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???