Category Archives: I Will Punch You
Remember when you were in junior high school and there was that one awful, mean girl? The one who made a big point to take your usual seat at the lunch table and leave you standing with your stupid lunch bag, too timid to stand up to her and turning bright red when none of your other friends did either? She was the one that told the boy you liked how you wrote his name in your notebook, made fun of your bookbag, helpfully told your teacher about the note you wrote (at her insistence,) and loudly announced that you had your period in a room full of prepubescent boys. Then she asked that boy to the dance for you, bought the same bookbag in a different color, and conspiratorally asked you for a tampon in the bathroom, fooling you once again into thinking she was your friend.
Of course you remember her. She was a fucking menace. All of us remember her. Because at one point in time, we all knew her, or we were her, or wanted to be her friend, depending on which way your hormones were raging that day. Junior high girls are the epitome of bullies; they’re why no woman, ever, recalls with complete happiness the preteen years. There may have been good moments, but they were all tainted by that awful girl. You show me a woman that cannot recall, with alaming accuracy, a traumatizing encounter with that girl at her school and I will show you a woman who is still plotting her revenge.
So what is it, exactly, about social media that makes grown women turn into the adult version of that girl? Under the guise of screen names, we have no problem calling other women fat, ugly, stupid, the list goes on. We have no trouble criticizing a woman’s entire parenting style based on one photograph, her entire wardrobe based on one outfit, her entire personality based on one comment. What the hell, ladies? What about the anonymity of the internet has turned us all into Regina George?
I bet Maria Kang is wondering the same thing. If you haven’t heard – and I’m sure most of you have – Ms. Kang is a fitness blogger who has come under a staggering amount of scrutiny for a photo she posted to her own Facebook page. Here’s the picture.
Looks pretty good, doesn’t she? Three little kids and still puts that much time and energy into her fitness and health? She probably eats healthy and hardly ever uses the cats “bothering her” as a reason not to do her home fitness DVDs. I bet she doesn’t have a recipe called “Spaghetti Monster” that includes cream cheese. And I’d wager she doesn’t eat chicken kiev for breakfast whilst watching the marathon on TV! Kudos to you, Ms. Kang!
This is what went through my head when I saw the picture. Did it make me feel bad about myself? No. Did I feel as though she was chastising me or shaming me? Not so much. Did it propel me off the couch? No, but if I was forced to pick an emotion, it would be “inspired” as opposed to “shamed.” If she can do it with three kids, I certainly could. Then I saw she was a fitness blogger with a huge following, and honestly, I thought, what a fabulous tagline! If I was actively trying to lose weight, I would print this picture out and put it on my fridge. Good for her!
The internets disagreed. While there were certainly people that supported her and agreed with the message, a good portion of the 18,000 comments – yes, you read that right, and I bet you couldn’t find an article about the government shutdown with half as many comments, but that’s another bag of apples entirely – were downright hateful. People called her a liar, (because obviously she couldn’t look THAT good,) a terrible mother, (because clearly a nanny was raising her children; obviously the only thing that is important to her is looking beautiful,) and even went so far as to question her children’s parentage, (“They’re probably not even her kids; they all look different.”) Common denominator in these comments? All women.
What the hell, ladies? Why the hate? Here’s a successful woman – a wife and mother who blogs about what works for her and how she’s been able to maintain a healthy lifestyle and workout routine while managing a busy family. She’s a fitness blogger, which leads me to believe that most people following her are women trying to do what she does, who are looking for advice and inspiration. So why, instead of taking that photo as an inspiration and getting moving, are we sitting behind our computers, trying to find the faults to tear her down? It makes no sense.
While we’re on tearing down – can we all please leave Miley Cyrus the fuck alone? I swore I wasn’t going to chime in on this so as not to add to the fact that WE ARE STILL TALKING ABOUT HER, but I can’t help myself. I saw today that Paul McCartney finally weighed in on what is apparently the debate of the goddamn year. It’s only a matter of time before the President chimes in and then we’re all going to be mad because he has better things to be doing but you know what? We made this happen. We have taken a performance on an awards show and elevated it to a national concern about the youth of today, turning Miley into a cautionary tale about what happens to good little Hannah Montana when she doesn’t listen to her parents. Give me a break. You don’t want your daughter to look up to or emulate her? I bet your mama didn’t want you to act like and dress like Madonna, which only made you like her more. And I bet her parents didn’t want her dating that boy who tried to look like that dirty hippie, Paul McCartney.
My point? She isn’t really doing anything different – it’s just that every single word, thought, and action is immediately visible and public now. And at this point, it doesn’t matter what she does or says – she could be saving orphans and kittens in her spare time and people are still going to be all, from behind their computers, “Yeah, but did you see those shorts she was wearing?” Which is how I hope she sees it – something along the lines of “Well, they’re not going to be happy anyway, might as well get naked on a wrecking ball!”
Maybe next time instead of automatically assuming the worst, we think for a second of whether we would say out loud to one person what we’re about to publish silently to hundreds? Don’t turn into that junior high bully. You remember how awful that felt – I bet women like Maria and Miley do, too.
“How To Be a Good Girlfriend,” According to Cosmo or “Put Down the Cosmo RIGHT NOW,” According to Me
The other day, I came across this little gem in a blog that I follow. I’ve seen it before and it never fails to make me laugh – I mean seriously? “His topics of conversation are more important than yours?” Piss OFF – and as I looked through it, it got me thinking about what today’s guide might say. I was curious. I mean, this guide is clearly no longer relevant – really, “Offer to take off his shoes?” Piss OFF – but what would the modern woman’s guide to dating say? With all of the Facebook and Twitter and texting and Instagram and Tumblr and the fabulous ability to completely stalk someone without their knowledge, it has to be considerably different than the last time I was on the market, way back when we were still figuring out codes for pagers.
So I did some Google searching and came up with this article from Cosmopolitan, and if possible, I’m a little more horrified at this “Do’s and Don’ts” guide than the 1955 version. Who are these girlfriends and the guys that want them? Here’s a few of their “guidelines” to being a good girlfriend. Take a look and then please help me understand how we are supposed to be raising a strong, intelligent, independent generation of women. Because if they’re following all of this advice, we’re failing.
- Do: Watch the Game with His Friends
- Don’t: Cheer Really Loudly, Chug Beer, or Tell Off-Color Jokes
- Apparently, watching the game with his friends says “You’re easygoing and cool,” but enjoying the game as much as him says, “You’re crass and un-ladylike.” Well of course I’m being crass and unladylike. THERE’S FOOTBALL ON. It’s a very un-ladylike game. What do you want me to say when Cutler throws one directly into double coverage in the red zone? “Oh, fudge, sweetie. Let me refill the snacks?” PISS OFF.
- Do: Buy Him Tickets as a Gift
- Don’t: Buy Him a Sweater
- Let me guess – the tickets are for something that her delicate sensibilities can’t handle, like a loud band or baseball game that he can go to with a friend? No way, Jose. Plus – if he needs a sweater, he needs a fucking sweater. And if it “reminds him of his mother,” because she’s the one that buys him clothes? Probably best to take a step back and but quick anyhow – dude’s got mommy issues, honey. Promise.
- Do: Leave a Pretty, Delicate Piece of Jewelry at His Place
- Don’t: Leave a Toothbrush
- Apparently the idea behind this is to make sure your man is reminded of you, but nothing too forward and crazy that might scare his dull mind into thinking you’re serious about your relationship. You know what? You can’t brush your fucking teeth with a necklace, and you can’t replace a pretty necklace with a toothbrush. Also, if you are creating an environment where I don’t feel comfortable leaving a toothbrush at your place, guess what? I’m using yours, asshole.
- Do: In Public, Give Him a Quick Kiss
- Don’t: In Public, Be All Over Him
- Unless, of course, you’re super hot. Then do whatever you want.
- Do: Wear a Matching, Lacy Bra-and-Panty Set
- Don’t: Wear Complicated Teddies and Bustiers
- Clearly, because men hate porn and often contemplate how they’re glad their girlfriends don’t wear that stuff because they hate buttons. Also, if he notices your matching set of underpants instead of trying to get you OUT of them, it probably doesn’t really matter what you wear.
- Do: Bring His Mother Homemade Cookies – Oatmeal Raisin is Best
- Don’t: Bring His Mother Flowers or Wine
- The reasoning behind this is that homemade cookies show more thought and will make his mom stoked that you can bake, and bringing flowers requires your hostess to duck out and find a vase, which could be uncomfortable. If his mommy is going to be upset you can’t bake her golden boy cookies, or judge the fact that you brought flowers, listen closely and take this advice very, very seriously. Start running, as fast as you fucking can, in any possible direction. You will never win, give up now, do not pass go, do not collect $200.
What the fuck, Cosmo? How about “Be Yourself, Because That’s What He’s Going to Do, and If He Doesn’t Like It, He’s Wrong for You – Move the Fuck On!”
When did we Chicagoans turn into a bunch of pansies when it comes to snow? It’s a disturbing trend that seems to worsen each year. Every single time it snows, the media plays it up so much that one would think the fucking end of the world was imminent. Up until a few years ago, the news broadcast would be something like, “Oh, and we’re probably going to get some snow tomorrow, so plan accordingly!” Now, each time the radar has a speck of white on it, they’re all, “OH MY GOD IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD SHUT THE STATE DOWN AND BEGIN STOCKING CANNED GOODS!! EMERGENCY!!!!” And like freaking sheep, we buy into it, nodding our heads, bemoaning the disaster to befall us the next day.
When did we forget that 90% of the time, the weather broadcasters are wrong? And barring that, when did we forget that we live in Chicago?? It’s the Midwest, everyone! We’re hearty people! Five inches of snow? Pssht. Shovel it out, throw a lawn chair in your parking spot, and head on into work. Unless there’s over a foot, the only thing that needs to be said is, “Eh, really coming down out there, huh?” This is why we keep shovels in our cars (well, obviously I don’t, but that’s because I’m woefully unprepared for pretty much any situation. Sometimes I forget to wear a coat,) bags of salt in our doorways, and have boots. Because we live in Chicago. And it fucking snows here. Occasionally, it snows a whole fucking lot. And we know this. Because it’s CHICAGO and that’s what happens in the winter.
That being said, here’s a couple things to help you keep in mind for the next “Snowpocalypse,” which will probably happen sometime around the second week in April.
Whilst Waiting for the Bus – Use Caution.
I was actually pretty happy it was snowing this morning. It was that big, pretty snow that just made the city look beautiful. And while it was coming down pretty hard by the time I left for work, it was relatively warm and I happily made my way to the bus stop, listening to Pandora and just generally enjoying my lovely, snow-covered city.
When I got to the corner where my stop is, I was the only one there and saw a bus coming from only about a block away. I learned quickly in my CTA adventures that if you are the only one at a bus stop, it’s necessary to make yourself visible as otherwise your transportation will go zooming past you without a second glance, leaving you standing on the sidewalk like a dolt with your bus card in your hand, all, “But, whaaa? Wait! You didn’t stop!” (This doesn’t make them come back for you, FYI.) So I was standing right up under the sign, trying to make eye contact with the yet-unseen driver, when a complete douchetard in a stupid car came flying down Chicago, going way too fast for conditions, I might add, spraying the giant pile of accumulated slush over my head in a manuever that probably should have been on YouTube. The first time this happened to me earlier this year, I laughed it off, saying I hope someone at least saw it so they had a good story. This time? Kind of wanted to throw baseball bats at his car. Added bonus? The aforementioned driver saw the whole thing and added insult to (wet) injury by remarking, “Pretty messy out here, huh?”
Pretty, Giant Snowflakes Can Cover Up Ugly, Giant Ice Patches.
If you live outside city limits, you probably don’t have to do a lot of walking in the snow. While this certainly presents its own challenges – namely, driving in stop and go traffic because everyone forgets how to operate an automobile the second cumulus clouds develop – having to travel on foot in snowy weather is a whole other bag of pain in the ass. Especially if one lives in a neighborhood where shoveling your sidewalk is not a priority. Which my neighborhood apparently is. Despite it being a relatively mild winter, what snow/ice that has accumulated has stayed right where it started and to put it bluntly, it’s slippery as all fuck outside. Which, if you have a short memory like yours truly, can pose a problem. As I stepped out, my enjoyment of the beautiful snow was quickly undercut as I stepped one foot into the alley and nearly snapped my leg in half trying to overcorrect after hitting a patch of ice the size of my dining room table. Use caution, folks. There’s evil underfoot in the form of solid ice posing as snow.
Don’t Log In to Facebook. I Promise. Just Don’t.
As I may have mentioned before, weather updates via Facebook make me kind of homicidal. Pictures of your backyard, kids/dog in the snow, a fabulous snowman? Bring it on. Love it. I get that. Got stuck for four and a half hours in traffic? Okay, I can understand that one. Posting statuses freaking out from 5PM the night before the impending doomstorm that may or may not actually happen? Stop it. Just stop it. Yes, it probably will take forever to get to work tomorrow. Yes, it probably will take forever to get HOME from work tomorrow. Yes, it probably will snow. Yes, it probably will be messy. Yes, drivers probably will be fucking morons. Yes, you probably will be one of them. STOP. IT.
Side note? I have to say this. Teachers? I do love you. You have a nearly impossible job, which is thankless, underpaid, underappreciated, and extraordinarily stressful. So please don’t misunderstand when I say if I see one more post about how you have a snow day BEFORE THERE IS ANY SNOW, I will kind of want to punch you. Also? To those few who didn’t get a snow day and took to social media whining and complaining about how you can’t believe your school is the one that didn’t give you a snow day and how dare they expect you to work – um, you’re pretty much part of the only profession that gets to not work due to weather. Every single other person in the Chicagoland area has to figure out how to get to work tomorrow – you can do it too! You’re a teacher! I have full confidence that you can navigate your way to school just like the rest of us have to navigate ourselves to work.
In a nutshell – stand back from the street, watch your step, and quit your bitching. Embrace the snow. Enjoy it. It’s a short few months before we’re all sticking to the seat of the car and sitting in front of box fans and complaining about our sunburns. And guess what? We’ll survive that too. Promise.
Haven’t done the Friday Blast Off: What I Said vs. What I Meant in awhile, mostly because the past few weeks it probably would have consisted of “What I Said – Nothing,” and “What I Meant – YOU DAMN JACKHOLE, GET IT TOGETHER!” But something caught my eye this week that made me actually roll my eyes out loud, if that’s possible. Going through Yahoo! news earlier in the week, I came across the headline, “Kanye West’s On-Stage rant: Rapper disses Taylor Swift, Jay-Z, Justin Timberlake in London.” And even thought I knew – I KNEW – it was going to make me want to punch my computer, I clicked on it.
Hey guess what? I was right. Here’s three people/things he said really smart stuff about. And by really smart stuff I mean – Oh, right, you are still a fucking idiot and please fall off my planet.
Poor little Taylor. She’s come under some fire lately, most notably because that whole teen-angst thing that has made her famous has kind of played itself out. If you wanted to date her before, you’re scared to now because you are for sure going to end up the chorus of a song detailing what a heartbreaking bastard you are. (She was too young for you anyway, John Mayer, you dirty bird.) That being said, the girl is still selling millions of albums and selling out arenas all over the world and continues to win awards; she’s clearly doing something right. Despite this, Kanye once again dissed her in comparison to Beyonce, seemingly apropos of nothing. What, exactly, has this girl done to him that makes him so publicly criticize her? I mean, if he was having a baby with Beyonce or married to her, I could at least get the reasoning behind it. But he’s not. In fact, he’s having a baby with the most talentless bag of hair I’ve ever seen. (Oh yes, still so much hate for the Kardashians.) And it’s not like Beyonce’s some big underdog that needs his championing. In fact, if I had to guess, she would probably rather not be associated with this idiot at all.
Dissing Jay-Z and Justin Timberlake’s New Song
Which brings me to my next point. I may not be in the music industry, and I while I do love me some rap I realize that knowing every single word to Eazy-E’s “Gimme Dat Nutt,” while impressive, does not make me extremely knowledgeable about the background of the genre. (Totally true story. I also do Eminem’s “Without Me,” at karaoke. Want to surprise a DJ? Be a blond white girl in your thirties and put your name in on that song.) Keeping that in mind, one thing I do know is that Jay-Z kind of helped make you, Mr. Art School. And as of this writing, I have yet to find anyone that dislikes Justin Timberlake. The man has somehow crossed that line where men want to be him and women want to – um – be with him. I predict there will be many a song released in the next year with the same vibe as “Suit and Tie.” These two are powerhouses, like them or not. They could come out with a song with duck calls and cats meowing and I promise you people will be fighting each other to find the next underappreciated animal noise. They’re just that good.
Mocking Artists Who Take Money for Endorsements.
Right, kind sir, you probably started that whole clothing line because you have a deep, abiding love for fashion and that’s your life dream. And the other products you’ve endorsed, you’ve probably just really believed in their message, right? Like Pepsi changed your life and you need to broadcast and help spread their words? Please. Do you think that previously mentioned bag of hair you impregnated with your demon spawn isn’t going to exploit the hell out of every single product that child touches/uses/wears? During his tirade, he sings, “”Remind me again why we in this s***? Since when was making art about getting rich?” You dick. You. Dick. You just dropped $11 MILLION on a house and are worth about $90 million. Please, tell me more about how you are only doing this for your art and you don’t care about the money.
I’m not denying Kanye’s talent, as he surely has it. He’s an excellent producer and songwriter – hey, he’s famous for a reason, at least, unlike his rotten pregnant girlfriend. But his true colors have been bleeding through for awhile, and what they’re showing is an extreme air of entitlement and an inflated sense of self worth that’s bordering on narcissistic personality disorder and we all need to STOP CARING.
Because if we don’t, in 15 years we’re all going to obsessively listening to someone called Kimye and honestly? I can’t live in that world. I just can’t.
I’ve never been accused of being a girly-girl. While I had a deep-seated love for Cabbage Patch Kids and boy bands as a child, (and yeah, the boy band thing may not have gone away,) I dressed up as a hockey player in third grade when other girls were princesses. I was trying to play quarterback when my classmates were playing cheerleader. I panic at the thought of shopping, have to consciously stop myself from using the word “fuck” while talking to co-workers and “new people,” as I call them, and some of my favorite jokes are ones that cannot be told in polite company. (Which is a good thing, given my choice of husband and friends.) (Seriously, we keep a list on our fridge of “Things That Have Never Been Said Before,” that actually have been said at my house. Most of them are not repeatable.)
Keeping the above in mind, I was ecstatic that Seth MacFarlane was hosting the Oscars. (My non-girliness does not extend to awards shows. I love awards shows. Fucking LOVE them. All the dresses and hair and the shoes and the red carpet and the excitement and the famous people. Can’t get enough.) I looked forward to them more than I had in years – because seriously? The hosts always try to make some jokes about the attendees, and they always seem to fall flat – Billy Crystal excepted – because everyone is so afraid of offending someone or stepping over the line. But Seth MacFarlane, who makes fun of everyone, exploits every weakness, and isn’t afraid to drop an f-bomb here or there? He would be fabulous!
And I thought he was. Sure, he teeter-tottered on that tightrope of offensiveness, but for the most part, I thought he did a great job of not going overboard while simultaneously keeping what’s normally a tedious couple of hours entertaining. So I was somewhat surprised at the backlash he received the following day, being called misogynistic, sexist, racist, and culminating in the “Worst Oscars Ever.” People? You all need to calm the fuck down. Seriously. Re-fucking-lax. Take a joke.
The Salma Hayek, Javier Bardem, Penelope Cruz joke.
While mentioning the above three, MacFarlane joked, ““We have no idea what they’re saying but we don’t care because they’re so attractive.” Um, hello? Every single time Penelope Cruz is on TV, I’m all, “What? What did she say?” I can’t understand her. Does it make her stupid? Absolutely not. Does it make her any less of a phenomenal actress? No. Does it take away from her award-winning performances? Negative. Same with Bardem and Hayek. All he did was find the possibility of a flaw in three of the most beautiful people on the planet and exploited it. Did anyone come after Ellen DeGeneres after this commercial where she tells Sofia Vergara, “That’s because no one can understand you.” NO. Why was this different?
The Abraham Lincoln Joke.
While talking about the film “Lincoln,” MacFarlane remarked, “This is interesting, Daniel Day-Lewis is not the first actor to be nominated for playing Lincoln. Raymond Massey portrayed him in 1940’s “Abe Lincoln In Illinois.” This is true. I would argue, however, that the actor who really got inside Lincoln’s head was John Wilkes Booth.” Much of the audience waited a beat before groaning in disgust and I thought the host’s response of, “Is 150 years too soon?” was hilarious. C’mon, Hollywood. You’re going to gasp in disapproval and be all offended? You know if you were on your couch at home and not on the camera you would have laughed. It. Was. Funny. How many people do you think started to laugh and then when they heard the murmur of disapproval changed their minds and shook their heads? I bet it was a lot.
This is perhaps MacFarlane’s most maligned number of the night. Short version, he sang a song highlighting several women who have been topless in various films, and the reaction from some of those mentioned? Was not positive, to put it mildly. Um, ladies? We did see your boobs. You can call it art, you can call it acting, you can defend it in the name of your craft all you want. You still showed your tits in front of a camera, for millions of people to see. Does that mean it’s degrading, or not artistic, or distasteful? No. But you still showed your boobs. I promise you, Seth MacFarlane is not the only person that internally giggles when he sees you and thinks, all Beavis and Butthead style, “Heh. I’ve seen her boobs.” And if you didn’t consider that possibility, you’re kind of dumb. And the fact that these women, Assemblywoman Bonnie Lowenthal, and Sen. Hannah-Beth Jackson, actually took the time to write a letter to the academy, stating that MacFarlane’s jokes, “reduced our finest female actresses to caricatures and stereotypes, degrading women as a whole and the filmmaking industry itself,” makes me think that politicians in California? Probably need some more focus. Seriously, folks, these are Hollywood actresses. And please don’t get me wrong here – I’m honestly not downplaying their accomplishments or talents, or fabulous boobs, for that matter – but honestly? An enormous portion of these women’s collective success is based on their phenomenal looks. And I promise you, they got paid a substantial amount more for showing their knockers than if they’d refused. If you don’t want people to mention they’ve seen your boobs – don’t show your fucking boobs. It’s quite simple, really.
In short? Get over yourselves, Hollywood. You’re not classy anymore, and if we dig down deep enough, you really haven’t ever been. There’s always been scandals and sex tapes and cheating and mysterious deaths and tragic downfalls and profanity and nastiness and cover-ups. And if you don’t want that exposed on your big, shining, celebratory evening where you all act like you’re the bestest of friends and you wouldn’t stab your tablemate with a salad fork if you thought it would get you a better role? Don’t ask someone who has made their living saying what everyone else is too afraid to say to be your host for the evening.
Cheers to you, Seth MacFarlane. I thought you were great.
As anyone who has read this blog knows, a good portion of it is dedicated to venting about people that have shown some sort of incompetence. Whether it’s in line at the grocery store, on a crowded bus, or on my computer or television in the form of “news,” and “celebrities,” pretty much everyone I have any sort of contact with who isn’t one of my immediate friends or family is a fucktard in my mind.
Although I spend a lot of time seething over other’s idiocy, rest assured, I’m hardly sitting on some high horse. I mean, this morning, I went to put on my rainboots as I was determined not to fall on my ass yet again and found a dollar bill, three bottle caps, and two crumpled up drawings of clowns that appeared to be in jail jammed in the foot. Despite not having children to blame this on, I wasn’t surprised. So believe me, my glass castle shattered some moons ago. Despite this, I still have no problem calling out the general public on their inadequacies and dumbfuckery at the grocery store or on the bus. However, I’ve had a few incidents in the past week or so which have me think that perhaps I’m being a tad judgmental. And that sometimes? I’m the fucktard.
Incident #1 – Dominicks.
Earlier this week, I made my daily stop to Dominicks after work. There appeared to be four thousand people in the store, and the lines were already about 15 deep. I got hit with a cart, blocked by a trio of elderly ladies debating the merits of their yogurt brands, accosted by someone posing as a medical professional who wanted to check my spine, and almost exploded from holding in profanity whilst waiting for the cutesy couple in front of me to figure out how to pull a produce bag off the roll. (Hint – it’s not by standing there and giggling, “OMG! I ripped another bag! You try!” “No, you try! You can do it!.” So very much hate.) By the time I got to the end of the line behind 17 people waiting for the self-checkout, I was already kind of crazy and spent the next 15 minutes in line cursing each and every one of my fellow shoppers. I was seething at the inefficiency and sheer stupidity of these folks who were holding up the line. Tapping my foot, rolling my eyes, sighing huffily – the whole nine yards.
Until I got my own dumb ass up there, scanned my container of soup (one of the main reasons I still frequent Dominicks is they have the most amazing baked potato soup on the planet,) a six-pack of Miller Lite, a roll of toilet paper, and some cat food. It was right about here that I realized I had eight singles in my purse, along with a whole mess of quarters. Now, not only am I that person holding up the line, but I’m paying for the saddest combination of items ever WITH CHANGE. And then? I ran out of quarters. So if I was looking for a lesson in humility, I certainly got it while digging for sixty more cents in my purse while everyone behind me tapped their feet in exasperation, rolled their eyes, and mentally called me a pathetic jackass in unison.
Incident #2 – CTA Part One.
The CTA has done everyone a big favor since the new year in raising their prices on one-day, three-day, and seven-day passes. And by “done everyone a favor,” I really mean bent them over without consent, lube, or dinner. Without going into all of the math, it is no longer economically efficient for me to buy a seven-day pass and instead makes more sense to buy ten dollar CTA cards every couple of days. Which means, of course, with me being me and whatnot, I occasionally find myself near running to (fucking) Dominick’s before work once a week because I forgot my pass is no longer valid. Earlier this week, I got on the bus, put in my card, and got the hateful message that there was only $.75 on my card. Once again finding myself digging around for change, I assumed the bus driver would do what every other bus driver does when the person is short, which is either wave them on or let other, better prepared folks board while I got my shit together.
But if that had happened, it wouldn’t be my life. So instead, the bus driver just sat there while I dug around frantically for my wallet – and isn’t it always the case that the more you’re in a panicked rush, the more shit you drop? Seriously, normally I can reach in my purse without looking and find my lighter, keys, and phone within seconds – leaving everyone waiting behind me in literal freezing rain. After I’d dropped my lunch on the floor, pulled out a tampon wrapped around my headphones, and mistook a quarter for a penny, I finally had enough to carry on and began walking through the near empty bus while other passengers boarded. And apparently said bus driver really had it in for me, because as soon as my last quarter passed through, everyone else jumped on the bus and she immediately slammed on the gas. At which point I dropped my lunch a-fucking-gain and was too afraid to bend over and pick it up while the bus was lurching to and fro, then caught my foot in the plastic bag it was in and nearly gave someone a very unwelcome lap dance.
Incident #3 – CTA Part Two.
I get out of work at 5:30 every night. From there I catch the Blue Line at Clark/Lake in order to catch my bus. For those unfamiliar, the Clark/Lake stop is a relatively busy one, as every other train line save the Red Line stops there. In addition, 5:30 is somewhat of a turning point – it’s not necessarily considered “rush hour,” anymore, so if you miss a train by 30 seconds, you may be stuck waiting for another 12 minutes listening to the guy play the buckets and desecrating some classic Temptations hits. The Blue Line train also runs to the airport, so quite often I’ve found myself behind some clueless tourists who are trying to pull their giant luggage through the turnstiles. (Another hint – it ALWAYS gets stuck. Always.) While I’ve certainly been frustrated by this, I will honestly say I never get mad at the tourists, because they don’t know any better and I do not forget that not long ago I was right there with them, terrified and confused by all of the people rushing by me.
That being said, I have often become apoplectic with the girls carrying giant gym bags, the sales guys in suits and backpacks standing at the turnstiles and just waving their wallet in front of the sensor despite it CLEARLY NOT RECOGNIZING THEIR CARD, the vagrants trying nine different cards that they’ve found on the ground, and the folks that get up to the turnstile and then begin searching for their pass, holding up the rest of the line for us savvy travelers. All of that being said, I have to wonder what names I was called today as I bopped up to the turnstiles with my headphones, singing along to Tiffany, when my card wasn’t accepted. No worries, I took it out, waited a beat, then tried to put it in again. No dice. Wouldn’t even go in the slot. Waited another moment – not noticing the security guard trying to get my attention as I was too involved in my music – and tried again. Nothing. Now, I’m irritated, and at the same time I look up to get the guard’s attention, he taps me on the shoulder. Exasperated, I turn around – with headphones still on, mind you – and make a “WHAT?” gesture. He points at my ear and I yank a headphone out, all, “Yes??” “It’s upside down, ma’am.” Me. (And I’m embarrassed about this, honestly.) “What? I can’t hear you.” “Your card. You’re putting it in upside down.”
I wonder how many people are telling stories about the dumb blonde they got stuck behind this week?
I really wanted to title this something more angry, (Three People That Should Be Shot Into the Sun was a frontrunner,) but I took a step back and tried to remember that one of the reasons I love my country so much is that we are all protected by the First Amendment and everyone is entitled to their opinion. No matter how much someone’s opinion makes me want to kick them in the shins, no matter how much I disagree, no matter how fucking wrong and ignorant they are, no matter how much they make me fear for humanity – they are entitled to their opinion. That being said? These people might want to reconsider theirs.
For the full perspective, please read the full article. It needs to be noted that the school itself, including its principal and administrators, are NOT in favor of this joke of a prom and instead welcome all students, regardless of sexual preference, to the actual dance and are not budging on the issue. This “Traditional Prom,” which would only include male/female couples and would ban homosexuals, has been developed by a select group of students, parents, and this fabulous teacher that everyone would obviously want to have. And by “everyone would want to have,” I mean OH SWEET BABY JESUS I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS WOMAN IS AN EDUCATOR. Ms. Medley has certainly come under the most fire for her comments, and I would almost feel sorry for her if she wasn’t such an idiot. In an interview, Ms. Medley compared her LGBT students to her special needs students, that she “cares” about her homosexual students despite not believing in homosexuality, and my personal favorite, responded “No,” to a question regarding whether homosexuals have a purpose.
Really? Are we not in 2013? I mean, I’m not a moron. I realize that we have a long way to go before there’s true equality and so on and so forth. But the fact that this woman, who is a teacher, who should be a CHAMPION of those that society shuns, can say with a straight face that she cares about all of her students while actively judging them astounds me. How much would you like to bet she also has strong opinions about her black students, about her overweight kids, about her goth kids, about her artistic students? I mean, she certainly SEEMS well rounded and not at all condescending, but – oh wait, no she doesn’t.
Despite a deep-seated love for both Jason Bateman and Melissa McCarthy, I haven’t yet seen “Identity Thief.” The movie itself might suck, I don’t know. But Mr. Reed’s comments about Melissa McCarthy are, in short, disgusting. The review seems to be an almost personal, vitriolic assault on McCarthy, calling her, “tractor-sized,” “a hippo,” and “obnoxious and obese.” I’m going to skip over the obvious, which could include things like, “Rex Reed is a complete dickhead,” “Rex Reed needs a fucking full-length mirror if he’s going to throw stones at people about their looks,” and “The females in Rex Reed’s life are probably super proud of him.” Instead, I say for one, I surely hope the fabulous Melissa is laughing all the way to the bank, as the movie was the highest-grossing yet this year and she has that whole Golden Globe/Oscar thing to fall back on. Two? I’m glad that the response has been overwhelmingly negative towards this narrow minded prick. I hope that the lesson that comes out of this is that, regardless of size, if you are awesome at what you do and work hard at it, you will be embraced in a positive manner and hopefully rewarded. I hope the other lesson is that if you’re a mean-spirited jerkface, people will eventually stop liking you. You’re losing the internet, Rex Reed.
So Pastor Alois Bell of the Almighty Church of Jerks that Shouldn’t Go Out To Eat, during a trip Applebees a few weeks ago, thought that if their large party split their check, they could sneak around the mandatory 18% gratuity on large parties. This is a common tactic among people that suck at going out to dinner, and as a former waitress is one of the several things that made me want to take a hostage after several hours of fetching water for a party of ten. Her waitress for the evening was not fooled by the ruse and added the 18% gratuity anyhow. Pastor Bell wasn’t having it, and scratched out the TWENTY NINE CENT tip, scribbling “I give God 10%, why do you get 18?”
Well, Ms. Bell, let me tell you. Because I? Have been running around like a fucking maid for you for the past two hours. I am in the position of depending on high and mighty jerks like you to pay for my rent and groceries. Which is why I ran around like a maid for you for the past two hours. I took all of your orders, I brought your drinks, I remembered who wanted medium and who wanted rare, I kept your glasses filled, I cleared your plates, I walked each and every person in your party through the menu because IT’S VERY CONFUSING, being Applebees and all, I explained your desserts, I found a vegan entree, I unearthed the special dipping sauce you like, I wiped up the sticky fucking mess the children in your party threw on the floor, I boxed up three bites of a cheeseburger for you to take home, I made fresh coffee because yours “tasted old,” I reheated your bread, and I split your fucking check eight different ways. And I did it all with a smile. For TWENTY NINE FUCKING CENTS. You know why? Because I take my job seriously, as demeaning and demoralizing as it can be. You can give God whatever you want, and bless you for it. But I’m pretty sure He would want you to give your waitress TWENTY NINE CENTS for waiting on you hand and foot all night. Also? If this is truly your belief, why are you angry and embarrassed about it now that someone other than your lowly waitress is aware of it?
***Edited: It appears I was incorrect in the tip amount; it was actually $6.29. Point remains the same.***
In short – yes, everyone’s entitled to their opinion and beliefs. And yes, I recognize the irony of writing an opinion piece on other people’s opinions. To quote one of my favorite movies ever, “Opinions are like assholes, honey. Everybody’s got one and everybody thinks everybody else’s stinks.”
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.
Well, 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…..
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.”
- I can’t list them all. Here’s the lyrics.
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?