I hate listening to people talk about their vacations. I can fake interest for maybe three minutes. Tops. So, instead of subjecting you to the highlights of my recent trip, I have chosen instead, to share the lowlights:
1. Checking in at the self-help kiosk, a man standing to my left turned directly towards me and, without making the slightest effort to cover his nose or mouth, sneezed violently, covering me with liquid germs. Seriously? I felt those little fuckers land. Twenty-four hours later, I had pink eye.
2. I don’t require a lot of legroom, but even short people can feel cramped in an airplane. So I get a little worked up when the person in front of me decides, seemingly on a lark, to recline into my lap. Jesus! Give me a little notice, please. I always appreciate something subtle--like “Incoming!”--before I get intimate with a stranger.
3. Speaking of airplanes, ALL passengers need to shut the fuck up. I’m trying to read.
4. My family and I were sitting in the outdoor restaurant in our favorite hotel, enjoying breakfast. We were halfway through our meal when I noticed two other diners at the table directly in front of ours picking at each other’s scalps. To their credit, they were taking the job seriously. She picked his scalp, missing--I'd bet--nary a hair; then he returned the favor. Quite lovingly, too.
Did I mention that this was a restaurant? Generally, when I have the urge to see monkeys groom themselves, I go to a fucking zoo, not a cafe. You know how some people send bottles of wine to other tables? I wanted to send that couple a bottle of Quell.
5. Miami airport, named 2008 “TSA Airport of the Year.” A Helen Keller wannabe must have been the nominator, because nothing else explains the choice.
Okay, I have to include two highlights from my trip. First, the pharmacies in Costa Rica sell everything—and I mean everything—over the counter, cheaply. To someone like me, who has to bring a separate carry-on bag to hold all of her psychotropic meds, it doesn’t get better than that. But my very favorite thing was the blind man in the parking area of Guayabo National Monument. The driver who took us there paid him to watch his car. So did other drivers. It is one of the many reasons my family and I love Costa Rica.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
How low will she go?
I have tried to let this one go, but I just can't, so....
My niece is the epitome of the complete package. She's got it all, including--sadly--the fact that she is often the object of The Bitch's jabs.
After two weeks at the beach, my sweet niece paid a visit to The Bitch. "Your tan looks great," said TB. "It makes you look prettier than you are."
Unlike me, my niece was able to laugh it off. Also unlike me, she was raised by people who helped her feel good about herself.
Inside and out, my niece could not be more beautiful. Alas, her grandmother could not be uglier.
My niece is the epitome of the complete package. She's got it all, including--sadly--the fact that she is often the object of The Bitch's jabs.
After two weeks at the beach, my sweet niece paid a visit to The Bitch. "Your tan looks great," said TB. "It makes you look prettier than you are."
Unlike me, my niece was able to laugh it off. Also unlike me, she was raised by people who helped her feel good about herself.
Inside and out, my niece could not be more beautiful. Alas, her grandmother could not be uglier.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Shot shit
If I worked with the public on a regular basis, I’d wind up in jail. I simply don’t have the ability to suffer fools, gladly or otherwise. I know my [many] limits, and I am fortunate to be able to work—sans others—90% of the time.
However, I do expect that those who work in customer service positions possess a modicum of manners. My standards for that are pretty low. All I want is a greeting at the start of a transaction and a cursory "thank you" when it ends.
Here's an example of how my system should not work. Last week, a friend told me she waited at the reception counter of a doctor’s office for a full three minutes while the secretary ignored her until the clock struck eight and office hours officially began. When my friend spoke up, the secretary reprimanded her quite nastily for not having said good morning.
I, too, have encountered many an asshole in doctor’s offices. In fact, I have been encountering one particular asshole for 11 years, at my allergist’s office. Sometimes I luck out and he is being rude to another patient, so I get another, slightly more pleasant shot-giver. But more often than not, he’s the one who inoculates me.
In my mind, I refer to him as Mr. Happy because of his overbearing friendliness and pure joie de vivre. Here’s how a typical encounter between us goes.
Me: Hi. How are you?
Him: Last shot okay?
Me: Yep.
Him: Left arm today.
He gives me the shot, to which I reply, “Thanks.” To which he replies...nothing. No “You’re welcome.” No “Shove your thanks up your hindquarters.” Nothing. It makes me want to grab every needle in the place, hold them in my fist and stab the shit out of his eyes and tongue. Instead, I merely leave the office, pissed off every time.
Sure, I reported him once. “Well, his sense of humor isn’t everyone’s cup of tea” was the customer-is-always-right answer I got.
Worse yet, the prick told on me. I'm supposed to wait 20 minutes after I get my immunization to make sure I don’t die. I’m an impatient patient, so I never wait. I used to, at first, but after two years, I figured I was safe. Or maybe I entered a new decade of depression and stopped caring if I died. I don’t really remember how it began, but I quit waiting. Now, after nine years, Mr. Happy suddenly decided to spill the beans.
So, when I showed up at the office today, a substitute shot-giver started lecturing me about the importance of waiting. She wouldn’t part with the goods until I said, “I will wait in the office for 20 minutes after my shot.” Fine, I thought, I’ll say your stupid little pledge, but I’m not staying. So I got my shot and left immediately.
I swear I’m not looking for special treatment here. I just think it is ridiculous to drive 20 minutes to and from the allergist's office, wait to get the shot from Mr. Happy or one of the women whose love for the job pours out of their pores…and then wait 20 more minutes not to die. I’ll sign whatever waiver or hold harmless clause they want, because I’m pretty goddamn sure that when I die, it ain’t gonna be from an allergy shot. It is far more likely that I will die by lethal injection, in jail, because I killed Mr. Happy.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Post office antics
It’s not often one sees a USPS clerk smile, but I lucked out today.
A man in line ahead of me started addressing one of those padded mailers. Midway through the task, his pen poked a miniscule hole in the envelope. “I’m going to put this envelope back and get another one,” he told the postal clerk.
“You can go ahead and get another one, sir,” she replied, “but don’t put that used envelope back.”
Stunned, Mr. Postal Perfectionist asked why.
“Sir, you wrote on it. It’s yours now. You have to pay for it.”
Now super-stunned, the man argued, “Someone will use it. I’m just going to put it back.”
Cool! Things were heating up. The clerk shifted into marginally polite overdrive. “Sir, nobody’s gonna want your envelope. You wrote on it, and you need to pay for it.”
“The writing can be covered up,” he persisted. By this time, I’m seconds away from handing him $2.00 to pay for the fucking envelope and get the hell out of the building, but the clerk intervened. She puffed out her ample bosom, dropped her head to her left shoulder and narrowed her eyes just enough to make him cave.
“Fine. I’ll pay for it,” he said curtly. Then he stepped aside to finish addressing the envelope while the clerk waited on another customer. Finally, he completed his transaction and left with the pesky extra envelope under his arm.
I stepped up to the counter. Although I had made eye contact with the clerk at least three times during the performance, I decided to play it straight. I paid for my two packages, acting as though nothing odd had happened. When she asked whether I needed stamps or mailing supplies, I pretended to think about it for a few seconds and said, “No. I don’t think so. Unless you’re having a sale on used envelopes.”
The clerk slammed her hand on the counter and doubled over, chortling. “I knew you were gonna say something. I knew it! I knew it before you even came up to my counter.”
It was the first time I ever had fun in a post office, and it made me feel like a fucking ray of sunshine.
A man in line ahead of me started addressing one of those padded mailers. Midway through the task, his pen poked a miniscule hole in the envelope. “I’m going to put this envelope back and get another one,” he told the postal clerk.
“You can go ahead and get another one, sir,” she replied, “but don’t put that used envelope back.”
Stunned, Mr. Postal Perfectionist asked why.
“Sir, you wrote on it. It’s yours now. You have to pay for it.”
Now super-stunned, the man argued, “Someone will use it. I’m just going to put it back.”
Cool! Things were heating up. The clerk shifted into marginally polite overdrive. “Sir, nobody’s gonna want your envelope. You wrote on it, and you need to pay for it.”
“The writing can be covered up,” he persisted. By this time, I’m seconds away from handing him $2.00 to pay for the fucking envelope and get the hell out of the building, but the clerk intervened. She puffed out her ample bosom, dropped her head to her left shoulder and narrowed her eyes just enough to make him cave.
“Fine. I’ll pay for it,” he said curtly. Then he stepped aside to finish addressing the envelope while the clerk waited on another customer. Finally, he completed his transaction and left with the pesky extra envelope under his arm.
I stepped up to the counter. Although I had made eye contact with the clerk at least three times during the performance, I decided to play it straight. I paid for my two packages, acting as though nothing odd had happened. When she asked whether I needed stamps or mailing supplies, I pretended to think about it for a few seconds and said, “No. I don’t think so. Unless you’re having a sale on used envelopes.”
The clerk slammed her hand on the counter and doubled over, chortling. “I knew you were gonna say something. I knew it! I knew it before you even came up to my counter.”
It was the first time I ever had fun in a post office, and it made me feel like a fucking ray of sunshine.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
I'm back
I saw my neighbor’s penis last night. It was air-drying at the bathroom window. Not the "Welcome Home" gift I would have chosen, but still, it was something. Barely.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Question of the day
Does vacationing mitigate my anger? Find out when my blog returns, at some point during the week of August 17. Mark your calendar! (Yeah. Like that will be happening.)
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Harper's bizarre
Would someone please make Susan Boyle go away? Or explain why she has, apparently, been elected “Queen for Eternity”? You'd think she was the only mildly talented head case in the world.
I just heard--on national news--that "Harper’s Bazaar" gave her a head-to-toe makeover, featured in glorious detail in this month’s issue. Like that will change her wretchedness.
The love affair with Susan began because shallow people the world over were flabbergasted a frump could sing without shattering glass. For some reason, it just won’t die.
I feel like the “I see people” kid from “The Sixth Sense.” The only difference is that I’m weirded out by hearing voices--okay, just one voice--warbling the uber-irritating “I Dreamed a Dream,” over and over and over again. Somebody--anybody--please make it stop. Not just for me, either. My husband is sick of hearing my piss-poor imitations of the singing lass.
I just heard--on national news--that "Harper’s Bazaar" gave her a head-to-toe makeover, featured in glorious detail in this month’s issue. Like that will change her wretchedness.
The love affair with Susan began because shallow people the world over were flabbergasted a frump could sing without shattering glass. For some reason, it just won’t die.
I feel like the “I see people” kid from “The Sixth Sense.” The only difference is that I’m weirded out by hearing voices--okay, just one voice--warbling the uber-irritating “I Dreamed a Dream,” over and over and over again. Somebody--anybody--please make it stop. Not just for me, either. My husband is sick of hearing my piss-poor imitations of the singing lass.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Off-put THIS
Given my hypomanical personality, I imagine that there are numerous people who are angry at me, disappointed in me or nursing a case of hurt feelings I’ve caused. Right off the bat, I can think of at least six people who fall into one or more of those categories.
Guess what? I don’t give a shit. You know why? I have many talents, but mind-reading isn’t one of them. So if you would rather nurse your grudges or put a sling on your fragile emotions than risk having a conversation with me, knock yourself out.
My therapist, Annie Sullivan, pointed out just last week that I can be “off-putting” when I’m angry. Wow, Annie, I bet you graduated first in your social work class. So...what? I’m supposed to rein in my anger? Make it nice and pretty for you? Call it off-putting if you want. I call it taking responsibility for myself, and I’m happy to do it.
That’s right. I’m happy to take responsibility for myself. But read closely, folks, because this is where it gets tricky: I’ll do it for me, not for you. Doing it for you is your frigging job. And, if you choose to do nothing about your issue(s) with me, at least own the fact that you’re walking around with an empty nut-sac [or whatever the female equivalent of that is]. Do not play the victim. In the film world, that performance may make you an Oscar winner. In my world, it makes you a pathetic loser.
Maybe you just need a different word than the “C” word. No, no, no. Not that “C” word. The "confront" word. Clearly, it is way too loaded for most people. How about we say “talk”? Or “share”? Or “Rosebud,” for Christ’s sake, if it makes you feel better.
It makes no difference to me. I’m not afraid of the “confront” word. In fact, I hold myself to the same standards I’m asking you to sign on for. If I’m pissed, hurt or disappointed--hell, even if I’m having a positive feeling, infrequently as that may happen--nine times out of 10 you’ll know it pretty damn quickly. Ironically, the longer I hold onto my feelings, the harder it is for me to “Rosebud” you.
I like to compare this phenomenon to a penis’s refractory period. You know how, when guys are young, they can be back in the proverbial saddle more quickly than when they are older? Well, when my feelings are “young,” they are easy come, easy go [again]. When they get “older”--when I hold onto them too long--it is more difficult for me to get them out. Worse, I can’t pretend, even a little bit, that everything is A-okay between us.
Jeez. I just re-read what I wrote and now I’m worried that all of this was way too scary for you. Wow. I sure hope not. I’d be so, so very sorry if I was “off-putting.”
Guess what? I don’t give a shit. You know why? I have many talents, but mind-reading isn’t one of them. So if you would rather nurse your grudges or put a sling on your fragile emotions than risk having a conversation with me, knock yourself out.
My therapist, Annie Sullivan, pointed out just last week that I can be “off-putting” when I’m angry. Wow, Annie, I bet you graduated first in your social work class. So...what? I’m supposed to rein in my anger? Make it nice and pretty for you? Call it off-putting if you want. I call it taking responsibility for myself, and I’m happy to do it.
That’s right. I’m happy to take responsibility for myself. But read closely, folks, because this is where it gets tricky: I’ll do it for me, not for you. Doing it for you is your frigging job. And, if you choose to do nothing about your issue(s) with me, at least own the fact that you’re walking around with an empty nut-sac [or whatever the female equivalent of that is]. Do not play the victim. In the film world, that performance may make you an Oscar winner. In my world, it makes you a pathetic loser.
Maybe you just need a different word than the “C” word. No, no, no. Not that “C” word. The "confront" word. Clearly, it is way too loaded for most people. How about we say “talk”? Or “share”? Or “Rosebud,” for Christ’s sake, if it makes you feel better.
It makes no difference to me. I’m not afraid of the “confront” word. In fact, I hold myself to the same standards I’m asking you to sign on for. If I’m pissed, hurt or disappointed--hell, even if I’m having a positive feeling, infrequently as that may happen--nine times out of 10 you’ll know it pretty damn quickly. Ironically, the longer I hold onto my feelings, the harder it is for me to “Rosebud” you.
I like to compare this phenomenon to a penis’s refractory period. You know how, when guys are young, they can be back in the proverbial saddle more quickly than when they are older? Well, when my feelings are “young,” they are easy come, easy go [again]. When they get “older”--when I hold onto them too long--it is more difficult for me to get them out. Worse, I can’t pretend, even a little bit, that everything is A-okay between us.
Jeez. I just re-read what I wrote and now I’m worried that all of this was way too scary for you. Wow. I sure hope not. I’d be so, so very sorry if I was “off-putting.”
Monday, August 3, 2009
The case of the missing bras
I am missing two bras and I’m not happy about it.
They were supposed to arrive by USPS today, and they almost did. Instead, I received the box, which had been pried open, and the receipt. No bras in sight and--at the risk of over-sharing--those bad boys are hard to miss.
They are expensive, too. But so deeply committed to appearing “up to 1-3/4 inches smaller” am I that I gladly overpay. Besides, it would be selfish of me to complain. My bras’ work ethic is unparalleled. Theirs is no small job, my friends, and they do it uber-cheerfully.
As valuable as my bras are to me, I think they probably lack street value. So why the fuck would anyone steal them? And who would they give them to? It’s not like they’re one-size-fits-all. They barely fit me. [I refuse to wear the correct size; I can’t even say my correct size.]
Lucky for me, only the finest retailers can cater to my bra needs. These stores always stand behind their merchandise--even when it is stolen. So I'm getting two free replacement bras and free overnight shipping.
This time tomorrow, I’ll be riding high.
They were supposed to arrive by USPS today, and they almost did. Instead, I received the box, which had been pried open, and the receipt. No bras in sight and--at the risk of over-sharing--those bad boys are hard to miss.
They are expensive, too. But so deeply committed to appearing “up to 1-3/4 inches smaller” am I that I gladly overpay. Besides, it would be selfish of me to complain. My bras’ work ethic is unparalleled. Theirs is no small job, my friends, and they do it uber-cheerfully.
As valuable as my bras are to me, I think they probably lack street value. So why the fuck would anyone steal them? And who would they give them to? It’s not like they’re one-size-fits-all. They barely fit me. [I refuse to wear the correct size; I can’t even say my correct size.]
Lucky for me, only the finest retailers can cater to my bra needs. These stores always stand behind their merchandise--even when it is stolen. So I'm getting two free replacement bras and free overnight shipping.
This time tomorrow, I’ll be riding high.
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