Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics!
Here's what it's all about: My brain has a constant cacophony of crazy rants and raves, endless silly (and not so silly) observations, opinions, pet peeves & random questions that I can't seem to quiet. This blog is a concentrated effort to have some peace from my thoughts...by sharing them.
I've got nothing to lose but my pride and my mind, so buckle up and enjoy the ride!
Have you ever been so pissed off by some random person's thoughtless and inconsiderate actions that you wanted to write a nasty note? Sure you have. For instance, there is one particular inconsiderate jerk off that parks in the garage at work in such a way that his extra-special Rav4 or whatever shit he drives is taking up TWO primo pieces of parking garage real estate. Really?! I mean, the obnoxious sense of entitlement there is just astounding. No joke, when I pull up the ramp in the garage in the morning and I see his hunk of junk taking up an ENTIRE CORNER of the parking garage, my blood boils. Nobody likes seeing the inevitable dings in their door when they walk up to their car. Trust me; I know. I sometimes think that the people parked next to me must have tried to hit my door. I mean, how else do you really ding a car door to the point that the paint is gone all the way down to the primer? Ugh. But even still, I refrain from such blatantly obnoxious action as parallel parking my car across three spots to avoid the dings. One morning, the sight of his ridiculous SUV set me off so badly that I was rummaging madly through my suitcase of a purse, trying to find some scrap of paper to really tell him about himself. But alas, no paper. Just my luck. Well, I had a receipt, but it was a credit card receipt. I'm not against leaving a note, but to sign it with my full government name so the Rav4 owner can hunt me down and terrorize me? Yeah, not happening.
Anyway, my co-worker was called on an unexpected business trip the other day and had to rush to the airport. Apparently all of the spots in the garage were full and she saw everyone around her creating makeshift parking spots, so she decided to do the same. It was only a day trip, after all; she would only be gone for a few hours. So she parked her car as best she could, in her opinion leaving ample room for the surrounding cars to still navigate their way out if need be. Well, upon her return, imagine her surprise when she found this little love note waiting for her on her windshield:
Hahahahahahahahahahahaha! This note seriously made my day. I told her that I needed to make a copy and keep it in my purse so I could place it lovingly on the windshield of my garage nemesis' car the next time he pulled his douchebag move. I'm pretty sure this is the best nastygram ever. At least that I've seen thus far. I feel as though the author did a very good job of expressing their frustration and anger. Note the usage of the capital "F" and "A" for emphasis. Genius. To the author of this delightful little morsel of hilarity, I say this:
Dear Parking-Garage-Love-Note-Writer,
I salute you. Sure, my co-worker did nothing but laugh at the content of your note(and bring it into the office for show and tell)...buuuuuuuut I bet it made YOU feel better, now didn't it? And really, isn't that all that matters? Here's to standing up for yourself (albeit anonymously) and for inspiring me to put a pack of Post-It® Notes in my purse so I too, can help to rid the world of inconsiderate pricks, one hateful nastygram at a time. Thanks, guy.
Okay, so I promised you some sort of post regarding the Royal Wedding and all of its fashion glory. I know I'm a little late, but better late than never. My impression can pretty much be summed up by one photograph:
Hahahahaha! Joan Rivers, I am not. Happy Friday, folks!
Happy Hump Day, kiddos! I’m not sure if anyone else takes note of the Google doodles on the Google homepage every day, but a couple of days ago, Google posted a series of different doodles inspired by the Hargreaves Mr. Men and Little Miss characters in honor of Hargreaves’ 76th birthday.
These were some of my favorite doodles, because I love those characters! (Side note: have you seen today’s Google art? Man. They really outdid themselves with that one. If you haven’t already, you should definitely check it out. I was impressed.) One thing about me that you may not know is that I love nicknames. Pretty much everyone in my life (especially the important peeps) has some sort of a nickname. The Little Miss characters hit especially close to home because a few years ago, I worked at a well-known mortgage company that shall remain nameless (good riddance), and two of my good friends and I (Think along the lines of the office Mean Girls crew. My life soundtrack always skipped straight to Milkshake when we walked through the office. Don’t judge. You would want to eat with us at lunch, too. Trust me. We were funny. Still are.) decided that we all needed Little Miss nicknames. Missy was Little Miss Bossy, Mokel was Little Miss Chatterbox and I was Little Miss Trouble. Fitting, right? It’s interesting how you somehow at least one Hargreaves character is the perfect illustration of someone’s personality. At my current job, my co-worker clique already has code names for everyone else. How else can we talk about them freely without fear of repercussions? Good ol’ Marcy put together a diagram so everyone could keep track of all of the nicknames and avoid confusion. Click to view the details of the diagram.
Everyone’s name came about for some sort of reason. For example, Dump Truck was so named because of this instant message conversation:
So, anyway, the recent Hargreaves characters inspired me to try to determine which character best suited all of our ridiculous characters at work. I’ll have to report back with the details. In the meantime, which Hargreaves character are you, and why? See below for a list of characters to choose from, or click here to take the quiz. I’d love to hear back from you! This can be my first official interactive blog. Fun!
Please excuse the brevity of my last two posts. I am currently playing the avoidance game with my final but alas, I have procrastinated until the very last minute and have to take the dreaded test tonight. I should be back to normal by tomorrow. Promise.
Over the weekend, the hubs and I were watching the wall-to-wall coverage of all of the Osama bin Laden videos that have surfaced since his death. Well, not really watching, per se...I was actually reading the good ol' Kindle (much like news radio, I'm not really one for CNN), but I digress. So we're "watching" the coverage and all of A sudden, the hubs just started cracking up. I couldn't imagine what OBL (Or as an old friend called him, OSB...which obviously spurned a slew of giggles between myself and the illustrious Marcy Magoo...O. Sama Binladen? Um, ok. Good thing he's cute, 'cause he ain't that bright.) could possibly have to say that would illicit such a response.
Me: (Concerned that my hubby sprouted terrorist wings overnight) Um...whatcha laughing at, honey?
Hubs: Bahahaha - have you - hahaha - seen this - hahahaha - video - hahaha - of Osama bin Laden??
Hubs: Bahahaha - because it reminds me of this video (Yes, he really did pull up the video for my viewing pleasure. He's pretty cool like that)...
i woke up this morning in a funk. i can't seem to get it together - which could be attributed to any number of things, honestly. but i have no energy and can't seem to focus on much of anything. what better time for a blog? i definitely do not have my wits about me enough to put together an intelligent post, so i'll start the day with a few random pet peeves. i'm boycotting capitalization today, too. deal with it.
i hate it when i am at the elevator and i have already pushed the button...and then some dummy saunters up behind me and pushes the button again, EVEN THOUGH the button is obviously already illuminated. not just once, but repeatedly. as if pressing that damn button is going to somehow magically cause the elevator to skip all of the other floors that have already pushed their button and come barreling straight down to us because some asshole won't stop pushing the call button. yeah. 'cause that happens all the time.
i hate it when i do my good deed for the day and let someone into line in front of me in traffic and they don't wave. listen, i didn't have to let you in. i did because i'm not a jerk. so don't swing on in here like you were entitled to my place in line. you weren't. quit being a dick and wave. have some couth.
i hate it when people don't know how to give constructive criticism. telling me you don't like something and then not being able to articulate why is super annoying. oh, ok. so you don't have any suggestions for improvement; you just don't like it? duly noted. you could have kept that to yourself.
i hate it when i have a typo, but my typo changes the intended word into another existing word, so spell check doesn't catch it. hug pet peeve (exhibit a).
i hate it when i find the perfect item of clothing on unbelievable discount online and they no longer have my size. it's just not fair.
i hate it when people change their Facebook profile pics to those cheesy self-portraits of them holding up the phone in the bathroom, or in front of the refrigerator, because they just had to share how fabulous their ass looks in a tight little skirt, or how amazing their new fake boobs look in their bikini, or how they're racking up 12-pack abs. if the goods are that fabulous and you are that vain, perhaps you should invest in a tripod for your camera so you can take all of the self-portraits you want without looking like a total loser. everyone is guilty of taking a self-portrait or two, but it's so much more gratuitous when it's to solicit parts of your body that you should perhaps keep to yourself. or at least, would keep to yourself if you had any class. additionally, how many self-portraits is it truly acceptable to have without looking like a jackass? everyone should love themselves. it's rude to expect everyone else to love you that much.
i hate close-talkers. you know the ones. the people who stand uncomfortably close when you're trying to have a normal conversation and then you can't even concentrate and you lose your train of thought because all you can think about is how said close-talker totally just popped your personal bubble and everytime you try to take a subtle step back, they take a not-so-subtle step forward. we really only need to be semi-close if i'm telling you a juicy secret, or catching you up on the latest chisme. otherwise, you should keep a respectful distance. you don't need to sit on my lap to hear me talk. i'm very good at projecting. if you can't hear me - i'll speak up.
i hate paper clips. especially the useless ones that are coated in colored paint that leaves marks on your paper when you remove them. there's just no need for paper clips when there's such a thing as gem clips and binder clips. let's start a movement to render them obsolete. they can join the ranks of typewriters and dial-up internet connections.
i hate it when people shoulder check me out in public and don't excuse themselves. oh, ok. so not only could you not be bothered to shift your body half a step so as to avoid bumping into me, but you also can't be bothered to excuse yourself? you suck. at life.
that said, wanna know what i do like? fridays! so...happy friday to you! hopefully i'll snap out of this fog and have something more substantial to contribute later.
Buenos dias! Feliz Cinco de Mayo, folks! Hopefully everybody has some fun plans tonight to drink too much tequila and/or Dos Equis. ("We're going streaking!") If you're planning on doing tequila shots, I highly recommend Don Julio. Goes down like a dream (TWSS). I would also recommend getting a designated driver or a cab. DUIs don't look good on anyone.
Moving right along, let me get crack-a-lackin' on today's post. I joined Yelp several months back just for shiggles. Funny thing is, I think I've written a total of three whopping reviews. What's even more interesting is in those three reviews, I already had a little run-in with someone on Yelp that really soured the experience for me. Do I manage to piss people off randomly with everything I do? That's gotta be some kind of talent. So anyway, correct me if I'm wrong, but Yelp is a lot like this blog - an opportunity for people to honestly express their opinion about things...right? Yeah, that's what I thought, too.
Well, I happened to post a review about a less than stellar experience I had at a local eatery in the Heights, talking candidly about the terrible service and shitty attitude of the cashier. I personally thought it was kind of funny (not to mention helpful and informative), but whatever. (You can read the review in its entirety here, if you so wish.) To my surprise, the next day, I had a message in my inbox from Emily Z, who in my opinion must either be the owner of this place, the abovementioned cashier with the shitty attitude and perma-stink-eye, or some random cheesehound groupie chick who considers herself to be a foodie and is probably sleeping with the owner for free skillets of sub par mac and cheese. See below for the maddening morsel:
...wait, what? Did she seriously just tell me to re-think my review? Trust me, I thought about it plenty in the 3 months it took me to finally join Yelp just so I could write a bad review about this pointless restaurant. But thanks for your concern. I didn't realize that there was a Yelp content Nazi who sat around, reading all of the reviews of the day, and inboxing contributers with suggestions on improving their posts opinions. It's almost like she's threatening me! "Really, I would re-think your review." Ok, let me get this straight. YOU would rethink MY review? It sounds as though you already have. Maybe YOU should rethink YOUR review. How about that? Or better yet, here's a thought: instead of spending so much time and energy making sure I know that YOU don't approve of MY review, how about you just move on with your life? Write your own reviews! I don't recall asking for anyone to review my review. It's my opinion. If you don't like it; piss off. I know I'm not taking your message "serious" because you don't know when to use pronouns appropriately. Furthermore, you must have taken my review pretty seriously if you felt the need to send me a personal message, telling me to rethink my opinion.
Hey, Emily Z - get back to your über important job of slingin' plates of macaroni and cheese and mind your business. You're probably hovering over the lunch counter right now, pointing your gnarled, warty finger at any customer who (heaven forbid) wants to substitute ingredients in their order of jus' crap; yelling and going on about how THERE ARE NO SUBSTITUTIONS and how they should seriously rethink their order or "no soup mac for you!" Meanwhile, I'll be over here - NOT rethinking my review. But thanks for your input.
I decided that since I already gave you a list of some of my neuroses, I may as well keep with today's theme of telling you various embarrassing endearing details about myself. We'll call today Humbling Hump Day.
So, you may or may not know this about me, but I'm pretty clumsy. You'd think that a girl who practically lives in 4 inch heels would be limber and light on her toes...but I'm not. I'm actually like a graceful bull in a china shop. I often wake up with random, inexplicable, bruises that I can never quite figure out. It looks a little bit like my good ol' hubs uses my thighs for punching bags. Hmmm, that's a thought. Maybe he does. At night. When I'm unsuspectingly sleeping like an angel beside him. That would explain a lot...but I doubt it. I think I'm just clumsy.
Beyond my clumsiness is my love-hate relationship with stairs. Actually, if I'm honest...it's really more of a combative relationship. I hate stairs...and they hate me. In the almost thirty years that I have been alive, I have fallen down flights of stairs several times. Maybe even more than several. Whatever that would be quantified as. Let's see...I'm gonna say maybe somewhere between 8-10 times. No joke. A few of those times were down the same flight of stairs, so I'm not sure if those count...but I often find myself grabbing frantically for the banister as my life flashes before my eyes. Hell, I've even tripped and fallen while going up a flight of stairs. I'm just talented like that.
The first time I ever fell down a flight of stairs was at Club Park Avenue (us regulars called it CPA) in Tallahassee (RIP). This used to be the spot. In fact, it eventually was shut down by the fire marshall for going way over capacity (and underage drinking, most likely). So, needless to say, this place was always packed. My friends and I knew the bartender so we used to double fist LITs all night long. Did I mention that CPA had two flights of stairs: one in the front, one in the back? Right. Two. I fell down each of those flights of stairs at least 2-3 times apiece. I'm happy to report that I managed to never spill a drink, though. Priorities! When you're 19 and drinking illegally, apparently saving your cocktail from its demise is much more important than preventing yourself from tumbling down a flight of stairs to your death. Go figure.
Another time was when I was on vacation with my good friend [at the time] and we got this cool hotel room that had a loft-type setup with a bedroom upstairs. Why would we do such a thing? Yeah. My ass definitely made contact with those stairs. It wasn't pretty. I had a pretty good momentum going and my feet slipped out from underneath me and I catapulted down the stairs so fast that the wall had to stop me. Picture me, sitting against the wall with a surprised look on my face, feelin' all embarrassed and butt hurt (in more ways than one). She had a great laugh over that one, believe me.
Perhaps the worst time was about six years ago on Thanksgiving Day when I was rushing out of my apartment to head to the 'rents house for some turkey and fixins. That's right - rushing. We all know I had no business doing that in heels. So...yeah. Cue frightening tumble down the stairs. This one was the worst because I actually went head first...and these stairs were concrete (and really steep!). My life definitely flashed before my eyes. But I had the wherewithall to actually grab the poles in the railing and use my momentum to propel myself in the opposite direction (practially ripping my shoulder from the socket in the process), and I turned my body to where I was able to save myself from an untimely demise. Before you laugh, I twisted my ankle! Seriously. Like, legit twisted it. It was swollen and I walked with a pimp limp. My whole family took great pleasure in teasing me mercilessly all day until I finally gave up and went home to pout...in my heels.
I'll leave you with a visual. I'm pretty sure that this girl can totally empathize with my hate-hate relationship with stairs. To quote Aaliyah, "If at first you don't succeed, dust yourself off and try again." Happy Humbling Hump Day, folks!
I haven't always lived with someone. I actually lived alone for several years...so you would think that it would be no big thing when my hubs is out of town...but it kinda is. Not sure why, but our place feels a little less safe when he's gone. How cliché, right? Is this some sort of innate rite of passage for married women? The dutiful little wife scared spitless when her husband isn't there to protect her? I'm rolling my eyes. Anyway, the other night, I realized I have these weird rituals that I don't do when he's in town, but I always do when he's out of town. See below (please).
1.My very first stop when I come home to an empty nest is the kitchen. Obviously. To grab some sort of weapon to ward off any possible attackers, of course. Then, I check all of the rooms in the house (with said weapon in hand) . . . and the closets . . . and the laundry room . . . and the bathtubs . . . basically anywhere my future attacker could be laying in wait. Oh yeah, and I close all the doors behind me. I like to think that I would be hear the doors open if security was compromised. See #4.
2.Check and re-check (then triple check before bed) all the locked doors. I am already a little neurotic when it comes to locking doors (especially my car door), but when I’m alone for the night, it borders on obsessive. I have to make sure I’m locked into a room (after first investigating all of the possible hiding places), or I get nervous. I also typically like to have my back to a wall. People in the movies always seem to miss the fact that if they would just sit in a corner or up against a wall…nobody could sneak up on them. Interesting concept, right? I even have to double-check the bathroom door lock while I’m in the shower. I have no desire to go out like Marion Crane. Not this girl.
3.Sleep with my car keys within hand's reach. I guess I figure if I need to make a mad dash for my life, I'm probably gonna need my keys. Better to have them readily available than to waste precious minutes searching for my damn keys.* Let's be real: this isn't the movies. I'm small, but I wouldn't exactly describe myself as athletic.** I mean, I'll run...I just wouldn't want to base my escape plan around my chances of out-running any potential attackers for an extended period of time.
4.Sleep without my ear plugs. Although the sounds of Houston are soothing (if you don't mind construction noises and sirens and motorcycle engines revving), I much prefer the sound of my own breathing when I'm sleeping. The sounds of the city are way too distracting and Lord knows I don't need a reason to not be able to sleep. But when the hubs is away, I feel the need to be able to sleep with both ears open, just in case I need to hear someone lurking in the dark or sneaking up on me.
5.Blast Pandora in the morning whilst getting ready. Complete with the singing along, etc. I don't usually do that because the hubs is still asleep. Also, he likes to listen to boring news radio in the morning when he’s getting ready for work. I prefer Lil' Wayne Radio. I’d much rather drop it like it’s hot in the morning than awake to the abrasive sound of Rush Limbaugh, any day. Wouldn’t you?
Thus concludes my list of crazy, neurotic rituals I feel obligated to complete every time my hubby goes out of town. Last night when I was in bed, trying to make myself go to sleep, I thought of at least three different topics I wanted to blog about. More to come soon. Promise.
*Read: I can *never* find my keys when I need them; it never fails. It would be just my luck that a murderer would be chasing after me with a meat cleaver and here I am, unable to find my keys. No, thank you.
** It's a little embarrassing. Remind me to tell you a story about that sometime.
There is a long list of things I hate about public restrooms. Randomly, I realized today that I was mentally compiling a list of said things. What a great opportunity to share! See below.
I hate it when I wait too long and I run into a stall, hurriedly remove my pants, breathe a sigh of relief as I begin to empty my bladder...then glance over and realize that the stall is out of toilet paper.
I hate it when I get to the bathroom and there's pee all over the seat. Where were you raised; a barn? Clean up after yourself if you can't seem to get it into the giant hole waiting there specifically to catch your excrement.
I hate it when a public restroom door makes you 'push' to enter and 'pull' to exit. Why don't they make all of them push to exit? Doesn't it bother anyone else that they just washed their hands and now have to contaminate them with other people's fecal matter? Ugh.
I hate it when I wait too long and it becomes an emergency situation, so I run to the bathroom, only to be subjected to an assault on my olfactory senses because some unthoughtful hag is having kittens in the handi-stall...but because it's an emergency situation, I run the risk of wetting myself if I turn around and come back later...so I have to just commit and make it happen. I've come to realize that I have a pretty great lung capacity. I can hold my breath longer than you would think. I would like to post a sign for all of the inconsiderate poop machines on my floor to next time, please use a restroom on a different floor. I shouldn't be able to determine what you ate for lunch by the severity of the fumes coming out of your butt. Thanks.
I hate it when #4 happens (Well, that could be misleading - it's always a #1 for me in public restrooms. Real ladies take care of business in the privacy of their own home. I'm just referring to Potty Peeve #4...and what could a #4 possibly consist of?? Yikes.), and I'm forced to subject myself to the abovementioned noxious fumes in the bathroom...and then the poopy perpetrator finishes, flushes, and leaves super quickly to avoid any awkward sink conversation after declaring war on the bathroom...and then someone else comes in while I'm still in the stall. I feel obligated to shout through the door that it wasn't me - but would they believe me, anyway?
Wow. Pretty eventful weekend, eh? First, the Royal Wedding (snicker)…then, Saif Al-Arab Gaddafi was killed in a NATO air strike (I’m assuming they meant to hit Muammar, but apparently, his son and grandchildren were good enough)…and finally (in more ways than one), President Obama announced last night that after almost ten years, Osama bin Hidin’ was killed in a covert ops mission in Pakistan.*
As per usual, President Obama swaggered up to the mic (I'm convinced that Geto Boys' "Damn It Feels Good to Be A Gangsta" is his mental theme song in life) andeloquently delivered staggering news to the American people, and emphasized (like a G) that he was the one responsible for making the call. I like how he even brought up good ol’ W – to low-key remind people that even though his predecessor wasn’t able to take care of business…he’s got this. He stepped in, grabbed the reins, and handled that shit. In two years, Obama did what Bush couldn’t seem to do in eight. (Although I’m sure the Republicans will say that it was like an opening an extra tight lid on a jar of jelly – Bush just loosened it for him, right? Riiiight.)
…and then the celebration ensued. This almost feels like a bittersweet ending to a long, drawn out story. Almost ten years of build up and then it all ends in a gunfight? It’s a little anti-climactic for my tastes. I think I would have preferred some sort of fanfare and pomp and circumstance, where the Navy S.E.A.L.S. marched his terrorist ass through the streets of D.C. (or better yet, NYC) and let the American people toss stones and chunks of concrete and metal gathered from ground zero at his dejected, defeated body. Is that too much to ask? I know that shots were exchanged and the S.E.A.L.S. returned fire and he was inadvertently killed…but…I’m just saying…it would have made for a much more interesting ending. Instead, they tossed his ass into the sea? I’m just waiting for the wave of conspiracy theories to commence. (If you want to talk conspiracies, you should maybe read up on the first President Bush, the C.I.A. and their connection to bin Laden. Just a suggestion for some light reading that just might blow your mind.) Obama should probably keep some pictures of OBL’s body readily available in the drawer where he keeps his birth certificate. Oh well. I’m confident that if Tupac’s autopsy pictures were leaked so quickly years ago…with the developments in social media today, we won’t have to wait too long to see someone’s Facebook profile picture has been updated with a grainy mobile upload of a guy leaning over bin Laden’s body with a Koolaid smile and a thumbs up.
Then there’s this little, tiny, part of me that wonders if all of America celebrating the death of this monster is the right thing to do. I mean, I know that he was a terrible person who was responsible for the death of thousands…but I still feel a little uneasy celebrating his death. It feels as though an entire nation rejoicing over the death of one individual makes us seem a little foolhardy. Yes, the death of Bin Laden symbolizes the end of an era of terrorism…but does it? I’m a little loath to be dancing in the streets over this just yet. Remember all of that footage after 9/11, allegedly showing the people of Afghanistan partying in the streets and how enraging that was? What if that’s how the Middle East interprets our joy over the death of OBL? Make no mistake about it; terrorists are serious in their plight against our culture and our country. Where one bin Laden dies, there is a new bin Laden in training to take over. OBL’s death closes one long chapter in an epic novel of global relations…but the story doesn’t end here. There are many chapters to come and many wars to be fought.
That said, in this moment, I don’t want to overshadow this obvious victory. I have to acknowledge that this is one step in the right direction and an immeasurable victory for America. It halfway validates the American lives that have been lost fighting a war that seems to have gone forever. I’d like to offer my appreciation to the troops and intelligence personnel who made this possible. Good job, guys. Way to get ‘er done.
To any remaining terrorists or dissidents that think they can eff with America, the death of Osama bin Laden sends a clear message: think again. In the words of Antoine Dodson,“You are really dumb – for real . . . We’re lookin’ for you. We gon’ find you; we gon’ find you. So you can run and tell that, run and tell that, homeboy.”
*On a lighter note, how much ass do you think Pres O got last night off this victory? We’re talkin’ championship ring ass; green jacket-wearing, Masters winning ass, war on terror goal crossed off the to-do list ass.
