Monthly Archives: January 2013

Common Courtesy for Ducks. (And People.)

Not long ago, I was standing in my kitchen, cutting some plastic rings from an empty six-pack in half, when a friend asked me, “Um, what in the fuck are you doing?”  Surprised at his surprise, I answered, “Well, I’m cutting these so the baby ducks don’t get strangled by them!  Don’t you do that?”  In response to his blank stare, I continued, “Seriously?  Didn’t you ever see that horrible commercial where those poor ducks had these wrapped around their necks because they get in lakes and stuff from the garbage?  They get stuck and DIE!  It’s horrible!  I always cut them.”  After a longer, blanker, but markedly more concerned stare, I was all, “What?  Why would you want baby ducks to die?  It’s not hard.  It only takes a minute and hey, I’ve saved a duck.”

After the above exchange – in which I learned everyone I know apparently doesn’t give a SHIT about baby ducks – I started thinking about other common courtesies I engage in that others apparently don’t.  My conclusion?  Either I’m too nice or everyone else is an asshole.

Holding a Door for the Person Behind Me.

As long as I can remember, this has pretty much been de riguer for any situation.  If you open a door and someone is following, unless it’s a mugger, you hold the door. You don’t have to roll out a red carpet and bugle, but giving that person the option to not have a door slammed in their surprised face really is the polite thing to do.

Apologizing After Accidentally Injuring Someone.

I’m one of those idiots that will apologize to a door if I accidentally bump into it.  If you body check me into a post trying to get on the train, the words “I’m sorry!” will jump out of my mouth faster than my brain can reconcile that I was not the one at fault.  I do realize not everyone is like this.  However, if the situation ever arises in which you accidentally (I hope) knock a can of Spaghettios onto someone’s head at the grocery store, I have to believe it should be the norm to apologize.  (Yes, that happened to me.  Yes, it really fucking hurt.  And yes, I called the lady that did and then sauntered off a whole lot of bad, bad names.  In my head.)

Be Responsible for Your Pets’ Behavior.

Yes, my cats are assholes.  Yes, they’ve sent a few folks to the hospital.  However, I warn people that they are assholes.  “Oh, cute kitties!  Hi Kitty!” by newcomers receives the response of, “Yeah, she’s cute.  But she bites.  Hard.  And scratches.  Until she draws blood.  Please don’t touch her.”  If your dog gallumphs up to me, delightfully sniffing at my crotch, I’m going to assume he’s friendly.  A simple, “He’s not really a people person!” or the like would be a fabulous warning that the cuteness my brain thinks is a nice doggy actually wants to eat my head should I try to pet him.

Letting Someone Cross the Street in a Torrential Downpour While You Are Cozy in your Vehicle.

I am perhaps a bit biased on this one, as Mother Nature is having some sort of bitchfit that she’s taking out on Chicago.  There is simply no dressing appropriately for this bipolar attack of weather.  Yesterday, I wore my big heavy rainboots and rain jacket and by the time I got home I was sweating like a whore in church and cursing everything I could think of.  Today, I refused to be tricked and 45 seconds after I got off the bus, my toes were frozen and I was slip-sliding my way on a sheet of ice across the intersection.  An intersection at which I had the right of way, I might add.  So the multiple cars – at a stop sign – who honked at me as I skidded across the street were just being mean.  You’re in a car, you jackhole.  You think I wouldn’t rather be in a car than ice skating across Chicago Avenue?  I bet it’s warm in there.  I bet you wore socks.  I bet snow didn’t just get in your contact and blind you midstep.  (Bad, bad moment.  I’ve feared for my life only a few times.  This was one of them.)  Long story short – your moment right now is MUCH BETTER than mine.  No need to add insult to near-certain injury.

Thoughts?  Am I naive to expect such things?  It seems basic to me, but sometimes I wonder if there’s people out there all, “Look at this idiot who keeps smiling at everyone!  Hey, Corky!  Not everyone’s your friend!”

I guess it doesn’t matter.  I’m probably not changing this late in the game.  And to those that do think that – start being nicer.  STOP KILLING BABY DUCKS.

What?  Why do you want me to DIE??

What? Why do you want me to DIE??

Oh Yes, This is Happening Right Now.

Some of you may have heard in the past few days that there’s been a pretty amazing concert announced in the Chicago area.  Facebook and Twitter has blown up with people near apoplectic with excitement for July and one can only imagine how they’re going to wait six more months.

That’s right, New Kids on the Block, 98 Degrees, and freaking Boyz II Men are coming to the Allstate Arena!!!!  The Package Tour!!!  I can’t even believe it!!  (Wait, did you think I was talking about Pearl Jam at Wrigley?  You should probably stop reading now cause you most likely don’t like me anymore.)

I’ve been a diehard New Kids fan since my tuba-playing elk days, and despite my friends and family making decidedly more pointed “suggestions” that perhaps I don’t need to advertise this fact as proudly as I do, I am so very excited about this concert.  In addition to my favorite boy band ever, NKOTB – seriously, Boyz II Men??  I mean, who doesn’t have great memories to one of their songs?  Admittedly don’t know much 98 Degrees as I was too busy drinking at fraternity parties in college when they were popular, but I’m confident I will love them.

So last night, I was home alone again and decided the best way to spend my evening was to watch “The View” on which this heartstopping announcement was made.  i found a 30-minute video on YouTube and settled in for happiness.  Below are the thoughts that were swimming around and slamming into each other in my head as I watched.  If you’d like to follow along, feel free.  Here’s the video.  And please don’t put me in a straitjacket.  At least not before July.

  • Well, Elizabeth Hasselbeck’s still annoying as fuck.
  • aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh I still love you Donnie!!!
  • But what’s with the glasses, man?
  • Why is the audience filled with desperate looking old girls?
  • Dammit.  That’s EXACTLY what I look like.  Potato!  Get me a beer!
  • OMG!  Nick Lachey is still super cute.  I miss “Newlyweds.”
  • Although, God, that bitch was dumb.  I wonder how often Nick wanted to smother her with a pillow but couldn’t because of the cameras?
  • Struck with a memory of an argument in which I defended Jessica, stating, “When you’re that pretty, you don’t have to be smart.”  Mentally kick self repeatedly in head.
  • OOOOHHHH I loved that song!!  They used to play it at the bar!!!
  • Wait, New Kids came before Boyz II Men?  How old am I?
  • I’LL MAKE LOVE TO YOU, LIKE YOU WANT ME TO!!
  • Didn’t there used to be four Boyz?  Did one die?  That’s super sad.
  • Ah, answered.  He just left the group.  Smart move, dummy.  They probably won’t make any money on this tour.  Glad he’s not dead though.
  • I don’t want to hear about you giving your kids bottles backstage, gentlemen.  You’re supposed to be sexy.
  • Wait.  I guess if I had kids that might be considered sexy.
  • Dammit, again.  Potato, beer me!
  • Did Drew Lachey beat out Joey McIntyre on Dancing with the Stars?  Why didn’t I watch that show again?
  • Shut UP, Elizabeth.  God, you’re irritating.
  • Seriously, what grown woman actually believes her husband has never looked at porn?
  • A really, really naive one, that’s who.
  • OH-OH-OH-OH-OH!!  THE RIGHT STUFF!!!
  • I never did get that dance down.
  • “That’s cause you’re disturbingly uncoordinated.  You can’t even walk down the stairs without a handrail, spaz.  Remember when you almost killed all those people walking to the Blue Line cause your shoe was untied?”  (That was my subconscious.  She’s an asshole with an excellent memory.)
  • Heh.  They said “Package.”
  • I STILL LOVE YOU DONNIE!!!  SEE YOU IN JULY!!!

So yeah, I know it’s not groundbreaking, Grammy award-winning music.  And I know I will be mocked mercilessly for the next few months for being so excited.  But it makes me happy.  All of that being said, I WILL name my firstborn after anyone who can score me good seats to this show,

Also – aren’t you glad you don’t live in my head?

Image

Seriously, how cute are we?  I’ve had that shirt since 1989.  And it still fits!  (Sorry, 11 year old Courtney.  But we’ve already established you were a hot mess.)

Just Stop It, Facebook Friends.

ImageI love the Facebook.  Love. It.  It’s where I get a disproportionate amount of my news, catch up with old friends, find out what my peeps are having for lunch, and find the best videos of cats.  I am, without question, guilty of checking in most places I go as though no one can get through their day without knowing I’m at the Fifty/50 Club, overstating my cats’ importance in the universe, and occasionally posting pictures of my dinner.  (Which I will defend.  I challenge you to not see a picture of my fabulous pot roast without wanting some for yourself.)

That being said, waking up this morning to 57 updates about how cold it was kind of made me want to punch things.  I know it’s cold.  I live here too.  So do 97% of your friends.  They all woke up to the same weather outlook on their phones – hardly any need to post a picture reminding everyone how everything on your body is going to freeze immediately upon stepping outdoors.  Yes, it’s zero degrees.  If it were July, or perhaps we lived in Texas, this would be news.  Being that we live in Chicago and it’s January, I feel as though telling everyone it’s cold is akin to posting, “Hey, it’s morning!  The sun came up again.”

Those aren’t the posts that make me crazy though.  (Mostly because it’s entirely possible I’ve done it in the past.  But no more!)  These are the ones that make me want to turn off the internet forever.

:(  So Sad Right Now.

  • Said status is usually followed by multiple inquiries as to the poster’s mental health and wellness, which is then followed by the original poster responding with something super cryptic that gives zero information.  What??  What’s wrong?  First of all, you’ve piqued my interest, which I have to believe was your intent.  Now I want to know how to proceed.  Do you need consolation?  A hug?  Thoughts and prayers?  A swift kick in the ass?  Do I need to send flowers? And most of all – WHAT HAPPENED, DAMMIT???

Great news!!!  Can’t Tell Anyone Yet but Yay!!!

  • You dick.  Everyone thinks you’re pregnant, FYI.  And when you aren’t, and you follow up with something like, “We’re moving!” we are disappointed.  If you can’t tell your good news, it isn’t good news yet.

And Then I’m Going Here, and Then Here, and Then Here, and Finishing Up Here.

  • My life is boring enough, thanks.  I don’t need to follow along with your mundane-ass errands, each of which you will check in from.  You made it to Whole Foods?  Awesome!  And here I was sitting on pins and needles wondering if the traffic was going to put a dent in your timeframe.

If This Page Gets 10,000 Likes, This Child Will Get to Ride a Unicorn.  TO THE MOON.

  • There is plenty of good that can come from Facebook viral campaigns and I do not mean to detract from that; I have surely been known to post something on the long shot it will make a difference.  But snopes.com exists for a reason, folks.  That girl Penny has been missing for like four years.  It’s not an Amber Alert anymore.  “Post this if you want to erase cancer!  ABC Company will donate $1 for every like!”  No, they won’t.  But they now have 200,000 people following their page.  Is there a word for slimy marketing?  Because that’s what this is.  Stop feeding the bear.  Please.

Have I ever been guilty of irritating, irrelevant posts?  Absolutely.  I’m not excluding myself from the above criterion.  But I’m relatively sure we can all agree that if you don’t care that I am on my way to grocery shop, chances are I don’t give a fuck that you are either.  Let’s make a conscious effort, shall we?  Saw someone tightrope walking an electrical wire across the street at 8AM?  Pictures, please.  On your way to the gym?  Not interested.

What status updates make you want to quit the internet?

Friday Blast Off: What I Said vs. What I Meant

profanityWell, the holidays have been over long enough that I feel comfortable dispensing with that holiday cheer goodness and going back to actively hoping folks twist an ankle when they’re being jerks.  Here’s to the first 2013 installment of Friday Blast Off!!  Who pissed you off this week?

The Pain in the Arse Secretary Who Tried to Throw Me Under the Bus for Her Error:

What I Said:          “I understand and I’m sorry for the miscommunication.  But we do not have anything for your firm on our calendar today.  I’m happy to send someone right over.”

What I Meant:      “You know damn well this was your mistake, you dizzy cow.  Do your job, I’ll do mine, and we’ll all live happily ever after.  Everybody makes mistakes; it’s okay.  Didn’t you read that book?  Oh, wait, that’s ‘Everybody Poops.’  I bet yours doesn’t stink, am I right?”

My Downstairs Neighbor Who Insists Upon Galloping Up and Down the Stairs and Slamming Doors When I’m Home Alone:

What I Said:          ****Mute with terror.  The murderer has finally come and my last moments are going to spent with these stupid cats.****

What I Meant:      “Hey!  Jackhole with the heavy feet!  KNOCK. IT. OFF.  I’ve seen you – there is no way you’re in a hurry to go anywhere, nor are you rushing home to a loved one.  Please respect your neighbors by not stomping around like a fucking rhinocerous on crack.  Some of us have relatively severe low-grade anxiety and you are not helping to dissuade their fears.  While I’m at it – stop taking your dogs out at 5AM and standing right below my bedroom window while you yell for them at top volume.”

Overly Zealous and Angry Gentleman Demanding Spare Change Who Called Me a Bitch:

What I Said:          “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything to spare.”

What I Meant:      “Listen, fuck, you’re wearing a fur coat.  You have on a gold watch, a hat I know costs at least 30 bucks, and brand-new gym shoes.  My coat doesn’t zip and I’m buying a single serve Kraft Mac and Cheese with the three dollars I have on me.  I don’t even have a fucking watch.  Or a hat, for that matter.  Give me that.”

Person in “Wheelchair” Who Totally Pretended Not to Notice The 40 Person Line Behind Her and Then Yelled at the Cashier to Come Scan Her Purchases:

What I Said:          “That’s fine, please, go ahead.”

What I Meant:      “Hey!  HEY!!!  What the fuck??  No.  No, you cannot go ahead of everyone.  That’s a store-issue wheelchair and I saw you literally VAULT out of it to grab the last DiGiornio pizza from an unsuspecting hipster.  So I know for a fact that you could lean over enough at the self-checkout to scan your pizza and 40 oz. of beer.  You, ma’am, are an asshole and your only disability is laziness.  You are disrespecting your fellow shoppers, baby Jesus, and people with actual disabilities.  Stop it and wheel your ass to the back of the line.”

Happy Friday Everyone!  Feel free to post your comebacks to the folks who made you want to punch something this week…..

 

 

 

5 Songs With Lyrics That Make Me Extremely Uncomfortable

When I sat down to write this, my original plan was to write about songs with grievous grammatical errors.  However, less than three minutes into my research I was ready to kick puppies in frustration.  (FYI – Beyonce?  “Conversate” is not a word. SMASH.)  So, for the sake of my sanity, I abandoned that project.

While browsing the internet, I was listening to oldies on Pandora, and a song that has long disturbed me began playing, prompting me to revisit some other songs that with some lyrics that have always caused me to stop and think, “Wait a minute….that’s actually all sorts of wrong.”  Here’s my top five – feel free to play along at home.

The Temptations/Supremes – “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me.”

  • “And every night, every day, I’m gonna say, I’m gonna get you…….I’m gonna make you love me.”

Remember that little cartoon girl who squeezed that innocent cat nearly to death while chanting, “I’m gonna hug you and kiss you and love you forever?”  That’s what this reminds me of.

The Police – “Every Breath You Take.”

  • “Every breath you take, every move you make, I’ll be watching you.”

Oh, so sweet!  He wants to always be with me!  No, miss, he does not.  He has a telescope trained on your apartment and is planning to wear your skin as a coat after he’s done stalking you.

Edwin McCain – “I’ll Be.”

  • “I’ll hang from your lips.”

Whaaaaa?  Ew, right?  I always loved this song until I figured out this is actually the correct lyric, and now every time I hear it I can’t help but picture some dude flailing on a fish hook hanging from his girlfriend’s mouth.

Alanis Morissette – “Ironic.”

You know what’s ironic to me, Alanis?  The fact that someone wrote a song titled “Ironic,” despite not having a clear grasp of the definition of the word.  This song should be called, “Aren’t You Fucking Unlucky.”  Don’t you think?

Neil Diamond – “Girl You’ll Be a Woman Soon.”

  • “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon, Soon, You’ll Need a Man.”

Excuse me, Uncle Chester?  Can you get the fuck out of my room, freak?  When I do come of age, you can bet your ass I’m running as far as I can from you.  Also, it must be mentioned that the B side of this album was called, “You’ll Forget.”  Awesome, you’re handing out roofies too?  Get away from me, you dirty creepster.

There has to be hundreds more – what are the songs that freak you out?

revved up

State of Inefficiency

Here’s my question.  What the fuck happened to customer service?  You know, customer service – that whole “customer is always right even when they’re so stupid they should be kicked in the head to save everyone else the trouble of talking to them.”  In the past week, I’ve found myself in several lines in different venues, completely dumb-fucking-founded at the lack of efficiency in operations.

I’ll put a caveat here as anyone who knows me is aware that I am possibly the least efficient person on the planet.  As I’m writing this, I’m mentally calculating how many times I may need to pee in the next few hours and whether I can hold off on going to the store for toilet paper because I forgot to buy some. (Again.)  I am the queen of, “Eh, I know we’re at the store now, but I don’t need that until TOMORROW.  I’ll just come back then.”  (And yes, when tomorrow comes, I’m inevitably calling the me of yesterday a complete asshole.)  I’m famous for only putting enough gas in the car to get where I’m going at that particular moment, putting a bottle of pop with three sips left in it back in the refrigerator, and ignoring the bag of garbage on the porch despite the fact that I am going right past the garbage cans when I leave the house.

However.  HOWEVER.  At work -where are there are consequences for being lazy far more stringent than being told, “You dick.  Take. the. garbage. out,” I am the epitome of efficiency.  My desk is spotless, my emails are categorized, my pending folder is cleaned out every Friday, and my inbox is empty each night.  You know why?  Because I am being paid for my time.  My employers expect me to live up to the promises I made while terror-sweating through my interview and they expect me to provide the service that they are paying me produce on a daily basis.  Other reasons would include being brought up in a household where I was taught that you receive a paycheck for an honest day’s work, that you should take pride in your work, and, oh yeah, that you shouldn’t be a complete douchcanoe.

Which is why I found myself internally screaming, “Do your job, you lazy cow!” several times this week at the following people.

Kohl’s Employee with Zero Concept of “If the Customer has a Coupon, They Expect to Pay Less.”

I returned a Christmas gift at this fine establishment, and, receiving store credit, decided to buy myself an electric sweeper.  Without going into the math, I had more on the store credit than said (fabulous) sweeper cost.  In addition, I had a coupon for 10% off.  Excited about my bargain hunting, I handed over the coupon, and we started to sled downhill.  “Well, ma’am, it shows this isn’t valid.”  Me. “Okay.  Why?”  Person Who’s Super Good At Her Job. “Um.  There was a return on it?”  Me.  “What now?”  PWSGAHJ. “I’m not sure.  It just says return.”  Me.  “I don’t understand.”  PWSGAHJ, with a big smile, “Me neither!”  Me. “So, you’ll take the 10% off?”  PWSGAHJ, bewildered now, “Oh, you still want that?”  Me, in my head, “No, you dizzy bitch.  I’d prefer to spend 10% more than I owe you because you don’t know how to do your damn job.”  Me, in reality.  “Yes.  Yes, actually I would.  If you can tell me why the coupon isn’t valid, that’s fine, but if not, then yes, I would prefer to spend 10% less.”  PWSGAHJ, with an exaggerated eye-roll, “Well, okay, ma’am.  I guess we can honor this.”  Really?  Do people actually just say, “Okay, no, I would prefer not to save eight dollars!” and just hand it over?

All Arby’s Employees at the Thompson Center.

When I was in high school and college, I worked at the movie theater in my hometown.  At the time, it was a second-run theater, charging $2.25 for movies that had been out for a few weeks and were no longer available at the big name theaters.  As this was before Netflix and OnDemand, it was a pretty good deal.  Add to that fact that Elk Grove had to hire extra security when the Krispy Kreme opened, you can imagine this particular theater did a relatively brisk business.  I can remember rushing around behind the counter, slipping on (real) butter, covered in popcorn grease and syrup from the pop boxes, doing everything I could to make the customers’ experience better and their wait shorter.  Which may be part of the reason it makes me batshit crazy when I am in a line of seven people on my lunch hour and wait longer for a premade BLT sandwich than it would take me to cook a fucking steak.  The waiting isn’t what makes me want to eat my own head – it’s the seven employees languishing behind the counter, moving at the pace of drugged snails, that makes me nuts.  Seriously – I’ve walked faster on my way into a gynecologist appointment, and let’s face it, no one’s really rushing into that office.  These folks will hear the timer go off and lumber off in the general direction of the fryer, stopping to talk to their co-workers who are doing absolutely nothing, and occasionally to check their phone.  One time, an employee particularly hell bent on making me want to take a hostage leaned over and retied her shoes before handing me my order.  It goes without saying that she didn’t wash her hands first.  Is there no lack of urgency anymore??  If I had tried that back at the theater I would’ve been out on my ass before the 9:30 showing of Pulp Fiction.

Management at Dominicks on Chicago and Damen.

I know, I know.  I’ve beat this horse nearly to death and have clearly expressed my distaste for the clientele and employees involved in each experience.  However, my visit tonight enforced my belief that the problem clearly lies at the top of this pyramid of morons.  Picture, if you will, a crowded metropolis of thousands of people living in a four-square mile radius.  Then place one solitary grocery store in the middle.  Now, explain to me why, on a Friday night at 6PM, you would only plan to have four cashiers available.  Then, explain to me why only one of these cashiers is over the age of 21 and therefore able to scan adult beverage purchases, which is approximately 75% of your sales at this particular interval.  After that, please – fucking please – enlighten me as to why you would allow the aforementioned only adult employee to sit on the goddamn phone at the end of the self-checkout, where she used the word “Motherfucker,” no less than four times, while every single line in the store had increasingly irritated customers waiting to have their booze purchases scanned and the lines continued to expand all the way to the produce aisle.  It’s called forecasting, people.  Fail to plan, plan to fail.  It’s quite basic, really.

Am I the only that wants to simply start screaming in these situations?  How is it possible that so very many people have zero pride in their jobs?  I can understand feeling you aren’t appreciated; I can understand feeling that the job you do isn’t important or worthy of your talents.  As a college graduate who spent two years waiting tables and catching terrified lobsters out of a tank on Saturday nights for delighted diners, all while wearing a FUCKING BOWTIE, believe me, I understand.  But for me, that’s a life lesson.  If you want a roof over your head and appreciate electricity, nothing is beneath you, my friend.  You take that job and you do the best you can at it. And you do it with a (fucking) smile.

That's about right.

That’s about right.

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

There’s some people on the planet who shouldn’t be left alone for long periods of time.  Apparently,  I am one of them.  I went from my parents’ house to college, (and sure, one semester I technically lived alone.  But living alone in a dorm room is basically just like having your own room growing up, if you substitute “having your own room,” with, “not having to share ten square feet of space with another individual,” and add a lot of booze and bad decisions.) After college, I moved back in with the parents and then to my first apartment with Tony, and since then I have spent approximate three nights by myself.  As someone who has more than once considered peeing the bed rather than getting up to face the night monsters that haunt my apartment, this is probably a good thing.  (No.  I haven’t done it.  But I have considered it much longer than most rational people would.)

So the announcement that my husband would be sporadically working a late shift, leaving me to fend for myself IN THE DARK was not met enthusiastically.  However, he’s got a good job and it far outweighs my desperate fear of, well, everything, so I’m told, and apparently I need to put on my big girl pants and be some sort of adult that isn’t terrified of shadows.

Today I gave myself a good talking to; I was going to come home like a normal person, clean up, make dinner, and relax for a few hours before going to bed at a reasonable hour.  There is nothing to be afraid of.  I’m behind approximately four locked doors and am five flights of stairs up.  No one wants to come here.  We have to bribe friends to come here because they hate the stairs so much.  Plus – we don’t even have windows on the back porch.  If criminals are looking up to this and thinking that there’s anything of value behind the plastic covered frames, they are sadly, sadly mistaken and probably stupid enough that even I could outsmart them.

That being said – here’s how tonight went so far.

  • Arrive home to completely dark apartment.  Vow to be sitting on the porch in the dark with a weapon if husband ever forgets to turn on kitchen light before he leaves again.
  • Turn on every single light in apartment, including scary extra bedrooms that no one goes in as well as bathroom light.  (Scary monsters can’t sneak up on you when it’s light inside.  They’re like gremlins.)
  • Turn on music with well-adjusted person’s intentions to cook dinner like a normal human.
  • Begin arduous attempts at lighting stove, Laura Ingalls Wilder-style, because THAT’S WHEN THIS STOVE WAS MADE.
  • Alternate between swearing at stove and surreptiously looking out the window for scary monsters that are surely levitating to the third floor for the sole purpose of terrifying me.
  • Successfully get first stove ever invented started.  Begin chopping vegetables.
  • Whirl around with knife every 32 seconds to surprise the murderer I know is lurking on my porch.
  • Attempt to interest the cats in conversation and/or a dance party to distract me from scary monsters.
  • Pout a bit when realize cats would much prefer scary monsters come get me to this ridiculous attempt at normalcy.
  • Have a small heart attack after closing the door to pee and realize I now have to reopen the door with no weapon.
  • Successfully exit bathroom, making myself feel better by shouting, “Ah-HAH!” whilst opening door.  (Scary monsters are also frightened by loud noises.)
  • Decide to check the internets for a distraction.
  • Spend approximately 15 minutes finding the least horrifying angle – must either face the back door and see intruder coming, giving me 15 extra seconds of terror before being murdered or sit with my back to it, which anyone who’s ever seen a gangster movie knows is a terrible idea.  (So I’m told.  I can’t watch them due to the nightmares.)
  • Decide against calling my sister, who, upon coming home alone to a broken sliding glass door, stalked around her condo with a knife instead of keeling over dead from a heart attack.  I don’t need another “Stop being such a pansy,” lecture.  Well, I probably do, but until they start working I don’t want one.

I’ve been told I’ll get used to it.  Being that it’s 10PM and this place is brighter than the Empire State Building, in addition to the fact that the idea of turning off one of the lights fills me with dread, I’m assuming that’s not going to be anytime soon.

So.  Anyone want to come over??  I made dinner….. I’m just too afraid to go back in the kitchen to get it.

This?  Is what disdain looks like.

This? Is what disdain looks like.

Celebrities I’m Already Tired of in 2013

Here we are in a new year, folks!  Happy 2013!  It’s the time of year everyone’s going to lose weight, stop smoking, get control of the clutter in our lives, and stop watching so much damn TV.  Right?  Bullshit.  Ask me in November 2013 what’s changed since January and I guarantee most responses will be something along the lines of, “Yeah, what the fuck ever.  I was probably drunk when I said that.”  I’m all for resolutions and wanting to better your life, but as I’ve stated before, every time I make them I end up in a pile of Weight Watchers cookbooks somewhere around January 15th, smoking a cigarette, looking for my shoes while partially mesmerized by an NCIS marathon and eating mashed potatoes.

Just me?  Okay.  I can buy that – perhaps some of you actually stick to what you say you’re going to do.  That being said, it’s four days in and I am already irritated by the anticipated celebrity news that’s going to to fucking polarize everyone in the upcoming year.  Here’s a few people that I promise you are going to be sick of by May.

Kim Kardashian and Kanye West and their vile offspring.

Kanye KimYeah, cause you’re super excited to hear about this for the next couple of months, aren’t you?  Two of the most irritating, talentless, money-hungry assholes in Hollywood are going to HAVE A BABY???  Well thank Christ cause you know what we need?  More kids that think the world is theirs for the taking despite a lack of any discernable skill.  That’s pretty much what America’s been missing.  And as a service to you, you don’t need to look at a tabloid for the next six months – here’s the headlines.

“Kim’s Baby Bump!”

“Kanye to Kim – You’re Too Fat!”

“Kim to Kanye – Leave Me and My Baby Alone!”

“Kim and Kanye Cheating Scandal!  Kim tells Kanye, ‘You’re Not the Father!’”

“Bruce Jenner, ‘Oh For the Love of Fuck.  Someone Kill Me.’”

“Kanye and Kim’s $3Million Nursery!”

You know how this ends?  #kimye  #yourparentssuck  #sorryyouhavenochanceofnotbeinganasshole

(And yeah.  It really hurt to say kimye.  But you know it’s happening.  You do.  Give it a minute.)

Rihanna and Chris Brown

rihanna-chris-brown-lakers-christmas-05

So they’re back together, and super happy about it.  Am I the only one who doesn’t care?  I don’t know what happened back in 2009.  What I do know is that these are two grown adults, both of whom have access to the best resources available for anger management and domestic abuse issues.  If EITHER of them choose not to take advantage, I. Don’t. Care.  Does anyone else not want to hear about this shit for another year?  The only reason these two are stlll relevant is because he beat the crap out of her before an awards show.   I don’t care to follow the rest of this dysfunctional relationship through another year of Grammy’s and VMA’s.  Now we’re going to celebrate their “music achievements?”  Fuck you.  If he was average Joe he’d be in jail (I hope,) and if she were Average Jane she’d be in a shelter.  Fuck you both for glorifying it.  I don’t want to hear about your damn romance for the next year.  Cause I. Don’t. Care.  Have I mentioned that?

Mariah Carey vs. Nicki Minaj

mariah nickiHi.   Perhaps no one mentioned to you two that American Idol has been obsolete since 2008.  And possibly before then.  Ladies?  Paula Abdul quit.  Paula.  Fucking. Abdul.  That didn’t give you the clue this show was jumping the fucking shark?  Ryan Seacrest has replaced Dick fucking Clark and the only reason I can possibly fathom he’s still around is due to a contract signed way before he knew his white teeth, small stature, and radio voice would make him millions.   I’m not disparaging either Mariah’s or Nicki’s talent – they both have it in spades, albeit in different formats.  That being said, Ryan. Seacrest.  Is probably making more on this show than you.  You don’t get to have a diva fight.  Because Ryan. Fucking. Seacrest. is more popular than you two.  Stop judging.  He’s the bigger diva.  Yeah, I know it’s sad.  But I’m not in charge of everything, despite my repeated requests.  Life’s a bitch, girls.

In short, to say that I’m not excited about the celebrity news that’s forthcoming in 2013 might be an understatement.  But unless Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift make a love child, this is what we’re dealing with.

And if I ever have to write “Justtay” or “Biebswift” I’m punching everyone in the ears; I don’t care whose fault it is.

Happy New Year!

How Not to Get Invited to Another Party

Even though football season is over in Chicago – and DAMN YOU, Minnesota, you stupid purple bastards – we’re still seeing plenty of commercials for those of you lucky enough to have teams in the playoffs.  Such commercials boast folks gathering at apartments and houses in team jerseys, partying it up with friends while they cheer their teams to victory.  Throughout the football season, there’s been a plethora of suggestions of how to really make it a party, with various food chains and beer manufacturers all trying to trick us into believing that their product is the key ingredient missing from our gatherings; that our snack and drink selection is simply incomplete if we neglect to serve their particular brand of foodstuffs.

Now, as someone who spent most of the season camped out in my living room, watching games with the same three men, two of whom would eat pretty much anything that was put out as long as I waited until most of the booze was consumed and the other being my husband, who won’t eat anything I cook and thus has learned to fend for himself, I’m hardly considering myself some sort of party goddess.  Were they to ask what to bring to my house on football Sunday, the most likely response from me would be something along the lines of, “Bring your own beer and oh, if you don’t mind bringing a roll of toilet paper so I don’t have to go the store, that’d be great.”  Sure, sometimes I’d make chili or wings, but it was just as likely that I’d bring a bag of Tostitos out for everyone to share straight from the bag.

That being said – some of these commercials trying to encourage us to buy a particular product are just batfuck ridiculous.  Here’s the best.  (Or worst, depending on perspective.)

The KFC Party Bucket

KFCWhile there’s certainly nothing intrinsically wrong with KFC – I mean, who doesn’t like fried chicken? – has anyone else noticed in this commercial that there is approximately seven pieces of chicken for about 20 people?   Unless your goal is to get your guests as drunk as monkeys due to lack of food or hope to host some sort of “Last Wing Standing” competition between the people you’ve invited to your home, you should probably offer them more than one chicken part per every three guests.  And the thing that really makes me nuts about this particular commercial is that the guy that brings it is such a damn hero, like, Oh, thank God we don’t have to eat cheese and crackers – WHICH THERE’S PLENTY OF – and now can arm wrestle for an ounce of chicken to gnaw off the bone.

Taco Bell Party Pack

Taco BellNo.  No, do not think outside the bun.  And if you insist on thinking outside the bun, think fucking pizza.  Because tacos?  Are not party/appetitizer/public food.  Taco Bell, like White Castles, should be consumed in the privacy of your own home, in shame, as God intended.  You bring a boxful of horsemeat tacos and a bag of hot sauce packets to a party, the only way you’re getting invited back is if you offer to fumigate the bathroom and the air out the house the next day.

The Bud Light Six Pack

bud lightYeah, I know that’s not a six pack.  I’m simply demonstrating that in the time it took for you to look at that picture, this is what is left of said six pack, assuming you have more than three people at your “party.”  While it’s perfectly acceptable to show up at a party with a six pack for yourself, provided you aren’t planning on drinking seventeen, this one is more aimed at that Bud Light commercial that shows a refrigerator with about 10 beers and a half bottle of ketchup in the fridge and then pans to about 40 people enjoying said beverage.  Rule number one of any party where your guests are planning on consuming alcoholic beverages - Do. Not. Run. Out. Of. Booze.  Having ten Bud Light caliber beers for a gathering that is supposed to last for more than forty minutes and includes more than two people  is simply not acceptable.  Plan accordingly.

Again, please understand I realize I can hardly throw stones from my Miller Lite-and-potato-chip-laden apartment.  Martha Stewart would simply keel over from sheer horror should she ever step foot in here as I’m yelling, “Hey, bring that bag of popcorn on your way back, wouldya?” in the middle of a game.  But if I happen to be invited someplace else, you can bet your ass I’m showing up with some sort of homemade dip or appetizer in a nice dish that will be much better received than a plastic bag of fucking tacos.

So I’m asking you, advertising gurus, to please be more realistic in your depictions going forward.  If there’s forty people at a party, do not dare to have someone walk in with one bucket of chicken.  Because if the party you’re advertising is actually happening, the guests have had half a beer, a taco filled with grade D meat and something that probably used to be cheese, and some time to realize they should have gone elsewhere, and they are probably angry.  I’d hate for the guy with the chicken parts to get hurt.

 

 

 

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