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???