I added to my hate list today

>> Monday, March 29, 2010

Self-entitlement or entitlement
–noun
1.the act of entitling.
2.the state of being entitled.
3.the right to guaranteed benefits under a government program, as Social Security or unemployment compensation.

The definition sticking in my mind today or maybe all this week is #2 the state of being entitled. The symptoms of self-entitlement are intense douchebaggery and excessive assholeyitis. The only real cures involve crowbars used to either pull the infected person's head out of their ass, or if that fails, the crowbar may be used to beat the infected person until you feel better.

We all come across the infected people daily, and it won't get better unless we talk about it and admit there is a problem - a problem with other people.

Normally my 9yo takes the bus to school, but this morning I gave him a ride. I was going 55 or 60 mph down the rode when all of a sudden Fugly Yellow Avalanche Halfwit pulled out in front of me. That stop sign on the road she was leaving did not apply to her, because she is far too special for silly things like stop signs. She did a fast rolling stop to make sure that I was right where I'd have to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting her. She might have even pretended that she couldn't see my car because of the light rain, but I had my headlights on at the time. The thing that really enhanced her issue of entitlement is that she had her kids in the truck. How would I know that? I followed her all the way to the school. Maybe she thought I couldn't keep up if she went really fast, but we all know that the dumbass that goes the fastest still ends up getting there at the same time as everyone else.

It was in the school parking lot that I encountered the next two people on the entitlement hot sheet - Grey Explorer Ignoramus and Extra Tinting Escalade Imbecile. Both of their empty cars were parked right in front of the giant signs announcing VEHICLES MUST NOT BE LEFT UNATTENDED YOU STUPID LAZYASS LOSER. Ok, so it doesn't say that exactly, but the first part is accurate. The school has a double lane drop-off system, so not only do you have a line of cars trying to go through the parking lot, but you also have 2 lines of cars containing little tiny kids trying to get to the sidewalk.

I passed 7 unused parking spots in the front row. SEVEN. Of course, Ignoramus and Imbecile don't have to use the parking spaces, because everyone knows that they are soooo important that they get to park in the no-parking zone right in front of the school a whole 20 feet away from the open parking spots. Can you imagine being that important? It must be like being the President or Martha Stewart or Jesus.

While Imbecile and Ignoramus were in the school discussing how best to rule the world with their badass rule-flouting selves, the rest of us were forced to slowly creep around their vehicles and hope we didn't squish any kindergartners. If I could have been sure that Imbecile and Ignoramus would have only been in the school for a few minutes, I would have waited around to congratulate them on their self-declared awesomeness. To do that, I would have had to circle the whole parking lot go park by them (must emulate my heroes) Since I'd already made it around the loop once without killing a kid, I decided not to risk it a second time. I regret that now, of course, because I just know they would have loved to show me how to park illegally and maybe even how to text with both hands while driving.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's episode on grocery stores or hypochondriacs. It will depend on who I come in contact with first.

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I'm positively positive about people that annoy me

>> Saturday, March 20, 2010

In general I’m an optimist (except when the PMS monster possesses me, but no woman can be faulted for raging then), so I have no understanding of negative people. I’d be even more of an optimist if we could send all the Negative Nancys and Doom and Gloom Garys to live in Antarctica, so the penguins can kick some sense into them, because I’m pretty sure the rest of us would start pooping rainbows.

There’s always that person – the one who screams about her kid’s failure on the soccer field, or the one who is convinced the whole world is against her because she stubbed her toe on a toy, or the one who absolutely flips out because she dropped a glass on the floor. I know people like that. Hell, I’m related to people like that. My 17 year old acts the earth will explode if even the tiniest thing goes wrong. He stomps and moans and curses until the rest of us are ready to bury him in a big hole in the desert. That’s probably why he is my arch nemesis kid.

The other day I accidentally hit the panic button on my car clicker and an old lady tried to kill me with her death ray eyes. I’m pretty sure that in her world, I hit that button just to piss her off. She did that old lady huffing and puffing thing so hard that I thought she was going to have a stroke right there on the in the middle of the parking lot. It’s hard enough to get through a lot filled with waddlers, so no one needs an old lady twitching on the ground in a puddle.

I always so much enjoy the fun little tidbits of information that negative people feel they must share. If you say you’re really excited about taking the kids to Disneyland, Negative will have to tell you all the stories she’s heard about people dying on rides. If you say you’re going on a hike in the woods, Negative will insist that you must carry pepper spray to defend against a leaping chupacabra who is intent on ripping off your face. If you say you’re moving to Hawaii, Negative will insist that you will die horribly when a volcano erupts. Negative is happy when she can attempt to sway someone into falling for her own fears.

I’ve also noticed that negative people tend to go way overboard with potential medical issues. Any mosquito bite means she contracted the West Nile Virus. A tick ensures Lyme disease. A simple headache means that she a brain tumor will leave her blind within minutes. Any freckle or bump or lump is Stage 4 cancer and a death sentence. Never mind that none of these things have yet been confirmed by a doctor. Negative relies on the internet for self-diagnosis. Negative also insists on sharing all the gory details. The only way to end a phone call about how her hemorrhoids are crawling down to her feet is to pinch your kid and make her cry – instant hanging up excuse.

Negative thinks that any mention of positive thoughts is a personal attack. You can’t just say that you hope that tick was really just a dirt clump, because then you’re undermining her feelings and what would you know about anything. If she stubs her toe, you can’t say you hope it heals quickly, because then you don’t care that when she broke it, she may have released a huge blood clot that will go to her brain and kill her while she‘s in the bathtub. Jeez, you mean horrible positive thinker. How dare you believe anything but the worst in doom and gloom.

The only thing you can do about negative people is feel sorry for them, because it must really suck to have life be that miserable. Plus, it’s a lot less messy than stabbing them repeatedly with a rusty nail. Blood is a pain in the ass to clean, and you know the CSI people always find it with luminol.

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Spring Break Diary Day 3

>> Friday, March 19, 2010

Dear Diary,

It the first day with all four kids on break. I slept in for a whole 45 minutes, but it's not really sleeping in if three cats are pacing up and down your body, because their food bowl is empty and they are going to die. It's also not sleeping in if the person you share the bed with is alternately tossing and turning and calling the cats so that they pace even more.

I dragged myself out of bed to find 9yo already well into the PS3. That's fine. I can't take away video games before I've had coffee, and he was being quiet except for that whole singing to himself thing. Before the coffee even finished brewing, 17yo woke up and decided that the best way to start the day was to pick a fight with 9yo. 17yo is in the running for Teenage Asshole of the Year, which is really a stupid goal for someone who thinks that mommy and daddy should buy him a car.

13yo woke up and didn't fight with anyone right away. Either he has a fever or he wants something. He also vacuumed the family room and made his bed without being asked. It's definitely a fever, because 13yo would only do that in a state of delirium. Crap, I do not have time for a trip to the emergency room with fever insanity. Oh wait, he just acted like an ass because he can't see the top shelf of the freezer, and therefore cannot see if we have waffles.

Tell me this, Diary. Is 10:58 too early to drink if my sock just came off when I stepped on a new extra sticky spot on the kitchen floor? How much will I regret banning the PS3 because they fought over it again? Do you think the movers next door will notice if I smuggle some kids into their giant moving truck? Will I make it to day 4?

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Someone didn't read their parenting books

>> Tuesday, March 16, 2010

I have a story. I’m not sure if it’s a comedy, a drama, or pure horror. The names will be changed to protect the innocent and the guilty. I shouldn’t protect the guilty, but I’m mostly a nice person.

I know a little girl who is almost four years old. Let’s say she’s a… hmmmmm - neighbor. We’ll call her a neighbor. Since she is almost four years old, she’s becoming more independent every single day. She dresses herself in completely clashing outfits, but that just means she’s trying to find her sense of style. She’s almost an expert on bossing around herds of boys, and she’s already managed to marry one, but I think he might have forgotten. She’ll remind him a lot, though, because she wants jewelry.

Last week this adorable little girl decided that choosing her own clothes wasn’t enough. She wanted to choose her own hairstyle too. She found some scissors, snuck away very quietly, and quickly reduced her longish blonde hair into the ultimate punk rock style. Sure, it’s a little jagged, and maybe has the quality of a cut done with a weed whacker, but she was probably really proud of herself. Her mom took her to a salon to see if there was any hope of fixing her hair, but it was a lost cause. That’s why cute hats were invented.

While telling my husband about the hair drama, the little girl’s dad asked, “Where the hell was my wife when this was happening?” He really did. That’s why I didn’t say his name. Mother’s everywhere would vilify him and might even hang him in effigy. “Where the hell was my wife when this was happening?”Oh. My. God. I can’t even wrap my head around that question.

Let’s make a list:

1. Maybe she was answering the phone.
2. Maybe she was planning your dinner.
3. Maybe she had to poop.
4. Maybe she was shaving her legs because you think you’re getting laid later.
5. Maybe she was dealing with your toddler, because he pooped and then got it on his hands and smeared it on the walls.
6. Maybe she ran out to the garage to make sure your beer was cold enough.
7. Maybe she was washing your dirty underwear.
8. Maybe she was catching up on housework, because she works full-time from home everyday.

I’m pretty sure my husband was having a hard time keeping a straight face when he told me about that question. When we had tiny kids, he was in charge of them every morning, because I left for work early. He also had them all day on his days off, because we worked opposite schedules. When Ethan was 6 or 7 months old, he fell partway down the stairs in the 3 seconds it took my husband to grab his shirt off the hanger.

I think the only punishment fitting for this dad would be for him to watch his kids 24/7 all by himself for a few days. He’ll have to monitor their every move, meaning he has to always be two places at once. He won’t be allowed to use the bathroom by himself. He’ll have to keep them from fighting with each other, and he’ll have to make sure he always has two of everything, because of the jealousy issues. At the same time, he’ll have to do personal training for his wife’s many clients, clean the house 17 times a day (kids are messy), and plan a nutritious dinner that he will have waiting for his wife when she gets home. There’s 5000 other things that need done each day, but anyone who asks, “Where the hell was my wife when this was happening?” is clearly not ready for those.

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Who will light the fuse?

>> Saturday, March 13, 2010

I'm pretty sure that all my life I've been keeping a list of things or people that I dislike. I swear I add to that list every single day. Someday I'll achieve my dream of becoming either a hermit hidden away from the stupid of the world, or I'll finally master world domination and have all the people and things that annoy me killed or maimed or made mute.

There's a lot of really random things on my list:

I don't like it when a loaf of bread comes with a little plastic clip to keep it shut instead of a twist tie. My vacuum hates them both, but my cats like the twist ties better. I like my cats more than most people, so they should have fun twist ties.

I don't like people who pull way over the left side of the lane to turn right or pull way over to the right side of the lane to turn left. Unless you are driving a semi, you should be able to turn without that much exaggeration. Maybe if wide turn people put their phones down they'd be able to turn without looking like a moron.

I don't like it when I see little girls about 8 or 9 years old worried about their highlights and their body fat. Why do people have to project their body image fears onto their little kids. Don't you realize that sweet little Emma now looks like a 50 year old cougar with those unnatural blonde streaks in her hair? Nine year old shouldn't worry about how they look in a mini-skirt. They shouldn't worry about having a muffin top. If you're worried that your kid is overweight, talk to her doctor, stop feeding her ice cream in front of the Disney Channel, run around the block with her. Please don't ruin her instead.

Really, really, really high on my list lately is people that act like I'm stupid because of something I like or don't like or something I know or don't know. Don't treat me like the village idiot because I don't like sushi. I don't like it, so get over it. If I recommend a movie and you don't like it, just say you don't like it. I don't need to hear an hour of ranting about how it was the worst movie ever and you can't believe I would insult you like that. I get it. I'll never recommend an movie to you again. Move on with your life. Don't tell me I'm stupid because I like to watch Survivor, or Real Housewives, or The Mentalist. We can't all be as perfect as you and sit around and watch golf or war movies all day, and I don't make fun of you for drooling over American Idol while you dream of blowing Simon.

When I write things down, I can sound all mean and stabby and vindictive, but in real life I'm way too nice for my own good. So I sit and tolerate these assholes with whom I come in contact. Unfortunately, you can't always just tell off assholes. What if it's a relative? What if it's your bosses loser cousin? What if it's the coworker who is a total ass kisser to everyone else.

Someday I'm going to explode with rage. I should start saving bail money right now.

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Oozing sap is for trees

>> Thursday, March 11, 2010

Spring is nearly here and in the moments between scattered snow flurries, people are finding themselves twitterpated, gushy in love, and pooping rainbows. Be in love, gush, poop rainbows - just don't do it around me.

I'm not a public display of affection person. It's not that I'm against love. Love is wonderful. I'm against all those sickening, slobbery, gropey things.

Your body parts don't belong in or on your lover's body parts when I'm around. I don't care of you hold hands or have a quick hello or goodbye hug/peck of a kiss. Tongue is not allowed. Seriously. If I can see your tongue spit making a bridge to your lover's tongue, I'm going to throw up on you. Don't wrap yourselves around each other like you've been stranded on separate deserted islands for the last 72 years unless you really have been stranded on separate deserted islands for the last 72 years. Actually, don't do it then either, because I don't think I could stand being around 100 year old people sex.

Cutesy names are almost worse that public gropery. I'm sort of okay with "honey," "dear," or "babe," if you say it casually. "Hey, Babe, can you hand me that axe so can chop up this body we need to dispose of in the woods?" There's nothing sappy, twisted, or vomit-inducing about using "babe" that way. It's almost innocuous enough to say it to the bank teller or grocery clerk. When I did retail, little old ladies called me "dear" all the time and I didn't strangle any of them.

When you start calling your lover "My Snookey Wookey Porkchop," I want to stab you. "Cuddlebutt," "Handsome Wandsome," and "Widdle Honey Woney" are on the stab list too. I get it - you're together and you're in love. When you say the stupid names, I think you're trying to prove to the world that you can't be a loser because you've found a mate. We get it. You got laid in the last year. Someone actually wanted to see you naked. Good for you. Now shut the hell up. Women can sort of get away with spewing this kind of idiocy, but if I hear a man saying something like that, I'm going to assume that he's hiding his vagina in his pants. I want to send him to a surgeon for neutical implants, because obviously someone castrated him.

Please, keep your ickies to yourselves this spring.

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Hunting through an alien world

>> Tuesday, March 09, 2010

On Saturday morning before I was even 4% awake I opened the fridge for milk for my coffee. 4% awake is not nearly enough to deal with the horrible smell that assaulted me...part sweaty farty man smell and part rancid festering foot boils with just a hint of fermenting fruit.

It was time for a full-fridge clean, because a quick dash through the shelves to throw away any ancient leftovers wasn't going to work. If I was going to hunt down the deadly colony making that smell, it made sense to de-jelly the shelves too.


<=== See that mess? That comes from having a husband and kids. I've never gotten around to drawing a map of where things go, so stuff just get shoved anywhere. Leftovers disappear between the half gallon jar of nasty sweet pickle relish (not nasty as in spoiled - nasty as in whoever invented that disgusting concoction to ruin hotdogs should be shot). You can't tell from the picture but there's 3 different containers of Grey Poupon hidden in there, because according the laws of the person that is is not me, it's illegal to actually finish one container of something before opening the spare. I also have more than one jar of regular mustard that doesn't look and smell like a pile of baby poop. Plus, it's important to have several empty containers, because I wouldn't want anyone else in the family to have to make the effort of walking the 3 feet to the trash can. Please put the empties back in the fridge, so that I have something to do with my oodles of spare time.






I took everything out of the door and off the shelves. Any that looked the least odd went on my list of stench suspects, but everything passed. The stupid smell was hiding. I cleaned the door and all the shelves and started putting things back in a way that made a little more sense. I found that we have 7 types of salad dressing. That seems excessive for a family of people that don't really like salad. At the very back of a shelf was a half full jar of pickles. I can't remember that last time I bought pickles. They were hidden behind the vat o' relish. I guess I didn't notice them before, because I refuse to look at the relish if at all possible. I had to tackle the drawers. Although the stench of satan didn't smell produce-like, you never know. I have a habit of thinking "oooh, I want carrots" and then letting them disintegrate the drawer, because I picked up the carrots before I hit the cupcake aisle and found something better. The deli drawer yielded no clues, although I have more kinds of cheese than I do salad dressing. Cheese for lunch for everyone for a month should take care of that problem. I also have several packages of flour tortillas that each contain only one or two. That goes back to that thing where we're not allowed to have spares because everything must be open. I have a whole bunch of packages of sauce from Del Taco. I'm glad all that cheese didn't make them burst.



When I took out produce drawer #1, a little fell onto the shelf below, but I wasn't paying attention, because I had produce to catalog...radishes, green onions, carrots, celery, THREE cucumbers (seriously? 3?), potatoes, tomatoes, basil, apples. Like salad, I don't really like a lot of other produce either. It's the first section of the grocery store, and I always going in there starving and think a cucumber and a yucky stalk of celery will make my stomach stop growling. I have to remember to start my shopping trips on the other side. We can survive on deli food and cupcakes, right? I arranged all the produce by color, height, and how little I like it and put the drawers back.

The fridge was organized, sorted, scrubbed, and pretty. I even defingerprinted the outside. It gets fingerprinty, because the fridge handles in our house are only for decoration once the door is opened. The fridge can only be shut by placing a dirty hand on clean spot and shoving. I love the guy that decided stainless steel should be a fingerprint magnet. He's my awesome hero.



I couldn't stall on that little container anymore. Since nothing else made my nose hairs run away and hide in my armpits, it had to be that little plastic tub of joy. I didn't take off the lid, but I did hold the container as close as I could to my eyes without them melting. I think it might have been tuna. I wasn't willing to check, so the whole thing went in the garbage. You'd think that would be the end of it, but then the guilt set in. You know in Men In Black when that whole world lived on a little tiny ball on a cat's collar? What if there was a world in that tuna tub, and I just threw it away? I could spend the rest of my life haunted by smelly little tuna beings.

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