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???