a wall, or had enough of the bullshit. When I do it, it's simply because I'm from NY and that's just how we are...isn't that what you'd tell your husband over dinner? Yeah, makes perfect sense to try to prove that your opinion about people you don't know is correct by recounting one moment in time and using it to define us as a whole. Who's the asshole now? My daughter is still learning how to deal with people who think they can explain away one of her outbursts or unfiltered honesty by the aside, "She's from NY," and the other person acknowledging that disclaimer with a knowing, "Ohhhhh." It pisses her off...and instead of just realizing that they are ignorant and possibly jealous of her ability to handle things they cannot, she tends to prove their point. She's my kid...was there ever any doubt? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

She Said NO to Me!

This is the plaintive cry of today's children. "She said, 'NO' to me!" Indignantly stomping their little feet, crossing their pudgy arms across their chests and letting out screams that would curl your hair and having you call 911 thinking it was a medical emergency. Sweet baby Jesus! How dare that little fucker say no to you? Doesn't he know who he's talking to, that bastard?! I have a good mind to kick his ass from here to next Tuesday. Yeah, right. No is an essential part of life. Yet these kids today react violently when they actually hear it.  Why is that, you ask? I'll tell you why...their parents are giant pussies who are afraid to disappoint their little out-of-control angels. Parents fear being disciplinarians, making their children cry, having them, God forbid, say, "I hate you!" once or twice. Not realizing that they are setting these little shits up for failure, they cater to their every whim, bowing and scraping before their baby royals, and never letting them experience disappointment.

Life is full of disappointments, get over it. These assholes know that, they've all lived long enough to know that you can't always get what you want. Yet, they are teaching their kids that if they stomp hard enough and pout long enough, they actually can. Because that's all it takes. A little fussing and that toy, that ice cream cone, that puppy is all theirs. Sadly, this delusional way of thinking and behaving carries out into other parts of their lives. With other people who, frankly, don't love them quite as much as their doormat parents do. And this is where the issues begin. Without basic life skills, without the knowledge of how to interact appropriately with others, and without the ability to cope with disappointment, they thrust these semi-formed humans onto the rest of the world, sending them to school where the teachers have to attempt to undo all the damage these parents have done. And you know what? We don't appreciate the extra work. It's hard enough dealing with children of decent parents and their ups and downs, quirks and oddities, mood swings and bratty moments...but seriously, do you think we are miracle workers?

There's nothing like being in a store and listening to a child order a parent to buy them something, then hear the idiot parent try to reason with the child...which is only a stalling tactic because inevitably the little one wins. For some, all it takes is the sight of tears forming in their baby's eyes to reduce them to a bowl of mushy dumbassness. For others, they seem to delight in pushing it to an all-out tantrum, complete with screaming, sobbing, items being thrown, and either foot-stomping or rolling around on the floor. I say delight because at that point, you are involving everyone in the store around you. Now, instead of enjoying a little Target shopping and picking up a few cute items for my kitchen or bath, I am thrust into your mistakes. Your fuck-ups as a parent permeate the entire building and I am forced to share my Jedi Death Glare with you. Sometimes, not all, I will offer indirect parenting advice in the form of loud musings in your general direction. "Exactly who is the parent here?" and "Are you really reasoning with a 3 year old?" Some days, I've less patience and it turns into, "Grow some Goddamn balls!" I'm filled with suggestions, just ask me.

Again, this is why children today cannot fathom a reason for another child telling them NO when they ask for or demand something from them. They've never heard the word! Perhaps they simply don't know what it means, but they recognize that they don't like its connotations...they aren't getting the desired result. No is bad. No is evil. No is not bueno. No starts mini-riots on the playground...Lilliputian throwdowns. The ones who are fully aware of its meaning, yet still won't accept its use as it applies to them, somehow find it perfectly acceptable to fire it at other children...out of spite. I've seen it, so don't try to tell me that spite doesn't happen till middle school. If you really believe that, I have a lovely bridge to sell your clueless ass. These spoiled, indulged spawns of hell have the capacity for malice aforethought. Ask anyone who has seen a child pull a toy out of another child's hand and laugh manically while the injured party cries. I'm entitled to whatever my little heart desires and you, most certainly are not. Nice, huh?

Read carefully, oh ineffective parents of today, stop what you are doing! These brats are tomorrow's assholes, jerk-offs, bitches, back-stabbers, and verbally abusive shit heels. These little ill-mannered shits grow up to be someone's employee, boss, husband, or wife. The lessons you've ingrained into them will follow them for life. Treat people like shit, demand what you want, and have a fit when you don't get it. You've told them that the world owes them a favor for simply being alive. Is it any wonder the country is in the condition it is today? Now do you know why our government shut down? Seems like their mommies didn't tell them no, either. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Sometimes You Just Need to Rant

Some days are better than others, on that we can all agree. But when I go online to scan this blog and see that the last one was only partially published because Blogger was having issues last month which I tried to circumvent by copying and pasting the text after being told there was a problem saving it, there was a problem trying to preview it, and they were just having all sorts of fucking issues because why the hell not? Now I look like a buffoon who can't complete a thought. Which, as any of you who read my posts knows, is quite the opposite, as I do ramble on and on like a psychotic with a caffeine IV drip. With all the advances in technology and all the schools willing to teach you assholes how to maintain your websites, how the fuck is it that every day I encounter yet another site that is either down or experiencing technical difficulties?!?! I'm certain it has something to do with the fact that most people dealing with technology today haven't attended a four-year college, much less one that has Institute of Technology in their name. No, people get away with going to DeVry or ITT Tech for 18 months and get jobs making more than I do, knowing far less about computers than some preschoolers. That's what gets rewarded in our country, taking the lazy assed way out and not giving a flying fuck about a real education. Gives kids today no incentive, why bother?

Of course, that was just compounded by the response it took the fine folks at Michael Kors three days to compose to me. Three days in the making and they asked questions that were clearly answered in the original email to them. They even had the balls to ask for a photo, as though I hadn't sent three in the initial email! I'm sorry, but do you fuckers who work in customer service even read the first communication sent to you or do you just copy and paste the form letter given to you by your employer which is written to appease the masses but not address the actual customer personally and discuss the problem at hand? As I'm sure you can imagine, that first email was thorough, descriptive, and contained close-ups of the tearing and peeling leather loops on the straps. This didn't stop them from asking for those exact details again, along with the number from the plastic tag on the seam that proudly announced that my precious purse had been made in China!

Jesus H Christ, is everything made in China? What exactly is made in the USA these days besides assholes and morons? Everywhere I turn, someone is behaving like a total jackass. Every man for himself, fuck everyone. At least that's what I'm noticing. Doors being dropped on the person entering behind, carts being thrust in front of someone approaching a checkout line just to be first, bikes taking up half the road and being pedaled in the wrong direction, crotch rockets jetting in and out of car-jammed lanes on freeways, sexist burger commercials making eating like a slob sexy for women yet simply sloppy for men (Carl's Jr, you know to what I am referring), children's medicines coming in squeeze packs for sucking just like the pureed food packets that parents insist on giving children who are more than capable of using utensils...buffoons and fuckwads as far as the eye can see and beyond.

Speaking about buffoons, since when are people like Miley Cyrus let off the happy farm to infect our airwaves and vision? Not only can she NOT sing worth a shit, but good Lord, am I the only one who thinks she looks like an ugly boy? Women who shave their heads like that and aren't part of the punk scene, are screaming for attention because they are too heinous-looking to get it any other way. Some faces require a bit more coverage and camouflaging. This dumb shit was ridiculous as Hannah Montana, but young girls look up to trailer trash all the time, so she fit the bill for Disney. Now, she wants to break out of the "good girl" mold and look and act like a filthy, no-talent, whore. Well done, Miley. You've succeeded in humiliating yourself and further revealing that you are nothing but a Hollywood puppet, willing to do anything to be noticed. How about voice lessons and clothing that covers that sorry, flat, pasty white ass?

And why do bad things happen to good people while all the rotten, selfish, bitchy motherfucks seem to step in shit and have the luck of the Irish bestowed upon them on a daily basis. It just seems like the bigger the asshole, the better life they are allowed to enjoy. God forbid you are a basically good person who cares about your fellow man, puts the needs of others before your own, doesn't put an emphasis on material acquisitions, wouldn't dream of shoving any semblance of good fortune into the faces of those who may not be in your shoes, and has the common courtesy to show respect for all, even those who don't deserve it...you can be sure you'll be getting the shit end of any deal. You are the one who has a giant rain cloud hovering over your head. The Cunty McTwatstains of the world are the ones winning at the blackjack tables, getting raises for absolutely no reason except perhaps the ability to suck up better than the average Joe, getting knocked up while others who would kill for the honor of being a parent try over and over unsuccessfully, and living a life you can only envy because good goes unrewarded. Yeah, there's definitely something wrong with the world.

Am I in a foul mood? No, not really. Did I have a bad day? Nope, having a lovely morning, thanks for asking. Have I had a moment or two to think about a few things that have been getting under my fucking skin lately? You bet your sweet ass I have, and there is so much more stuck under there like a splinter jammed under a fingernail. Oh, you'll read about it...at great length because I shouldn't be the only one aware of how many things simply suck about the world in which we live. Remember, sharing is caring. Except when you have a cold, then sharing is completely fucked up and you should be shot on sight for not staying home and keeping your snot to yourself. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

My feet deserve better...Keds shouldn't make you bleed!

Part three in the saga of my summer of shitty customer service. I'm actually starting to believe that there's some conspiracy to keep me in a constant state of pissed off. As though I'm the enemy of all things retail. Guess what, fuckwads? I keep your asses in business. I spend money hand over fist when I like a product. Old Navy and Starbucks know this first-hand. When a company has great quality products, friendly sales staff, and a fair return policy...I will choose them above all the others. But fuck me over, and all bets are off. Boycotting a product or an entire line of products has been something I feel very comfortable doing. Not only boycotting, but making damn sure that everyone within earshot...and now with modern technology, everyone with semi-working eyeballs...knows how God-awful they are and why they shouldn't buy from that particular company. Yeah, I'm quite a bitch when burned.

Keds used to be my go to kicking around sneaker. Yes, sneaker, because I'm from the Right Coast and we don't refer to every pair of athletic shoe as a tennis shoe. They aren't all for TENNIS! Anyway, getting back on track. I loved Keds, I loved wearing them, shopping for them, having them in my closet. So comfortable and cute. I wore them with everything. They came in a variety of colors, which I did enjoy, but I always favored the white ones. They were lightweight, easy to pack for a trip. Perfect to wear while sightseeing. Hell, even when I was pregnant with my daughter and my feet ballooned up to giant, puffy blobs of bloated skin that supported the massive load that was my body...I bought a new pair of leather Keds and walked on what felt like clouds. Yeah, they were my favorite shoes.

Until now. During a recent Costco trip, I discovered they were selling ProKeds in a few cute colors and it excited me. I haven't bought those in years and I missed them. I walked back and forth in front of the display, wondering if I should dare. Should I, should I? I grabbed the navy pair in my size and threw them into the cart and decided to continue shopping while I made my decision. At only $19.99, they were a steal. Plus, I could have my cute and comfy Keds again. Why I stopped buying them, I really don't know. Maybe it was the move to the Left Coast and the newfound love for flip flops. Who knows, really. But opportunity threw itself at my feet and I was going to jump on it. I stopped to try them on. Just like I remembered. Fuck, they were so damn cute! I considered grabbing another color or two, but stopped myself.

Little did I know that by stopping myself from indulging in several colors, I'd be saving my feet from horrific damage and pain. So excited to wear them, I planned my next work outfit around the little beauties. Little, now that's a joke for those who know me. My feet are anything BUT little. But I digress. I wore them to work with the hopes that I'd finally have a day where I didn't come home with sore feet. What a lovely surprise when I could barely stand on them 3 hours into the day. I had nothing to change into, so I plodded on, in severe pain and agony. By the time I got home, I couldn't peel the rotten fuckers off fast enough. In six hours they went from my adorable little shoes to evil cockknockers. OH MY GOD! What happened to my toes? They shouldn't be that color. Or that huge. Barely able to step down on the carpet, I flung myself on to a chair and put my poor, pummeled feet up.

Determined to make it work, I stuffed the Keds to within an inch of their capacity and waited a week to wear them again. My toes were still sore by the time I was ready to un-stuff the shoes and attempt to wear them. But I loved them and wanted to be able to sport them all the time...just like I used to years ago. I put them on and set off to work, thinking that the painful feeling was just my sore toes and that if I wore the Keds all day, they'd make me feel better. I was so fucking wrong...and I'm never wrong, so it hurt on more than one level. This time the pain was so excruciating, I had to take them off in the car on the way home. I couldn't last another minute. When I got home I found out why. My pinkie toes were bruised and bleeding. What the fuck?!?! Wearing a pair of pointy stilettos does this shit, not a pair of goddamn Keds!

With teary eyes, I knew what had to be done. I wrote to Keds customer service and informed them of my experience. I wasn't mean, I was actually quite nice as I informed them about how much I loved their products...until now. I was hoping they would send me a half size larger because I stupidly thought that was the reason for my plight. They responded after a few days, which already put them on my shit list. This is the only job of customer service...to be in contact with the customers. It shouldn't take that long to compose an email.

Why I'll Never Buy Another Lexus...

Back in 2009, when our Ford Escape was costing more in repairs than it was worth, we began our search for a replacement vehicle. After a serious amount of research on my husband's part, because he likes that shit, and dealership visits complete with test drives, we decided that we wanted a Lexus. Yeah, I know, it sounds pretentious and snooty, but fuck you, that's what we wanted. A certified pre-owned Lexus RX350. A crossover SUV that drove like a luxury car, oh baby, that's what Mommy like. The dealer even let us take the car overnight! Holy fucking shit, who does that? Lexus, that's who. The fine folks at the very posh and customer service-oriented Lexus of Concord. Talk about sealing the deal. They knew exactly what they were doing, conniving, manipulative, snake oil sales motherfucks.

After having spent the entire day and early evening at the dealership haggling over the price and things we wanted thrown in, because at those prices, we were entitled to some-fucking-thing. Moving forward, we were thrown to the lions covered in pig's blood. Oh, I mean, we were sent into the finance asswad's office to finalize the contract and be talked into paying for every possible extra under the sun. Who wants paint chip coverage with extra gloss and shine? Me, me, me me!!! Unnecessary roadside assistance because you have AAA but it's so much fancier to say you have Lexus Roadside Assistance? Oh God, yes! I'll take it, where do I sign? Platinum Certified Extended Warranty on top of the warranty still on the fucking car that we could cancel at any time we figure out it was actually a gigantic waste of money? Damn right, I want it! Hand me that pen, you greasy thief! Signing every piece of paper that bastard slid across the table, we were exhausted but happy new owners of a 2007 Lexus RX350.

I'd be lying if I said we didn't enjoy every minute of driving that car. We cruised around, felt fancy, and spent a fortune on premium gas to fill that fuel whore every 5 or so days. Oh yeah, life was good. When we took the car in for service, we were treated like royalty. Bagels, donuts, coffee, tea, water, and a loaner car that was always newer and nicer than our current car. No shit, I know that part was to get us to trade up, but I loved every minute of borrowing from their fleet of lovely ladies. It was a smooth-riding, luxurious experience every time I planted my ass in the driver's seat of that baby, and I loved it. I loved it, my husband loved it, and when she got her learner's permit, my daughter loved it, too. In fact, she loved it so much, she lobbied to have us allow her to use it for school transportation after she got her license.

After a few years of driving pleasure, we made the decision to trade our baby in for two lower-priced cars to afford us the ability to give our daughter a car to take to college. Negotiating what we thought was a fair price for the Lexus, chewing the Volkswagen guy down as far as possible, we were now the proud owners of a silver Jetta (the kid's car) and a red convertible Beetle (my mid-life mobile). Remembering we had that Platinum warranty to cancel and collect over two thou, we began the process of calling their customer service department to get the ball rolling. More cash is always a bonus, don't deny it. We are all money-hungry to some degree, and anyone who denies it is a lying prick bastard.

To say that phone call was an eye-opener would be selling it short. I was told in no uncertain terms that the refund would be pro-rated and that is the policy and how did I not know that? Uh, your finance cock-sucker told me so? That was the recourse I had...the finance guy told me, therefore it is so. As far as I was concerned, Lexus made me a promise, and Lexus was going to keep that promise. The woman on the phone suggested I call the dealer and work it out with them, that perhaps they could make good on it. Having an undue feeling of confidence that Lexus would, indeed, make good on their promise because, after all, they ARE Lexus and by the very nature of that, trustworthy, I made that phone call. I dialed that number and truly believed that they would help me, that they would be as kind as they had been the entire time I owned one of their vehicles.

Was I wrong! I was referred to Patrick, the sales manager, who was supposed to be able to help me collect on the promise of a now-former Lexus employee.  Patrick was an angry, rude, disrespectful asshole. No matter how many ways I explained myself, how many times I repeated that his employee made a promise and I expected that a company like Lexus would honor that promise since the customer is the priority and always right, he wouldn't budge. As a matter of fact, he actually told me that he didn't believe that I was told that at all, that it simply didn't happen. After informing him that I didn't take kindly to being called a liar, I told him that the only liar in question was his finance guy from 2009. He denied calling me a liar. I reminded him that he implied it clearly by telling me that my story didn't happen. He got pissed off, told me once again that it never happened.

At this point, I was not a happy camper. Telling him that I was there, not him...and with two other people who could corroborate MY story, that I was not a liar but a customer who got dicked over by one of his snake oil salesman playing on the naivete and exhaustion of folks who spent the entire day purchasing a fucking car. If I am told I can have a refund any goddamn time I choose, I want the refund...at a time that suits me. Plain and simple. If your employee makes a promise to me, he had damn well better be ready to make good on it when I ask. Patrick told me that he really didn't have to help me, anyway, and that I was rude. Isn't telling a customer that they are a liar and that their story never happened fairly motherfucking rude? He didn't like that. Told me he wasn't going to help me and hung up in my face.

Who here thinks I didn't immediately call back...show of hands? Yeah, you bet your ass I called back and informed him that hanging up on me was the biggest mistake he's made all week and this was NOT the end. The window licking cock cheese eater hung up again. Luckily, Lexus has a very special department where you can complain and open a case against an entire dealership. I called them up, told my story, and opened up a can of whoop ass on that bastard. Of course, they've been trying to contact him to no avail. Little pussy is probably pissing his panties knowing that corporate is after him. This isn't over. It's FAR from over. Does he think I'm going to let this slide? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Customer Service Has Gone Down the Crapper

Just when I thought there were no more valid reasons to despise people, I come across the fine folks at Sears Customer Service. Right before we were embarking upon one of the hardest journeys of our lives, taking our only daughter to college, our goddamn refrigerator and freezer decide to stop working. Fast forward a scant few days, the kitchen smells but I have the Sears Repair dude on the way, so all will be right with the world. Or so I thought. Much like the cable guy, Sears Customer Service gives you a "window" during which your repair person should arrive.

So, there I sat in the house waiting for the fridge savior to show up between the hours of 11am and 5pm. Basically all fucking day. At first I thought, no sweat, the kid is working a day shift today, I have no car at my disposal, I can do this. Until, 5pm came and went. I almost chalked it up to traffic but something told me that was not the reason. So, I waited till 5:15pm and called customer service, who with a mildly apologetic tone, told me that the repair dude was backed up from other repair calls but would be there shortly. I don't know about you, but shortly means between 10 and 15 minutes to me. I'm already fuming at this point because they didn't call me to say he was running late, nor did he, which is protocol with Sears. Yet, I am at their mercy because I can't diagnose the problem nor fix it.

Now, it's 6:00pm and my phone rings. Repair dude must have found his cell phone tucked in his ass crack and realized he may need to use it to contact the fucking customers. "I'm running late, I had a few calls that ran over the expected time. I'll be right there." Well, okay. Do I have a choice? He shows up at 6:30, low on both energy and brain cells. But I bow to his expertise, I am not a repairman. After sticking his hand in the freezer and pulling out a fistful of frost he proudly announces what the problem is and says he will go check to see if he has the part on his truck. Upon his return, he tells us that he must order the part and it will arrive in two days and that we should make an appointment right now with him to ensure our repair happens before we have to leave for our weekend in college land.

At this point, I realize he doesn't give a flying fuck if we get the appointment we want, he just wants to go home. He fast talks us into taking a day and time we cannot make and tells us to just call and change it tomorrow. Oh ok, that simple, I can do that. But no, not quite so simple. I call the next day and am told there is no way to get the day I want without the part in my hand and I was looking at a least a week out unless I wanted to send my kid with all her boxes and crap alone up to school while I wait for the oh so important repair dude. Are you serious? After many phone calls back and forth, I finally get a semi-decent day and time, not ideal, but it'll do for now. Thinking I'll call over that bitch's head and get a better deal, I go about my business and temporarily accept what I am given.

Meanwhile, my husband, now armed with the name of the part, begins research on how to install it. Convinced we can do this, he says to fight again for the day and time we want, then cancel after WE fix the fridge. I am all over this like white on rice. I get the Sears assholes to call dispatch to get me the exact day and time I want after more heated and irate phone calls. I also get a $50 gift card for my troubles,but they owed me at least that.  Well, guess what? He removed the broken part and this bitch, that's right, ME...I installed the new one. The refrigerator works like a charm and I had the joy of calling the service department back to cancel the appointment, the morning OF, and tell them that we didn't need them because we did the goddamn job ourselves! The sound of shock in the voice of the customer service rep was music to my ears.

What can we learn from this? For starters, people in customer service are not customer service-oriented. In reality, they are misanthropic motherfucks who could care less if you are getting what you need. Next, know that the repair person only cares about putting in his hours and getting the fuck home. Whether you fit into the queue doesn't phase him in the slightest, nor does he care if you've taken off a day at work to wait for him to saunter into your home an hour and a half AFTER the window you stayed home to be available for and could have gone to work and STILL been there to greet his late-arriving ass. And finally, don't fuck with me, I don't put up with lame and inefficient bullshit. I will go over your head and I will take matters into my own hands. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Who will help me color my hair?

This is one of the things that pop into my head in the early morning hours as I contemplate my daughter heading off to college next week.  Yesterday while she was out, I padded into the bathroom and attempted to color my hair by myself. Success is usually mine at least half the time. This time, when she came home, she told me she liked the color and that I missed an entire section in the back. Naturally, she will be providing touch-up services today for me. Can't let me go around looking like nobody's child...in public. So, my hair will be perfectly lovely by the end of the day. But what about next time? Do I plan my coloring around her visits home? What else do I save for those sporadic days? Should I space out my nail appointments to accommodate the times she's here? Nobody else enjoys Walgreens quite as much as she and I do. How the hell am I going to select the appropriate curly pudding or buttercream for mixed chicks by myself? Sure, I can open the jars and have a sniff. But, once I sample a bit on the back of my hair, do I ask a Walgreens employee which side looks better? I can see that going over like a fart in church.

Who will not only introduce me to mind-numbing, yet quite entertaining TV shows like Jersey Shore and Secret Life of the American Teenager, but also watch them with me religiously? Of course, Jersey Shore had the secondary draw of reminding me of some of the gavones I went to Christ the King with, but it was the company with whom I watched it that made it fun. Secret Life DID have Molly Ringwald, but I may have shunned it for its ridiculous portrayal of high school students, anyway, had I not had her to DVR it and watch it with me. Let's not even delve into the competition shows like American Idol and X-Factor, where she and I almost always agree regarding who sucks bad ass and who has the voice of an angel. Lord knows, I've often thought my husband was tone-deaf...he actually enjoys Miley Cyrus, God forgive him. I've yet to convert him over to the dark side and force him to watch Golden Girls with me...a show she and I could watch all day long and not tire of, ever.  Sure, he'll watch Dexter with me, but he splits his time between his phone and the TV, not really focused on the important scenes that require discussion later. She and I can be found watching Dexter with the intense focus of someone studying an actual crime scene. A little respect for the Dark Passenger, please!

Oh sure, I could sit and watch old home movies my myself...like a crazy old woman with 50 or so cats. But wouldn't it make more sense to watch them with someone who not only shares an interest in the past but welcomes the narration I can provide because half the time it was too many years ago for her to remember the details...like a stuffed animal named Squinchwee that was won at Circus Circus in Las Vegas? Photo albums cause the same issue. I could peruse them alone, but what fun would that be? Laughing aloud with no one to point out certain photos to and describe the moments they were taken...borderline pathetic and definitely sad. I am neither pathetic nor sad, so that's out. Digging through old stuff that I've saved over the years, things that belonged to my mom, my grandparents, my great-grandparents holds no joy without someone to share the findings with, someone to whom I can recount the stories. As though a part of me will now be tucked away, untouched and unimportant.

Oddball conversations will now cease and be replaced by Skype calls, frantically catching up the news of the day or week. Laughing maniacally at my hatred for the Wendy's girl or musings about why the cancer kids don't get a fucking Blizzard from DQ will be silenced...no one else gets it. By myself, I'd look psychotic and provoke the neighbors to call the sheriff's department for a house visit to check on the lunatic next door. But when it's the two of us, the giggles and snorts and peals of laughter sound not only normal, but are welcomed by all who hear it...the sound of a mother and daughter enjoying each other's company is never offensive or something to question. The inner workings of my mind, understood by so few, and appreciated by even fewer...will now be hushed, restrained, hidden away and left without audience. Oh, I still have all of you to listen to my rants and rages, but it really isn't the same. You may think you share the same sense of humor, but I assure you, I've only given my DNA to one other person on this planet.

Who will make the pesto? No, really, who will make the goddamn pesto? That's her job and has been for a few years. I don't want it back. Hell, now that she has learned the fine art of making sauce and meatballs, I was thinking I could pass that task on to her, as well. But nope. Not now. Maybe over breaks and holidays. Meanwhile, it all falls back to me. It's not as much fun alone, trust me. Things that are supposed to be passed down from Italian mother to daughter:  cooking, love of wine and song...are being carried on, just not in my house. No, they will be carried on two and a half hours north of my house and shared with five roommates who just won't get it. Will they appreciate the need to listen to Frankie or Dino while eating pasta? Doubt it. Will they be able to assist her in the kitchen, knowing by smell when the meatballs are ready to be rolled? Hell, no! This is the world I am releasing her into...a sea of clueless boobs who just don't get it!

This is brand-new territory for me and I'm not sure I like it. The inhabitants aren't that friendly and I'm pretty certain they think I'm weird. Not that I care what they think, but it doesn't help matters. Weird doesn't get welcomed. Weird doesn't get invited to go to Walgreens or Starbucks. Weird doesn't get help with coloring her hair. No, weird gets told to cough up the fucking cash and go have it done professionally. To which Weird says, "Suck my ass." Weird doesn't have someone to laugh at the rest of the world with and not be judged for her offbeat opinions. Weird wants her little weird around a little longer. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Did you really just ask me that?

People are so fucking stupid. No, seriously, I fear for many people's lives when it rains. It's a wonder how some remember to breathe. There are days I walk around shaking my head so much, I give myself a headache. How the hell is it possible that people who've had the benefit of an education, continued on to college, and are living on their own or with their family can sound so goddamn fucktarded when they open their faceholes to speak? You know you start to question how they survive. Can that really be the sperm that won the race?  What gets me are the questions that come out of them. My eyes feel like they are popping out of my head and I know my jaw, on occasion when I don't exercise self-control, will actually drop when I hear the utter ridiculousness being asked. Here are some that came to mind this morning.

1. Did you get a haircut? Really? Yesterday it was down my back and today it's grazing my shoulders and you still NEED to ask that question? No, I didn't get a haircut, I grew last night and my hair couldn't keep up the fucking pace. Unless you are just a fan of stating the obvious and you haven't gotten the hang of the difference between asking and telling. Christ on a crutch!

2.  Do you have a toilet? If you are in my house and ask that question, expect to be directed to the gas station 2 blocks up the street. No, I don't have a toilet in my house. What the fuck do you think this is, a civilized first world country with indoor plumbing? Jesus H. Christ, pee your pants like the rest of us. That question really doesn't deserve an answer.

3.  After seeing the litter box...Do you have a cat? Refer to question 2. That's the toilet you were looking for, window licker. Oh, and ignore the furry animal that just threw herself on the floor at your feet, whoring for a belly rub, she uses the toilet.

4.  At the bus stop and I'm still standing there...Did the bus come yet? Oh yes, it came and went. Want to get on the spaceship with me when it arrives? What the fuck do you think I'm doing standing here? Waiting for the second coming of Christ?

5.  To a waiter...Is the _____any good? Oh no, that shit is vile! I wouldn't feed it to a felon! Are you serious? It's the waiter's job to sell you food. They aren't going to tell you something tastes like fetid shit. They may direct you to something that they prefer, but a direct answer to a question like that could get them fired, ass monkey.

6.  At the supermarket...What are you doing here? Knitting a sweater, putting on my bowling shoes for the tournament, frying a chicken, cutting my toenails...it's a fucking supermarket, what are YOU doing here?

7.  On the phone...What are you doing? Presently, talking on the phone with you. Aren't you doing something frighteningly similar? Oh, did you mean directly prior to answering the phone? Then ask that question, douche bag.

8.  As I sneeze, blow my nose, and cough up half my lung...Are you sick? Sick? Why would you ask that? Does the profusion of mucus give me away? No, I'm perfectly fine, I always blow my nose as a precautionary measure, and the green shit I just spit out...that's for you.

9.  Can I ask you a question? You just did, so, no. You've used up your question for the day, better luck tomorrow.

10. After you've called me...Who's this? Who would you like it to be? Did someone else dial the phone FOR you? Is that why you don't have a fucking clue?

11. Is she your daughter? Holy fuck! Who is that teenager who looks just like me and is now standing directly to my right? Christ, I thought I was being followed! Security, get this kid away from me, she's been tailing me around the whole store and trying to talk to me like she knows me!

12. Did you lose weight, you look good. That's a loaded fucking question. Are you insinuating that the last time you saw me, I looked particularly FAT? The tail end of that implies that the last time we met, I was not only traveling circus huge, but also looked like day old shit. Want to retract that statement, fuckhead?

These are just a few that truly chafe my hide. There are so many more, and frankly, I have things to do and don't have the time to keep going. If you think of more, put them in the comments section so we can rip on the morons we are forced to deal with on a daily basis! Meanwhile, I need to do something semi-intelligent or my brain will start to decay from the fucking stupidity. Tell me you don't feel the same. Are you friggin kidding me right now???

Why aren't all moms like mine?

Sappy title, huh? But there's truth in it, so it stands. Yesterday was the 19th anniversary of her being ripped out of my life, unexpectedly and quite unceremoniously. It got me thinking. Thinking about the kind of mom she was, the mom I am today, and the way some women choose to parent that simply doesn't work and is frankly, stupid. I am certainly not saying that I am the perfect parent and all parents should bow down before me. Oh hell no, nothing could be further from the truth. We all make mistakes, it's part of being human and we couldn't learn anything without them. Having made my share along the way, I can speak with some amount of wisdom about the subject.

When I see a mother in Target attempting to reason with her 4 year old regarding why he can't open a toy right off the shelf and run around the store with it, but perhaps if he behaves in a semi-appropriate manner for at least part of the shopping excursion, he can have any toy he wants...before he gets to go to McDonald's and clog his tiny little arteries...I shake my head in disbelief. What's her first mistake? Part of me wants to say, having the child in the first place. But that would be mean, and I'm never mean...only honest. Since, she already let her husband ride without a helmet, we can't move backwards. The little snot rocket is all hers, at least until he's 18. Her first mistake, my friends, is thinking you can reason with someone who still eats his own boogers. Children are not to be treated like tiny adults and then able to cause shock when they don't live up to the challenge. Assuming they even understand half of what you are trying to tell them, they don't care!

There was no bargaining or reasoning with me when I was little, hell, even as I got older there wasn't a ton of wiggle room. There were rules in my house...and I followed them. Most of the time. Of course, every kid tests the boundaries, and I wasn't immune to it. I had to put my hand on the stove even after my mom told me not to...and I had to deal with the burns on my palm and a hearty dose of her version of "I told you so" thereafter. Cursing seemed like fun at the time...until my mom shoved a bar of soap in my mouth to "clean" it out. That taste fucking lingers! She didn't say, "Please don't bite me, we don't bite, sweetheart" to stop me from biting. I was told very clearly that if I did, she'd bite me back. And she did. First and last time I bit anyone. Magical. Sweet talk is not meant for disciplining children. It sends mixed messages, and it certainly doesn't make you sound very sure of yourself. Especially those of you who end every request, and why are you requesting, with "okay?" as though they could tell you, "No, I'd prefer not to do that right now" and you'd be fine with it.

The way kids talk to their parents these days makes my hair stand on end. I have to laugh because all I can do is think about what would happen if I spoke that way to my mom. My guess is that I would still have her hand print across the right side of my face today. Never in my life have I considered talking to her the way I hear kids talking to their moms. Do they really think it's perfectly fine to scream and curse at the woman who gave them life? Tell her that they don't give a shit what she has to say, that she's an idiot, and they are going to do what the fuck they want to, anyway? I'd be lucky to have teeth and be able to sit...even now. That woman not only gave you life, she sacrificed in ways you will never be aware of, goes without so you can have all the crap you demand of her, acts as your nurse, chauffeur, cook, costumer, personal shopper, science project maker, advocates for you behind the scenes, holds you when you are sick and afraid, stays up all night and worries when you aren't home...and you have the fucking balls to speak to her in a manner not fit for a junkyard dog? That life she gave you? You don't deserve it.

Of course, being a mother isn't all discipline and martyrdom. Believe it or not, it's supposed to be fun, at least part of the time. That was something I learned from the time I was very small...moms are supposed to be fun. Not topless, drunken fun...but fun to be around, no matter what age you happen to be. I've noticed that today's stay-at-home mom would rather spend time with her friends, shopping and having coffee than actually being with the child for whom she "gave up" working. When your child spends more time in day care and preschool, and later on, in all sorts of activities (time-fillers), you aren't really being a mom. Mom, by definition, is a full-time job, even if you work outside the home. Why are you paying someone else to play with your kid? Not surprisingly, kids are a hoot to be around. Their sense of adventure, the newness with which they see all the old shit you've become immune to, their lack of boundaries, and the maniacal laughter that's so easy to illicit...why the hell wouldn't you want to hang out with your kid?!?!

Saying my mom was fun is really not doing her justice. She was a fucking riot! While I was encouraged to figure out how to cure my own boredom, that doesn't mean she didn't engage me in any way. What it actually did, was encourage my own creativity so that when we did play or spend time together, it always had the potential for being a freaking good time. From having spontaneous water fights in the house because she was spraying down her plants and noticed that she could also spray and chase me throughout the apartment, to blaring Latino music when we drove through certain neighborhoods to "fit in," to her brake-dancing in the car making me lurch forward repeatedly at red lights while she got her groove on, to being summoned to dance around the living room because, well, one of her favorite songs happened to be on, to being encouraged to exercise my own dry, sarcastic sense of humor because she could match me, line for line...she knew precisely what her only child needed from her. I needed a mom who was strict enough to enforce her rules, but intuitive enough to be my best friend.

My mom may have been quick with the flying slipper, and she may have yelled way more than most of you are accustomed to...but without question, she was better than yours could ever dream of being. I know this because it's a fact. From her, I learned it's easier to laugh at an annoying situation than cry about it. I learned to enjoy things most of you wouldn't even notice because you've become jaded to the world around you. How many of you even hear the music they play in your local supermarket, much less sing along in the aisles, oblivious to the other shoppers? I can enjoy even the simplest chore because I know how to make a game out of it. Even going to the gym, which is painful to me, can be fun with your daughter...why? Because when she asks you to do something beyond your realm of ability, all you have to do is become Rain Man and start repeating "No, no, no, no" while banging the side of your head. Yeah, I did that. Did she mind? Are you friggin kidding me right now???

They Exist on Facebook, Heaven Help Us!

Before you tell me that I've ranted about this before, let me stop you in your tracks.  I have touched upon several of these characters before and in various different posts. I've given my opinion, doled out advice, blasted and lambasted these fucktards. Yet, they are still there! This is another attempt to get cyberspace back on track and return social media to a fun place to hang out.  Isn't that what we all really want? I can't be alone in thinking this way. Recognizing that I DO dance to my own drummer most of the time, I also realize that I voice opinions others wish they had to balls to speak aloud. Let's begin our journey through the people of Facebook...

1. The Gamer. A very long time ago, I did partake in the ridiculous Zynga games offered by Facebook. They were time-consuming and fucking moronic. Yet, I did drink the Kool Aid at one point. Then, my brain began functioning at a normal level again and I realized how much of my day was devoted to my mafia and my farm. I quit all my games cold turkey and un-friended all my gamer buddies who were there only to serve as my pawns and provide assistance. Today, when I see people who spend an inordinate amount of time playing these mind-numbing games and filling my feed with nothing but requests, I all but lose my shit. If you want to waste the better part of your life being consumed by these games, have at it. Have a separate friend list for the other time sucks who actually play them, too, and post to their fucking walls! I've already used the block notifications function, don't force me to block you, as well.

2.  Hyena/Serial Liker. You've undoubtedly seen this one on your feed. The ass clown whose only comment is LOL. Seriously, you have nothing else to say but that you are laughing at every post you see? Contribute to the thread and it will become even funnier. Saying LOL means you lack the vocabulary to have a conversation with a fucking toddler. When all you can muster is an acronym, don't bother. It's annoying as shit and frankly, I don't care if you are laughing. I don't exist to entertain you. Say something, like, "You crack me up!"  That is a whole sentence, I know, which may be beyond your abilities. But try. For my sanity. Then, my personal favorite asshole, the serial liker. The person who trolls the feed and clicks like on every post they see, indiscriminately. I say that because I've see people "like" the death of someone's grandma! If you truly have nothing to say, don't. Because zipping down the feed clicking like on everything you see will eventually piss someone off...liking their unemployed status, for example? Actually take the time to read the posts and comment when applicable. Like a semi-intelligent adult...if you can. Otherwise, just read and move on.

3.  Drama Queen/King. Sweet baby Jesus, Facebook has become the home of some seriously pathetic people as of late. Life is not usually that hard, yet this dumbass will post something every day that make is seem like they are living a nightmarish existence, are close to jumping off of a bridge, might kill someone, and is definitely always crying. If your life is truly that bad, perhaps you should spend more time trying to fix what's apparently very broken rather than sitting for hours on end in front of your computer lamenting about it to people who don't give a rat's furry little ass. Sometimes the overly dramatic will be intentionally elusive in order to ensure they get the most air time and by extension, the most comments. Some of my faves are: UGH, Heartbroken, Life Sucks, and Whatever. May I suggest therapy? Maybe some prescription medication? You aren't going to fix your life by posting about it on Facebook. Especially when people like me are sitting on their fat asses, drinking a cup of joe, and laughing like fools at you!

4. The Attention Whore. This is the not-so-distant cousin of the Drama Queen/King. Facebook is filled with this type of douche canoe. We've discussed this one ad nauseum, but I don't think I am reaching this window licker. The incessant selfies are enough to make anyone want to burst into a technicolor yawn, but they don't stop there. They, too, post their latest gripe or whine just like the Drama Queen/King. But it's never quite as dramatic or meant to tug on your heart-strings. It's there to get your attention. And they are very practiced at this move. A simple dramatic or sad song lyric is all it takes for this broad's friend list to blow up and start commenting with questions like, "Are you OK?" and "What happened?" Mission accomplished! Attention gained! Bitch, please. If you had real live friends, and something was wrong, you'd be on the goddamn phone with them instead of posting leading stati.

5.  News Reporter.  Every friend list has several of these characters. Never a personal post to be found, these people insist on bringing us the news, as it happens. While I do understand if you find an article that expresses something that you feel personally strongly about and want to share it. Certain topics are very intense and incite feelings in us that we absolutely have to share. I get it, I do it. But, when you find yourself posting the local weather every morning and every lost dog, garbage strike, and traffic alert...sit on your hands if you must, but just STOP. If we want the news, the TV is available to us while we are getting ready for work in the morning and we can tune in to the latest local and world happenings if we choose. Save your time and energy for something important, like Zynga games. Of course, I'm being facetious. Get a fucking life.

6.  Google Genius. Not too bright, but this person can sure Google information and post it as though they were his own thoughts. We all know this person. In fact, we went to school with him, so we know he's not the sharpest tack in the box. Yet, sit his ass in front of his laptop, and watch the information diarrhea take place all over Facebook. Factoid after factoid instead of normal status update, he fills your feed with shit you don't care about. Hell, he doesn't care about it, he only wants to appear smarter than a box of rocks. One day, I'm going to upset his brainy little apple cart and ask detailed questions about a couple of his heavily-Googled posts. Then, we can all laugh as he scrambles to formulate an intelligent response to a question regarding a topic about which he knows less than nothing! Ahh, the simple joys.

7.  Preacher Man/Woman. Lordy, lordy. There's at least one in every friend list, and each one more annoying than the last. I don't care if you practice organized religion, are a Buddhist monk, or an atheist. We are all entitled to freedom of religion or lack thereof. Worship to your little heart's desire. Attend daily masses and read the Bible every night. Everyone has that right. What you don't have the right to do is pontificate all over my fucking Facebook feed. I was born and raised a Catholic, still am, but with slight differences of opinion on a few topics. I do my own thing, in my own way, and none of you are the wiser. Why? Because unlike Jehovah's Witnesses, I will not jam my religious beliefs down your throat. Nor will I clog up your happy time online with thousands of Bible quotes and opinions of the church in an attempt to make you feel like a heathen. It's not my job to convert you, nor is it to save your sorry ass. The same goes for you, Facebook Jesus. Stop posting all sorts of religious drivel all day, every day. We all know what a sinner/whore/horrific person you were before Facebook hit the scene. Pretending you are holy now does nothing but solidify your standing as a hypocrite, as well.

8.  Creeper. This person reads Facebook all day long, but you'd never know it to look at the feed. Never posts, never comments, never even LIKES a status. They don't necessarily want you to know they stalk your wall and the walls of most of their friend list. The truth comes out on the day something interesting crosses their screen and they can discuss at length everything they've read, including the comment thread. Fucking stalker freak. Just drop a like or a "I smell what you're steppin' in" here and there or you will be persona non grata on my friend list and the friend list of most of the people on Facebook. Nobody likes a snoop and that's all you are when you refuse to participate. It's a game, goddamnit, play it or get off the playground!

These are just 8 of the people you'll run into on Facebook. There are quite a few more and feel free to add to my list in the comment section. I've left some out intentionally to test your people skills. My expectations are quite low as I know you aren't the brightest crayon in the box. Some of these people make me want to drive a nail into my own eye. I'd rather it be theirs but the whole prison thing scares the bejesus out of me. Social media is a game for adults and as soon as you all learn the rules, the more fun we can have. If you can't seem to cooperate by following these rules, I won't hesitate to kick your ass out of the sandbox. Are you friggin kidding me right now???