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Jul 11

I still hate Twilight and I’m not sorry.

Posted on Sunday, July 11, 2010 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

So I recently turned 30 years old, and in honor of my birthday (or so I thought at the time), a friend I haven’t seen in many years whom I’d reconnected with on Facebook, flew out from Chicago to visit. I had been really looking forward to her visit, as I have not made many new friends yet in our new town and was feeling lonely and unable to be with family, this visit appeared to be, on the surface, a real treat. My husband was excited that I was excited and we were both really looking forward to her company, me because I needed a female friend, he because he needed me to get the fuck out of his face for five minutes. As the day of her arrival approached, I made various plans about what we would do, what it would be like, etc…basically setting my expectations maybe slightly higher than they should have been, based on the simple fact that I hadn’t seen this woman for over 8 years. I worked hard at cleaning the house and creating a nice atmosphere for my dear old high school buddy. I even bought her a little gift that I had been eyeing with her in mind, wrapped it nicely and wrote out a little note of appreciation of her visit.

The big day arrives. Her flight doesn’t arrive until 9pm, so I have all day to be excited and anxious. At no time in that whole day did I rethink over the past 16 years of knowing her–all of the times she let me down, walked all over me, demanded things of me that no friend has any right to demand of family, let alone a friend, treated me and others around us like expendable characters in her never-ending, completely self-involved “All Melissa, all of the time” show in her mind. Come to think of it now, I am comfortable saying that I hated the bitch. I hated the bitch so much that when I flew back to Chicago to shoot one of our mutual friend’s wedding, I avoided her like the plague and immediately lost the phone number she passed to me through a guest at the wedding via my boyfriend (who is now my husband). I hated that bitch so much that even though I’d heard that she’d been divorced and had two kids and had plenty of life-changing experiences, I had no interest in reigniting our friendship. Not once did I think any of this (had I, I might have just told my husband to turn the car around, let’s save our time and money, honey!).

My husband drops me at the arrivals gate, so I can run in and find Melissa, while he loops the parking areas so we don’t have to pay for parking–(hey, airport parking is a total bitch and complete waste of time under all circumstances). I walk through the doors to see my friend, waving frantically, moving at me at a slow shuffle run. Words like “I’ve missed you so much! I can’t believe I’m here” were aplenty. O.K. so far, so good. We go to look for her bag that is just coming off the conveyor belt, and before I know it, I’ve been snapped into a horrible photo opp of her and I–me in my pajama’s practically, not really at all prepared for photos–and before I know it, it’s been announced to the whole world via Facebook that she and I have reunited and that I now look like an middle-aged lady with horrible (or no) style, a tired face and, as was so eloquently pointed out to me in a repeated & louder than hell fashion–I, gasp!, have GRAY HAIR. Forget about the fact that the whole baggage claim area is going to need chiropractic assistance after craning to see my shout-worthy GRAY HAIR, forget that one of the worst pictures in existence is now floating around on the world wide web….it’s great, right? It’s fine! This is a wonderful reunion that I couldn’t wait for…..right.

My husband swoops in as we exit the airport, and I am relieved to just be near him again—NORMALCY…someone safe, someone who denies my gray hairs, no matter how many times I point them out in every type of light possible…anyways, needless to say, the meeting of these two worlds, the world of my past and the world of my future, did not go so well…

As we head toward the airport exit, my husband and I try to make awkward conversation with someone who has their nose completely buried in their cellphone–texting someone–anyone. I felt like the square parents with their nasty teenaged sourpuss of a kid in the backseat. This incessant texting was to become a pattern throughout the trip. It became such a huge annoyance to my husband that he started texting me anytime she was texting other people so that we could talk to each other and ignore her back (no, we’re not in 5th grade anymore, but it sure does feel like it…!). She would go into a texting coma several times over the next couple of hours and days. I can only imagine the texts were a mixture of “OMG, LMFAO, she has gray hair!”, “OMG LMFAO, I’m in New Mexico!”,” OMG LMFAO, I miss you so much, I can’t wait to get home, LOL, TTYL,”….OMG, LMFAO, I’m pathetic!” Ok, so that last one would never cross her mind, let alone fly out of her fingers onto her keypad, but hey, whatever, it’s my story, so it stays.

We get home, I tried to point out a couple of times where she might find the Sandia Mountains, and various landmarks along the way..all answered by some variation of the words “uh huh, hmmm and ok”. (At this point, my hopes have fallen quite a bit, and I’m contemplating throwing her phone out the window on I-25) When we get home, my husband sets off blowing up her inflatable mattress while I try to talk with her about what the week will bring and how much we have to catch up on…everyone is pretty tired by this point, so we all dress in our pjs, my husband takes off to read for a bit in bed before sleep, assuming that she and I would want to stay up and talk a bit before bed. I’ll admit that I kinda thought this too. At some point while I’m taking care of the dogs, making her bed and getting ready for bed, she gets on the phone. I sit in the chair near her and wait for her to get off, assuming that this would be a short call. I waited, and waited… I soon realized that this was not a “I made it, I’m safe, I’m tired, talk to you later” call, it was an “OMG, he DID NOT say that! OMG, tell me more…tell me what you were wearing, what you said, and then tell me what he said..and then tell me what anyone else you told this story to said…OMG!” conversation. I’m not kidding you. All the while I’m sitting there yawning, twiddling my thumbs like a dumb ass. At some point during this conversation, I got up and went into the bedroom, for what I’m not sure. My husband assumed that since I’d been gone so long, we’d had our initial catching up chat and I was coming in to go to bed. Not so. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go to bed, but didn’t want to be rude (no, going to bed without saying good night to this thoughtless bitch would have been too rude for me), but I didn’t know how much longer I could stay awake and I was pretty sure my impulse to punch her in the face couldn’t be held off much longer either. Finally, after an ETERNITY, she reluctantly gets off the phone. She then begins to tell me this long drawn out story involving she, him, them, who-ever-the-hell-else-who-cared-to-be-involved. At this point I assumed she was telling me the unbelievably crazy story she’d just spent 35 minutes or so listening to in order to explain her blunt rudeness. Nope. When I asked if her friend was calm enough to go to bed and get some rest, she said “oh, this happened last week–that was someone else on the phone.” What the hell? I went to bed just shaking my head. Duh.

I'm pretty sure this is her "I'm peeing in the pool" face.

I'm pretty sure this is her "I'm peeing in the pool" face.

The next day was my birthday, and I had decided before getting out of bed that I would start this day fresh. Let bygones be bygones…except for the fact that what was to come next was a nonstop cellphone party for this friend and all of her friends (you know the ones she sees all of the fucking time when she’s not over a thousand miles away visiting a new place and an old friend..) What kills me is that at one point, because it was my birthday, I was responding to a birthday text from a friend, and she was in the middle of telling me a long story about how this guy or that guy likes her but won’t date her, and she’s like “um, am I interrupting you?” Bitch, please! Mind you, this is her second day, and it dawns on me that I’d been wishing she would go home since about 9:30 the night before. My husband was very sweet and made sure that despite this rude cow’s presence, I had a nice birthday. And despite that rude cow, I did. It was a pool party, like when I was kid, with balloons and pizza and presents. The whole sha-bang. Thanks, honey!

Let’s see, since I realize now that I am kind of rampaging and not getting to my point, I’ll try to hit the highlights:

  • We paid for a great many of her meals without her offering to chip in (my husband wanted to hit her)
  • She told endless stories about the guy who is the love of her life, the guy she’s in love with (because somehow the two are different), the guy she has a crush on and the guy she has no feelings for but answers his booty call when he breaks up with his girlfriends
  • She made a few more comments meant to be direct blows at my self-esteem, as if turning 30 hadn’t left me feeling fragile enough
  • She went on and on about how there are tons and tons of guys in love with her, but none of them would date her because she’s too good for them (right!)
  • I was so desperate to figure out how to entertain her (a glob of human flesh with no interests outside of FB and texting) that I suggested we go see…(I cringe…) Twilight, knowing that she was a ridiculously huge fan. As was expected, the movies was crap, and all of the people who were there to see it were morons, and I am only sort of glad that I now know that I was speaking correctly in my last blog about how stupid this Twilight stuff is. Literally the movie was over and I was wondering why there was no climax to this movie and why everyone around me was crying or sniffling or some combination of the two
  • She continued to post awful pictures of me on FB and send them to her friends which is just not cool
  • She picked her zits until they bled and then later turned to bruises, then presumably rubbed her nasty face & hands all over the sheets and comforter and anything else she touched
  • She left her clothes around everywhere, never made her bed (which just happens to be in the middle of the living room) and left empty coffee cups on the table, literally feet from the trash can
  • She spouted on and on about how she’s now an evangelist about Jesus, OMG, I just love Jesus.
  • She helped herself to anything and everything in our cupboards–in constant forage mode, much like a locust
  • She squatted on my computer so much that my husband got into the routine of actually cutting off the internet to my computer so she could no longer surf Facebook and PlentyofFish.com (a website devoted to connecting skinny dudes who like fat chicks with fat chicks who like skinny dudes, apparently)

When it was finally time to discuss what time she needed to be at the airport to return home, she suggested 2 hours beforehand, and before she could even finish getting the words out, my husband says without looking at me “That sounds good!”….lol, poor guy, he’s been very understanding. I let the fact slide that being at our particular airport two hours early is silly because they are very efficient and security is quick no matter the time of day. Needless to say, I was as eager as he to be done with this ordeal. The night before she was to leave, my husband and I are lying in bed, playing on our iPads, relaxing, just praying for the morning to come soon so we can be rid of her awfulness, I’m feeling mistakenly confident that the situation can’t get worse and that the worst has passed. I then hear the doomed, and in hindsight, dreaded ‘ding’ notification that I have a text message. Confused at who would be sending me a text this late, I go to look at the message. It’s from her. The message says (mind you I am quoting word for word, hence the horrifying grammar and spelling) “hope u dont care but im lookn at the hood pics…FUCKN AWESOME! why r u not doing this for a living???” Upon reading this, I’m a little confused because no one has seen these photos, the bride, my friend, hasn’t posted them on FB, and I haven’t posted them anywhere either. The only place she could have possibly seen them is….on….my….computer….. Surely she didn’t. Surely she didn’t get on my computer without asking. Surely she didn’t start looking through my personal files….surely. Right? I text back nervously “Where are you seeing these?” She responds “on your computer duh… i check my fb and saw “hood wedding” i was like oh…good.” I’m panicked at this point because I feel totally and completely violated. The wedding file was on my desktop….OOOOOoooohhh shit. This bitch has the nerve to treat me like shit all week, eat on our dime all week, basically toot her own horn all week and act like she’d rather be in our shitty ass hometown from whence she came all week???? Oh hell no. My husband became alerted to my panic and starts angrily getting out of bed as I finish stuttering out what horrible deed she has just committed, presumably to go knock the living shit out of this ungrateful bitch. I stopped him, telling him not to go, knowing I had to do something, feeling for the second time during her visit that I’m not sure what to do, but know that something must be done, but I don’t want to be the one to do it…blaaaarg….dammit you nosy worthless human being! I felt completely powerless and, well, for lack of a better word, little. I just wanted it all to go away. This was, to me, the ultimate betrayal, you really can’t go back on that one. I don’t really remember what I said as I entered the office to put an end to this bullshit, but she got the message, very clearly. She was up and out of my chair like a flash. Nighty-night, shitstick.

I’m not sure where we stand now, and to be honest, I wouldn’t care to ever see or hear from her again. After dropping her at the airport and enduring the chilly goodbye, we threw a mini party in the car on the way  home, just happy to be free of her non-stop “Aren’t-I-Great” party. It’s exhausting, really. We get home and head up the stairs feeling utterly liberated. As I begin the clean up after her destructive departing, I notice that the gift I thoughtfully chose for her was in the very place she left it after tossing it aside thoughtlessly the night I gave it to her. Even knowing what I now knew, about what a thoroughly nasty person she is, I was sad and a little offended. She also left behind a pair of shorts and a pair of holey underwear. What sweet memories I have of those parachute panties when my husband accidentally picked them up, not even thinking that anyone would lay their dirty unmentionables out on the patio for just anyone to see, assuming it was a swimsuit since everything else out there was swimming apparel of some sort. I’ve never seen him move so fast to drop the panties and run to the sink, just in case a communicable disease lingered. This is pure class, for sure. In the guest bathroom, I found all of the towels in a ball on the floor (because at our hotel, that is our policy apparently) and in the trash dangling precariously on the edge, ready to topple out at any moment, was a USED MAXI PAD, not wrapped in kleenex or even somewhat concealed in any fashion. Apparently even her used maxi pads are gifts to be honored and cherished. It’s being dipped in gold as we speak.

Jun 27

T’why’light

Posted on Sunday, June 27, 2010 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

Let me begin by admitting that I am somewhat of a news junkie. I have my favorite sites that I visit every morning and every night and sometimes several times in between. Lately, my concern is growing over the fact that EVERY SINGLE DAY, on news.google.com there is a new “news” story about Twilight, its fans, its characters, its plot, or if not one of those coma-inducing topics, it’s about the actors themselves and the stupid things they say, do or think. I have to wonder if there is any mystery left about this latest movie coming out (it may be out already as I write this…but I wouldn’t know because I don’t give a hoot). Granted, I understand that this article invariably falls into the “Entertainment” section, where it does belong, but, this is more than just covering the opening of a new Summer smash. This is like beating a dead horse a week after the vultures have had a go at its rotting corpse. Article after article after yet another article about these movies, their actors and any of that nonsense is NOT NEWS. No one cares that Robert Pattinson cut his hair. No one cares that one of the other actors in the movie won’t show his abs unless it’s “really important”…I can’t tell you how many times flashing my abs saved someone’s life. Sheesh. I swear to god, if the actors themselves would allow it, I think some of these journalists would set them all up on heart moniters and other various medical systems meant to moniter one’s health activities, they would do it in a heartbeat, and we’d be seeing stories like “Robert Pattinson’s Heart Rate Stays Stable Overnight”, and then all of the Twilight fans could breathe a sigh of relief and sheer joy that most likely, Mr. Pattinson will (unfortunately or otherwise) live to make another Twilight craptastically stupid sequel. The other thing that bugs me is that these actors are deemed “smoking hot”, not because they actually have ONE OUNCE of attractiveness, but because they have billions of dollars of marketing funds fueling the appearance of their ugly, scowling faces on every screen or surface in the world, in effect convincing the stupid masses that they are indeed attractive in some way–and yes, I’m talkingtwilight trees about Kristen Stewarts’ often superior smirk on her unsmiling and just darn PLAIN face). I really can’t say whether or not the Twilight books are any good, I’ve not read them (too busy reading the instructions on how to grow strawberries on my apartment patio)–I’m sure they are entertaining to a certain demographic and certainly any reading is better than no reading at all, but this hype over the movies is straight up ridiculous, and I’m not afraid to say that (I’m no fool, I stocked up on garlic and bathed in holy water this morning). I don’t remember there being news updates about Harry Potter or its actors, etc, every single minute (I can just imagine headlines like “Daniel Radcliffe’s Adam’s Apple Causes Traffic Jam” or “Emma Watts’ First Pop Album To Hit Stores In January”). I think my favorite headline that I’ve seen, only just this week, is (drum roll please…..) “Is Robert Pattinson a Real Vampire?”. Well. Of bloody course he is! Can somebody PLEASE enlighten me to the greatness and importance of these people and their stupid movie? Can someone make a detailed argument to me about why these movies and every move the actors who are in them make, are such a newsworthy topic? (Cue the crickets, please sir!!!)

I’d like to see a face off: Twilight v. True Blood (a t.v. show apparently all about vampires and werewolves as well, another thing I haven’t dumped my valuable time into watching…why would I when there are ample seasons of Murder, She Wrote available on Netflix Instantwatch???). More interesting, quite possibly, would be a face off between the fans of each, although I’m pretty sure that they would end up to be one in the same, because after all, vampires and any subject matter even remotely related to vampires is just irrefutably cool. Anybody who’s anyone knows that!

Dec 7

The richest asshole in my town.

Posted on Monday, December 7, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

My husband and I went to dinner, on a date, to watch our favorite football team. We have this place that we go, they serve the best chicken wings in the state of Colorado. Our plan was to grab a table with a T.V. and watch the game, have some tasty wings and drinks and just relax.

We arrived at the restaurant and seated ourselves at a table next to a huge T.V. and asked the waitress to change the channel to the game we were looking for. My husband ordered a margarita for me, so at this point, all is going really well. As soon as I made the mistake of making this assumption, a short, pug-nosed lady with a wreck of a haircut shows up with a little girl who appears unable to stop neck dancing. For those of you who may not be familiar, neck dancing is where you bob your head and shift your shoulders in the opposite direction of your head in some form of a rhythm–think of an uncontrollable seizure. Anyways, these two characters show up and begin pushing two tables together, basically right in front of the T.V. Now, this is not the problem, not really. The T.V. is up high and so obstruction is not what I was worried about.

Shortly after this occurs, more of the brood shows up. More kids, and not sweet, well-behaved kids. Hell no. Snot-nosed tween-aged boys with bad haircuts, ugly hoodies and bad attitudes. They also happened to be rooting for the team opposing ours. But that’s not the worst of it. I’d recognized the portly man who came to join his unfortunate-looking wife and kids. He is the brother of one of the biggest douche bags in this whole county, maybe even in the whole state of Colorado, who happens to also be one of the richest guys in town–thanks to his Daddy. So, there’s one more seat left at the table. I’m eying this seat, wondering who it could be–not even imagining that it could possibly be who it turned out to be.

So, a quick recap, we’re now seated next to a table of rowdy, wretched looking people, who are cheering against our team, with one seat open at their increasingly disgusting table. I see him from the doorway. Nasty red hair, beady molesting eyes, a laughable attempt at a scraggly red mustache, topped off with a leather coat and a pedophile’s swagger. My heart sinks as I make the connection. Of course, he takes his seat at the table right next to ours. Appetite is at zero by this point. My whole attitude has taken a dive, and I’m feeling something akin to rage at the entire wreck of a family. It doesn’t help that every time our team messes up, they cheer. Two margaritas in and I’m imagining rolling over more than one of their heads with my car tire.

My husband seems concerned at this point, not knowing just how much I hate this guy. Reasonably worried that I’m going to let these people (if you prefer to call them people instead of pigs) ruin our evening. I explain the reason for my sheer hatred, which includes the way he eyes me at the gym, the way he always tries to talk to me like we’re friends–but with a definite note of condescension, like it should be my honor to be speaking to him while he sweats all over the eliptical. Oh, and let’s not forget how he stops by my office, acting like god’s gift to men and women alike. He owns the building my office was in and for some reason he thinks this makes him welcome in our office and in my life. First off, the building is a slum. The ceiling leaks whenever it rains, there are big mildew spots on all of the ceiling tiles, the carpet is moldy and worn throughout. Not to mention, he seemed to specifically hire only sex offenders to maintain the building. Secondly, the building is home to maybe two successful businesses, everything else comes and goes. If he thinks that owning this property makes him anything but a slum lord, he’s made a serious mistake.

I wish all kinds of bad things on him, and feel terribly sorry for his children, who have no choice but to be raised from little shits to full-grown assholes. I feel pity for his pudgy wife because I know he spends his time eying anyone but her. And, apparently, he’s supposed to be a good example of what a Morman should be. Ha!

Finally, the brood left and I couldn’t have been more happy. My spirits instantly lifted and suddenly, even the fact that our team was losing at this point couldn’t sully that. Even our service from our waitress improved, once she wasn’t busy kissing their asses. I don’t know how many times she refilled their iced teas without even glancing at my husband’s empty glass and melting ice.

In the end, our team didn’t win. But, I did walk away from that restaurant with a bounce in my step, thankful to be reminded that we are not them, and no matter how hard we tried, could never even come close!

Nov 16

The Aftermath of tap

Posted on Monday, November 16, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

I’ll admit it, the couple times I did attend tap class, I had a good time. Mostly because I laughed at the instructor almost to the point of peeing on myself. But that’s over now. For a couple of solid reasons:

  • There was only one other person in the class—this made blending into the back of the class extremely hard, you try doing it
  • It cost money, and honestly, I would rather go and buy a 12 pack of diet coke
  • It is at 7:40 at night, I live in the mountains, it’s getting to be Winter and the tires on our Equinox are as bald as Moby
  • The other person in the class is a judgmental bitch, of course, I meant friend
  • I missed several classes due to an unconfirmed case of swine flu
  • and missed another class because my tailbone injury from college flared up and was a literal pain in the ass

Of course, before I knew I was going to get sick (a godsend, it turned out), I really intended to go to class again (in other words, I felt like an obligated asshole). Even so, we never got around to ordering tap shoes. Which may have made the class a little more worthwhile. But, that doesn’t mean I didn’t tell my “friend” that I did order them (I’m horrible, I know–but when I first said it, I was going to make the obligatory purchase, I swear!). So, friend thinks I orangerdered them. Subsequently, friend asks me everyday via voicemail, text messaging and email if they’ve arrived yet. “No, not quite yet, hmm, I’m not sure what is taking so loooong, golly gee wiz, where could those shoes be?” Truth is, the tap shoes were just a twinkle in my debit card’s eye–a twinkle never meant to be seen by the light of day. Truth is, like I said, I’d rather have a diet coke. Really. I’m SUCH a shit, I so so am.

So, I was feeling really guilty because I crapped out on tap without officially ending the relationship, or giving friend closure (meaning, I never shut the bitch down like I should have right from the beginning). But thanks to some really nifty work I’ve been doing in group therapy, I’m learning that I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to and I’m not responsible for other people’s actions or reactions. Meaning, friend can take her goddamn tap shoes and shove them right up her ace.

Sep 10

Dear Job-that-I-no-longer-have, WTF?

Posted on Thursday, September 10, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

It’s been about 3 months since I quit my job–a little over 2 since my fiance and I got married. Things have been rocky–left and right. Marriage is hard. But my biggest bitch to lay out today is my ex-boss. She’s been clinging to my metaphorical nuts for the last couple of weeks and I’m ready to strap her to an atomic bomb and send her flying and enjoy watching the bits and pieces gently fall to earth. Better yet, I’d like to punch her straight in the chin.

We built her a website, we showed her how to use it, I exited my job, all’s good right? FUCK NO! That bitch can’t follow directions to save her kids’ lives. For her “It’s so much easier for YOU to just do it”. Free work? Ok, maybe for awhile, just to be nice and help her out. But yesterday, my husband decided to send her an estimate for some stupid thing she wants to add to her website, and she has had the mega balls to write us back and say that it should be free…?? WTF? Since when does punch-to-the-faceANYONE YOU KNOW work for free for someone you feel underpaid you enough already as it is? Bottom line, it’s not going to be free for us to do the work, so why should she not open her stupid german checkbook and pay for it?

I’ve changed my phone number and am getting ready to disappear off the face of the earth–because this bitch is CRAZY!

Also, the items that have made it to the shortlist of things/people I despise:

  • My landlord
  • My ex-boss whom I wish was an ex-citizen
  • watery dog poo
  • RLS….FUCK.
  • VHS tapes
  • websites that don’t work
  • this town

To end on a positive note:

  • My husband got me and iPod Touch! (it’s the devil but I love it)
  • We’re going on vacation in less than a month
  • Goo Gone has saved my ass twice this week–big love to goo gone
  • Work has been coming in steadily
  • I returned my library book EARLY for once
  • Hulu
Jun 5

Peterisms

Posted on Friday, June 5, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

“Uh, that’s just not going to hold. I wouldn’t recommend that. It’s just got to get done. Uhhh, it shouldn’t take long. Not much longer now. You might as well put the t.v. there, that’s where it’s always been, that’s where it always will be. Um, yeah, that sounds great.” Just a sneak peek into the inner-workings of Peter’s mind.

We’ve been cursed un-beer-ievablewith a chatty DIY landlord who lives 3 doors down. Our house is his pet project, his escape from his girlfriend and her visiting family. If it’s not one thing, it’s definitely another. We’ve not had a Peter-free day since we moved in. We’re quickly approaching a karate chop to Peter’s face kind of situation. My fiance doesn’t seem to mind it, which of course makes me even more insane! He’ll stand out in the driveway, holding a bag of potatoes, talking about lord only knows what, while I’m inside (waiting for previously mentioned bag of potatoes to start dinner with) pacing back and forth, planning voodoo curses on Peter and Peter’s children, and Peter’s children’s children. I guard my privacy with a fierceness, and I won’t apologize for it.

Today, Peter said he wouldn’t come by tomorrow if we were home–we’ll see if he can resist. I see him creep by, driving 2 mph, speed up, then break, trying to fight the urge to pull into our driveway. Peter might go missing deep in the moutain woods if I don’t get one day sans Peter! Hiiiii – yah!

May 2

Share the road?

Posted on Saturday, May 2, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

So, it’s that time of year again. That time when many lives are endangered by mass hordes of unattractively skinny, narrow-assed men pedaling two wheels and some metal down many of the area’s major county roads and highways. Share the road my ass! There have been many articles and “letters to the editor” about sharing the roads around here, who’s got more rights, who’s more responsible, so here are my two cents:

A. I do believe that both bicyclists and drivers should follow all traffic laws. (I cannot count on my fingers, toes and everyone else’s fingers and toes in this town, how many times I have seen some snooty bicyclist whip through a stop sign, red light or even riding in the wrong lane against traffic–but hey, they’re training, we drivers should be understanding and inconvenienced of course.)

B. Bicyclists many times feel that they must travel in packs, sometimes 4-6 deep. As you can imagine, this would take up a fair amount of road, leaving drivers no choice but to either cross the yellow line or take out a few self-centered assholes (and go to jail feeling like they just did the world some good) who are under the impression that it is not only easy for drivers to manoever their, but also enjoyable to miss on-coming traffic by a hair’s length.

C. Bicyclists also seem to flock to roads, highways, etc, that meet their strict requirements which are as follows:

  1. MUST be a winding road with many treacherous twists, turns and blindspots.
  2. MUST have a very narrow shoulders, on both sides, preferably less than 6 inches across.
  3. MUST be a heavily traveled area with many commuters in vehicles big enough to slaughter bike, helmet and body without leaving a trace.

D. I live, along with all of these bicyclists, in a town that was voted 2007’s most Bike Friendly town. So, last time I checked, we have a beautiful trail that allows you to travel from one end of town to the other, along a beautiful river, no less. If you’re not riding your bike to commute, why must you ride in traffic, on dangerous highways, endangering motorists and yourselves?

E. The idea that motorists have more responsibility in this issue is completely ludacris. If you’re moronic enough to challange my 1.5 ton SUV with your alluminum can on wheels, then best of luck to you. If I don’t encounter you on a narrow winding road with only a mere memory of a shoulder, riding in the middle of my lane, and you follow the traffic regulations, I got no beef (literally, because even if I were to hit a waifish bicyclist, it would be the equivilant of riding through a sudden downpour of dry leaves in late November–no blood, guts or beef on my grill!). But if I come up on you, huffing and puffing up the middle of the East bound lane on Floor Ida, game onclown_bike1.

F. Bicyclists tend to have a poor attitude towards everyone else who isn’t like them. Like, because we get our exercise at the gym or hiking on one of the nice trails available to us, or even if we don’t exercise at all and sit at home and drink beer and scratch our asses, we are lesser beings because we don’t humiliate our ball-sack (or in my case, female parts…) everyday by highlighting it with bright green spandex advertising Spam. Whatever happened to riding your bike for fun? And since when does it make you less awesome because you aren’t a grown man dressed head to toe in spandex to go out for a nice bike ride? Last time I checked, it doesn’t. That brings me to the final leg of my two cents: Attire

F. The “appropriate” attire is sickeningly hypnotic, like a car wreck you can’t turn away from. Spandex stretched from here to there, with nothing worth looking at in between. The “costumes” are just about the only redeeming quality of this “sport” because one can’t help but laugh when it pedals by.

Apr 11

Those Friends: part 1

Posted on Saturday, April 11, 2009 in Keep your friends close., Someone please pay me to bitch.

So I’ve got a couple friends–everyone’s got at least one of them. You know, the type of friend who you’re not quite sure is actually your friend. Takers who readily take and wouldn’t know the first thing about giving. Today, I’ve got one friend I’d like to discuss.

Friend A, we’ll call her A. She’s overly confident for reasons that are not apparent to the naked eye, a terrible singer who loves to sing more than life itself-the kind of singing that would drive a deaf dog crazy. Not just a hum-a-long-to-the-radio-singer. A my-life-is-a-broadway-production singer. Sitting in a fishing boat, on a lake stocked with fish trained to jump in your boat (for 5 hours…) and there’s not a fish to be found, BUT, I did get a full on re-enactment of Rent. As truly annoying as I’m sure this sounds (and truly is!), this has nothing to do with why I don’t believe she is a genuine friend to me. It has more to do with the fact that I can pour my heart out to her in an email about something huge in my life that’s really bringing me down, and she can manage to respond without actually addresssing a single word I wrote in my email. It has to do with the fact that we mainly keep in touch via email because she lives far away, in a big windy town, yet every email she sends are only about her and her stupid illegal alien boyfriends who claim to have been deported (who in reality have only been “deported” to the South side of town) just to cleanly and quickly end their relationship with her (how awkward would that be to walk into the pub and see your deported boyfriend, or, if you are as dillusional as she is, you might just jump for joy that he managed to escape Immigration..? To further the dillusion, you just might concoct a story in your head that he actually planned all of this and was here at this very pub to surprise you!!) So, feeling like our emails were missing each other by a mile, because obviously what I was writing was of no interest to her, and while I always asked how she was, and what was new and did this or that happen, did it go well, etc (and genuinly cared that she was well), her self-absorbed emails quickly lost their glimmer and gleam for me, I decided to stop responding to her emails (oh, btw, I was also bombarded with mass email and text updates on her life, I mean, this bitch wb178969537ould stand on a mountain top and shout out her business to anyone who would listen) just to see how long it would take for her to notice that I’d stopped responding. It took 2 months (for me to get tired of the bullshit emails and point out to her that she had stopped receiving emails from me). A little background on this friend. We went to college together at a pretty little liberal college in the midwest. We had a baseball team and a joke of a football team. We had halls named after bodily functions. We spent our free time drinking watermelon pucker(remember that nasty shit?) on various bunkbeds in various dorm rooms between classes, her: theatre, me: science & lit. We met on a trip to build a house for Habitat. We sat on the roof of this house and smoked a cigarette together (ick, now). I listened to her stories about her then boyfriend (who later hit on me, blatantly in front of her while I was visiting her in her big windy city, but she did not notice) who was of course being a douchebag. I think I learned early on, somewhere in my gut, that for the most part, our friendship would be one that looked better on paper, it sounded better when retold in stories later, but really wasn’t all that reciprocal, like, at all. But, after college, we didn’t see each other all that much for about 4 years and by the time we reconnected, I (stupidly) assumed that she had matured. After all, she was now a high school drama teacher, working on her master’s degree. She came out to visit me in my high, wide open space-filled town, about 3 years ago (we actually reconnected on Myspace haha!), where I quickly realized that she’s only aged in years, not in maturity. Her eyesight has not broadened beyond her own nose, and it’s not looking good folks.

In conclusion, yes, she will be invited to my wedding (I guess I haven’t had enough torture yet!), because it’s expected by others and she expects to be invited and I think the hassle of not inviting her at this point would be greater than just letting her come and having her there (I’ve hired bodyguards and professional listeners, she won’t get within a good arm’s length of me). And also, we have had some crazy times, that are super funny, together. We laugh our asses off, until we cry or pee a little, and I’m content to be the listener and the sympathizer, because the center of attention has never been a great location for me. We camp, drink beer, eat burned corn on the cob and dehydrated camping food, kayak, fish and pitch a mean tent together. So will I keep her as a friend, sure. Will I trust her with my life and my deep dark secrets (regardless of how many of her deep dark secrets I currently house)? Never.

nosebean, out.

Apr 9

Make-up trials

Posted on Thursday, April 9, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

I’m getting married, and apparently, as part of the “ritual” of getting married, you go to the salon and have people do a trial run of your hair-do and make up. I had the hair trial last week and I was honestly quite pleased. I went back yesterday for the make up trial, this was a different story altogether. I walked into the salon and was greeted by a frazzled, silly-looking girl with bad hair and even worse make-up.  She introduced herself and sat my down on the ridiculously uncomfortable but obviously stylish loveseat in the waiting area. She started to ask me if I had any style in mind when the phone rang–she jumped up while huffing and puffing and rolling her eyes and stomped to the phone, stating “I have to answer the phones because WE don’t have a receptionist!!!” She returned 5 minutes later to inform me that she was going to “make your face look like my face!!!” yay? This was my first cause for concern. If my face ever looked like her face (and I know how this is going to sound but) I would jump in a time machine and be born to someone else. In other words, this is not a good introduction for a make up trial for the one day that it really matters what your make up looks like!

Then she took me in, sat me in a chair and said “I have to run out to my car and get my personal make up bag, because I think our faces are so similar, my make up would work great on you. A) this is NOT hygenic, whatsoever because she looked like regularly experienced massive landmine explosions across a majority of her face and B) I am a brown haired, fair-skinned brown-eyed girl, she was a blue-eyed, fraggle-haired oompa loompa from wonkaland via the tanning salon, I am still having a hard time finding the similarities ANYWHERE. But, if you may recall (reference back to my first blog I think it was, where I explained my amazing shit-eating capabilities…), I am not the type to protest, so I grasped the arms of the chair and took it like a wimp. My mom was with me, laughing the whole time. At one point, she swiped some white goop across the lower inner eyelid (and informed me that she would NOT be doing that on my upper inner eyelid—well DUH, even I know that). I began to feel like I was looking like some sort of Amsterdam working lady. When she whipped out her mascara and started swiping it on my lower lashes, I started to get nervous. I think she actually asked me if she was hurting me, this should give you an idea of the look on my face.

All in all, she did an ok job, mom and fiance approved so I guess I’ll go with it, although it felt like much more make up than I usually wear and the process to get there was more than a little painful. My only concern is having to see this whackjob on my wedding day. lol. But I guess that’s the price of beauty?

As long as I don’t look like this lady on my wedding day:scared_face(yeah, I said lady)

Apr 6

There’s a dually and a dick in my driveway.

Posted on Monday, April 6, 2009 in Someone please pay me to bitch.

WARNING: Explicit thoughts and words will follow.

My mom recently left her husband (hoorah, do a cart-wheel if you can) because he’s the king of Douchbag Island. And regardless of the fact that I know, and she knows, and everyone knows, that she will go back to him, I’m proud of her for standing up for herself for a minute. Here is how I feel about her husband: He is a tall, 61-year old baby with a smuggness I just want to rip off of his face with my fingernails (true, I keep them short–an old piano player habit – but they could still do some damage). I cannot remember a day of my 28-year old life that his ugly face hasn’t made an appearance. (Yes, he wrecked my parent’s marriage–not single handedly, I’ll admit, but he sure didn’t help keep our family together at all) He treats my mom like a slave, and doesn’t appreciate any of the things she does to take care of him. He invested all of their retirement money in a sour real estate deal (despite the fact that I shared my gut feelings about it long ago…), has known for a year that there is no money coming in, yet still sits on his flat ass playing a scintillating computer card game, Solitaire (anyone heard of it? It received the UGY award – Underacheiver’s Game of the Year). All the while, my mom, who has a reasonable head on her shoulders, decides to get a job so they can have some money and he can have his damn health insurance. This makes her day as such: 5:30 wake up, make Dink breakfast, take a bath, walk 1 mile through deep snow to highway where vehicle is parked (upon arriving she will discover that her work slacks are wet to her knees and she might as well have skipped deodorant and the curling iron), drive 25 minutes to town, work from 8:30 until 4:30 at a depressing place that smells, quite literally, like death, at 4:30, she will then drive to the grocery store to buy food for dinner, drive 25 more minutes home, walk through the snow, up the porch stairs with said groceries, only to walk in to fnd Dink at computer, with only his balding donut-head greeting her, breakfast dishes? still dirty. Dinner? Won’t be ready until she cooks it. Not only does she have to cook it, then she has to do the dishes to clean up afterward. (Go ahead mother, chime in: *But sometimes he does help me dry!!!!) I find this situation to be unacceptable. Mainly because I know that it’s not how she wants to live her life. If she could paint a picture of her ideal life, it would not resemble this situation one bit. And that makes me sad, because I know that while she taught me growing up that I should always be independant and rely on myself to get by, she can’t practice what she preaches and only stays with him because she is scared.

So, as I mentioned, she’s living with me and my fiance now (who, by the way, has been really wonderful about it all) but Dink is not out of the picture, oh no. She is dating him now–meets him for dinner here and there, goes up to take care of him, I’m surprised he doesn’t call her to wipe his ass every time he craps, honestly. This weekend, he had the nerve to pull his big dumpy truck into MY driveway and stand in MY front yard and act like a cocky fuck while my mom handed him the section of the newspaper where one might look to find a job – good luck you talantless shitstain. I want to tell her, so badly, that he’s not welcome within 1 mile of my home thanks much, but I know that it would hurt her, so I don’t. I guess I can’t be her backbone. But one thing I did learn from this: Blissfully, I can set boundaries in my OWN life that will not permit assholes like that to be in it, period. And that is sure a relief. I think I’ll start my list of people who won’t be invited for Christmas with:

Dink

Coincidentally, the list ends there. (for now)

For more information on how to get on this list, checkout: www.rnc.org, if you like what you see, you’re well on your way to a spot on my list. Congrats.