I'd like to rant about one of my biggest pet peeves: commercial buildings that do not bother to post a visible address. This is such a pain in the ass in Los Angeles County, where you might only glimpse an actual address every several blocks. I swear, Magellan would have a hard time finding an address in this town.
Look, I understand if Best Buy or Home Depot do not feel the need to post a visible address. I can spot those buildings from a mile away and don't need an address to confirm that I've found my destination.
But yesterday, I was headed to an appointment at a medical building I had never visited. (By the time this pregnancy is over, I will have visited every freaking medical building in Pasadena in order to have my blood drawn, uterus probed, and sugar levels checked.) I could not find the stupid building because its address was not clearly marked. UGH. I drove past the building three times before I was able to conclude, by process of elimination, that either (a) this was my destination, or (b) my destination had recently fallen into a sinkhole and no longer existed.
Why couldn't the medical building just post its address in a visible spot? It's a non-descript building with some windows that looks like every other building with medical offices. Does the architect have any idea how difficult it is to drive a car safely while scanning the street for addresses? Does he want me to get into an accident? Who the hell is the architect of this building anyway?
It's not like an address plaque is particularly expensive. I'm not asking for a neon billboard with animated penguins doing the can-can. Just go to the hardware store and buy those black metal numbers AND NAIL THEM ON THE SIDE OF YOUR BUILDING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IN A VISIBLE SPOT AND BEHIND A BUSH OR TREE IS NOT A VISIBLE SPOT. How expensive are those black numbers, anyway? A dollar? So if there are five numbers in your address, it costs five bucks plus maybe twenty-five cents for hardware to buy an address for your stupid freaking anonymous commercial building. Owners of Commercial Buildings: Have mercy! Post visible addresses! Or I will find you and tattoo your building's address across your forehead!
Showing posts with label Can I Rant For A Second?. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Can I Rant For A Second?. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Friday, August 31, 2012
Does Anyone Actually Like the Chatty, Stalker Sales Clerks?
I hate stalker sales clerks. I'm not talking about a friendly clerk who says hello, asks if I need any help, and then recedes into the background. I'm talking about the ones who pretend to be my shadow and follow me around while I try to shop. They ask a thousand questions, tell me about all the current promotions, inquire about my personal life, remind me about the current promotions, and act as if we are best friends. Even though I answer their questions with monosyllables and grunts, they think that their conversational skills are increasing the likelihood of a sale.
Don't they realize they are just annoying the crap out of me? Why must they be so freaking persistent? I have a few theories:
1) Annoying Stalker Sales Clerks are just really oblivious and stupid. They do not realizing they are killing my desire to buy a new lipstick or hand lotion. Have you ever hosted a soiree and there's one guest who does not realize the party is over, and that guest lingers for hours? And starts going through your photo albums and planning the vacation you are going to take together next Christmas? The guest-who-will-not-go-home is probably an Annoying Stalker Sales Clerk.
2) The "follow the customer around like a shadow" strategy actually works. By asking a customer a thousand questions, the clerk guilts and/or bullies the customer into buying some crap she does not actually want.
3) Customers actually like the Annoying Stalker Sales Clerks. These customers decide to go to the mall in the hopes of befriending an Annoying Stalker Sales Clerk. They want to share their life story in the hopes that the clerk will help them buy a scarf that will change their life.
My third theory distresses me the most. My friends and foes: if you are in such dire need of conversation, please visit a bar or nursing home. For the love of all things sacred in this world, please don't encourage the Annoying Stalker Sales Clerk.
Don't they realize they are just annoying the crap out of me? Why must they be so freaking persistent? I have a few theories:
1) Annoying Stalker Sales Clerks are just really oblivious and stupid. They do not realizing they are killing my desire to buy a new lipstick or hand lotion. Have you ever hosted a soiree and there's one guest who does not realize the party is over, and that guest lingers for hours? And starts going through your photo albums and planning the vacation you are going to take together next Christmas? The guest-who-will-not-go-home is probably an Annoying Stalker Sales Clerk.
2) The "follow the customer around like a shadow" strategy actually works. By asking a customer a thousand questions, the clerk guilts and/or bullies the customer into buying some crap she does not actually want.
3) Customers actually like the Annoying Stalker Sales Clerks. These customers decide to go to the mall in the hopes of befriending an Annoying Stalker Sales Clerk. They want to share their life story in the hopes that the clerk will help them buy a scarf that will change their life.
My third theory distresses me the most. My friends and foes: if you are in such dire need of conversation, please visit a bar or nursing home. For the love of all things sacred in this world, please don't encourage the Annoying Stalker Sales Clerk.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
An Open Letter to Idiot Motorcyle Drivers
Dear Idiot Motorcycle Drivers:
I hate you.
Before I start this rant, I'd like to clarify one thing: I do not hate all motorcycle drivers. In fact, most motorcycle riders seem to be civilized folks with a healthy fear of death. Yes, they drive between freeway lanes when there is traffic, but can you blame them? At least they drive defensively so they don't get killed.
But you, Idiot Motorcycle Driver, I hate you. You race around like you are immortal BUT YOU ARE NOT. You stupid effing dumbass. If you bump into my car, my car is going to end up in the shop... and you'll be dead. Your motorcycle is going to flip through the air and you are going to skid across the freeway and end up in the path of a big rig. I might get a little whiplash, but you are going to be a pile of human pulp.
Idiot Motorcycle Driver, you need to be more careful. You are not a god, and you do not own the road. If I kill you with my car, it is not going to be my fault. It will be your fault, for driving around like a drunken blind one-armed dumbass. You'll be dead, and I'll be alive.
And I will have to live with the guilt.
Idiot Motorcycle Driver, maybe you have a death wish. Maybe you drive like a suicidal devil because you are hoping a driver like me will put you out of your misery, while you are up to your 110 mph bullshit antics. But that does not give you a license to drive like an asshole.
Idiot Motorcycle Driver, I don't want to spend the rest of my life with the guilt of your death on my hands. No one wants to kill an idiot motorcycle driver, and yet it happens every day, again and again and again. Idiot Motorcycle Driver, show some respect for the drivers of sedans and SUVs. We don't want to bump into you, and we are doing our damn best to keep you alive, but when you are driving like a lunatic, accidents happen.
This is my wish for the Idiot Motorcycle Drivers of the World: (1) that you get the most expensive speeding ticket possible every time you drive like an asshat; and (2) that a herd of wild buffalo tramples your motorcycle; and (3) if #2 is not possible, then I'll be happy if a maniacal circus clown throws your motorcycle into a ravine.
With love and affection,
Courtney (a safe driver who hates Idiot Motorcycle Drivers)
I hate you.
Before I start this rant, I'd like to clarify one thing: I do not hate all motorcycle drivers. In fact, most motorcycle riders seem to be civilized folks with a healthy fear of death. Yes, they drive between freeway lanes when there is traffic, but can you blame them? At least they drive defensively so they don't get killed.
But you, Idiot Motorcycle Driver, I hate you. You race around like you are immortal BUT YOU ARE NOT. You stupid effing dumbass. If you bump into my car, my car is going to end up in the shop... and you'll be dead. Your motorcycle is going to flip through the air and you are going to skid across the freeway and end up in the path of a big rig. I might get a little whiplash, but you are going to be a pile of human pulp.
Idiot Motorcycle Driver, you need to be more careful. You are not a god, and you do not own the road. If I kill you with my car, it is not going to be my fault. It will be your fault, for driving around like a drunken blind one-armed dumbass. You'll be dead, and I'll be alive.
And I will have to live with the guilt.
Idiot Motorcycle Driver, maybe you have a death wish. Maybe you drive like a suicidal devil because you are hoping a driver like me will put you out of your misery, while you are up to your 110 mph bullshit antics. But that does not give you a license to drive like an asshole.
Idiot Motorcycle Driver, I don't want to spend the rest of my life with the guilt of your death on my hands. No one wants to kill an idiot motorcycle driver, and yet it happens every day, again and again and again. Idiot Motorcycle Driver, show some respect for the drivers of sedans and SUVs. We don't want to bump into you, and we are doing our damn best to keep you alive, but when you are driving like a lunatic, accidents happen.
This is my wish for the Idiot Motorcycle Drivers of the World: (1) that you get the most expensive speeding ticket possible every time you drive like an asshat; and (2) that a herd of wild buffalo tramples your motorcycle; and (3) if #2 is not possible, then I'll be happy if a maniacal circus clown throws your motorcycle into a ravine.
With love and affection,
Courtney (a safe driver who hates Idiot Motorcycle Drivers)
Friday, July 13, 2012
Is It So Hard To Start A Concert On Time?!
Last Saturday, I went to see The Dan Band with Nathan and my dad. The Dan Band has appeared in movies like Old School and The Hangover. The lead singer Dan dresses like a mechanic and sings girl songs by artists like Beyonce and Alanis Morissette, peppering the lyrics with lots of salty language. He has two back-up singers, who look like English professors in their blazers and glasses. I've seen their concert live three times now, and it is hilarious.
But would it kill them to start the show on time? The concert time on the tickets was 8 p.m., but the show did not actually start until 9:40 p.m. Seriously? I know I'm old, boring and lame, but if they weren't going to start the show until 9:40, couldn't they just effing say that on the tickets?
I've been to many concerts, and I realize from experience that only the philharmonic starts on time. Everyone else apparently has a blank check to start the show whenever the bleep they want to, because a musician's time is more valuable than a non-musician. As a non-musician, I should feel honored and privileged to have extra time to soak up the atmosphere and pay $12 for some crappy domestic beer.
The people of the world, should make a pact to START THE FREAKING CONCERT ON TIME. Why are we rewarding the tardy potheads who are getting stoned in the parking lot?
Realizing that concerts never start on time, I try to arrive late. Really, I do. But I'm never late enough, because I don't want to miss the show that I've paid good money to see. Then, by the time the show actually starts, I'm feeling bitter and hostile, and it takes an amazing effing show to get me out of my funk.
Fortunately for The Dan Band, they put on an amazing show, so I forgive them their tardiness, and I will keep going to their performances. But to all the other singers and bands that have callously wasted my time while they flirted with groupies and worked on the New York Times crossword puzzle - I curse thee! May you spend your eternity in a DMV/doctor's office purgatory, waiting for a concert that is never going to begin.
But would it kill them to start the show on time? The concert time on the tickets was 8 p.m., but the show did not actually start until 9:40 p.m. Seriously? I know I'm old, boring and lame, but if they weren't going to start the show until 9:40, couldn't they just effing say that on the tickets?
I've been to many concerts, and I realize from experience that only the philharmonic starts on time. Everyone else apparently has a blank check to start the show whenever the bleep they want to, because a musician's time is more valuable than a non-musician. As a non-musician, I should feel honored and privileged to have extra time to soak up the atmosphere and pay $12 for some crappy domestic beer.
The people of the world, should make a pact to START THE FREAKING CONCERT ON TIME. Why are we rewarding the tardy potheads who are getting stoned in the parking lot?
Realizing that concerts never start on time, I try to arrive late. Really, I do. But I'm never late enough, because I don't want to miss the show that I've paid good money to see. Then, by the time the show actually starts, I'm feeling bitter and hostile, and it takes an amazing effing show to get me out of my funk.
Fortunately for The Dan Band, they put on an amazing show, so I forgive them their tardiness, and I will keep going to their performances. But to all the other singers and bands that have callously wasted my time while they flirted with groupies and worked on the New York Times crossword puzzle - I curse thee! May you spend your eternity in a DMV/doctor's office purgatory, waiting for a concert that is never going to begin.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
An Open Letter To Myself
Dear Courtney,
Hi. It's me, Courtney. I'm writing this blog post while sitting against a heating pad, because your stupid back hurts again. As you might recall, a few weeks ago, you fell on your ass while testing beach chairs at the drugstore, and your back has not been the same since.
Yes, the back has rallied and felt okay for several days in a row. But once again, it hurts. You know why? Because you are getting old and you're out-of-shape. You no longer have the back of a spry 16 year old. You have the back of a 33 year old woman who thinks taking a stroll around the neighborhood counts as "exercise." Oh, you sweet naive idiot.
This is what you're going to do: you are going to rest your back until it is 125% better. Don't be an idiot and play frisbee when your back is only 85% better. Don't be an asshat and carry around heavy boxes when you are just 90% healed. And don't, for the love of god, don't be a nimrod and get a massage when your back is just 98% better. (And I don't even want to talk about gardening. If I catch you bending over to pick one weed this week, there is going to be hell to pay).
Be a good girl. Sit with your heating pad and take it easy. You can float around in the pool BUT IF YOU EVEN CONSIDER DOING A CANNON BALL, I WILL DISOWN YOU. You can take some slow walks around the block, but let's amble. There's no need to swing your arms about wildly and break a sweat. Let's just keep the old back limber.
When you are 125% better, we're doing pilates again. Remember pilates? It's that fantastic exercise regime we used to do that builds your core strength and keeps your back feeling fantastic. You are not a young chicken anymore. You need to take care of your body, so that you can enjoy several more decades of gardening, cooking, and chasing after frisbees. That means pilates.
Love,
Courtney
p.s. I'm watching you.
Hi. It's me, Courtney. I'm writing this blog post while sitting against a heating pad, because your stupid back hurts again. As you might recall, a few weeks ago, you fell on your ass while testing beach chairs at the drugstore, and your back has not been the same since.
Yes, the back has rallied and felt okay for several days in a row. But once again, it hurts. You know why? Because you are getting old and you're out-of-shape. You no longer have the back of a spry 16 year old. You have the back of a 33 year old woman who thinks taking a stroll around the neighborhood counts as "exercise." Oh, you sweet naive idiot.
This is what you're going to do: you are going to rest your back until it is 125% better. Don't be an idiot and play frisbee when your back is only 85% better. Don't be an asshat and carry around heavy boxes when you are just 90% healed. And don't, for the love of god, don't be a nimrod and get a massage when your back is just 98% better. (And I don't even want to talk about gardening. If I catch you bending over to pick one weed this week, there is going to be hell to pay).
Be a good girl. Sit with your heating pad and take it easy. You can float around in the pool BUT IF YOU EVEN CONSIDER DOING A CANNON BALL, I WILL DISOWN YOU. You can take some slow walks around the block, but let's amble. There's no need to swing your arms about wildly and break a sweat. Let's just keep the old back limber.
When you are 125% better, we're doing pilates again. Remember pilates? It's that fantastic exercise regime we used to do that builds your core strength and keeps your back feeling fantastic. You are not a young chicken anymore. You need to take care of your body, so that you can enjoy several more decades of gardening, cooking, and chasing after frisbees. That means pilates.
Love,
Courtney
p.s. I'm watching you.
Friday, June 29, 2012
A Rant On My Parents' Behalf
My parents are in the Hamptons right now. We were talking on the phone earlier this week and they advised me that (a) they are really upset about something, (b) they want me to write about it on the blog, and (c) they can't remember what they are angry about.
In the interest of being a dutiful daughter, I'm going to try to do my best to express their outrage:
Dear Person(s) - Animal - Place - Object - Natural Phenomenon - Historical Event - Weather System - Whatever The Hell It Is That Irritated My Parents:
Stop it. Stop it right now. I have no idea what you are and/or aren't doing, whatever it is, you are really distressing my parents. They are so offended by your egregious conduct, they cannot even remember what they are upset about. Knock it off! I'm serious! I don't know who or what you are, so I don't know where you live, which means I can't make good on any threats, but if you don't treat my parents better in the future, I will send waves of hostility in your general direction, wherever that may be.
If you are an animal, stop pooping on my parents' lawn. If you are a noisy teenager, stop playing your drums at 4 a.m. If you are the neighbors next door, stop talking loudly about your most recent bowel movement. If you are the weather, please try to be less humid. If you are anything else, just knock it off.
I've got my eye on you, whomever/whatever you are,
Courtney
In the interest of being a dutiful daughter, I'm going to try to do my best to express their outrage:
Dear Person(s) - Animal - Place - Object - Natural Phenomenon - Historical Event - Weather System - Whatever The Hell It Is That Irritated My Parents:
Stop it. Stop it right now. I have no idea what you are and/or aren't doing, whatever it is, you are really distressing my parents. They are so offended by your egregious conduct, they cannot even remember what they are upset about. Knock it off! I'm serious! I don't know who or what you are, so I don't know where you live, which means I can't make good on any threats, but if you don't treat my parents better in the future, I will send waves of hostility in your general direction, wherever that may be.
If you are an animal, stop pooping on my parents' lawn. If you are a noisy teenager, stop playing your drums at 4 a.m. If you are the neighbors next door, stop talking loudly about your most recent bowel movement. If you are the weather, please try to be less humid. If you are anything else, just knock it off.
I've got my eye on you, whomever/whatever you are,
Courtney
Friday, June 22, 2012
Don't Lie To Me!
I just wrote a long tirade about the company that installed our new a/c unit. It was full of curse words and ALL CAPS, because I am a Tower of Rage and Indignation.
Long story short, the a/c company lied to me about work that needed to be finished. They said all the work was done and they just needed to submit some paperwork to the City; but now, I find out that oops, the work is not all done. By "we just need to submit some paperwork to the City," the company actually meant "and we also need to install a new ground wire and change the polarity on two wires." WTF? Don't tell me all the work is done AND THEN ASK FOR THE FINAL PAYMENT when the work is not all done, and you in fact need to put in another effing wire.
I HATE WHEN COMPANIES LIE TO ME. Don't lie to me. It's insulting, it's rude, and hey, you're breaking a commandment.
But I deleted my tirade. It was cathartic to write, but my tirade does not make sense, unless you spent the last six weeks dealing with this farthead company. (By the way, "farthead" is my new insult of choice).
So instead of a tirade, I'm just going to give you this picture of a tree:
I hate the a/c company, but I really like this tree. So there's that.
Long story short, the a/c company lied to me about work that needed to be finished. They said all the work was done and they just needed to submit some paperwork to the City; but now, I find out that oops, the work is not all done. By "we just need to submit some paperwork to the City," the company actually meant "and we also need to install a new ground wire and change the polarity on two wires." WTF? Don't tell me all the work is done AND THEN ASK FOR THE FINAL PAYMENT when the work is not all done, and you in fact need to put in another effing wire.
I HATE WHEN COMPANIES LIE TO ME. Don't lie to me. It's insulting, it's rude, and hey, you're breaking a commandment.
But I deleted my tirade. It was cathartic to write, but my tirade does not make sense, unless you spent the last six weeks dealing with this farthead company. (By the way, "farthead" is my new insult of choice).
So instead of a tirade, I'm just going to give you this picture of a tree:
I hate the a/c company, but I really like this tree. So there's that.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Labyrinth Perfume
I recently posted about my favorite children's movies, and my list included Jim Henson's Labyrinth. Shortly thereafter, I was flipping through a magazine and noticed an ad with photos from that movie. I assumed the movie was getting a theatrical re-release and rejoiced. But then I actually read the ad and discovered it was not an ad for the theatrical or Blu-ray release of Labyrinth. It was an ad for Labyrinth Perfume, the new line of Labyrinth inspired perfume.
I don't know where to start. But first, just to get it out of the way: what the &$^( I mean seriously *(&$@) holy *(&@) are they kidding @^%(# what next &$@(*@)##!!!!!!!!!!!!!
In no particular order, several more thoughts:
1. Labyrinth was released in 1986. It's 2012. Does anyone else see a timing problem? If not, I suppose now is a good time for some Caddyshack ketchup, Pretty in Pink bathroom towels, and a Back to the Future wristwatch collection.
2. Is this a new trend I did not know about? Are perfume scents based on movies from the 1980s the new "it" beauty product? If so, then I need some Return of the Jedi perfume and Nathan needs some Ghostbusters cologne (it looks like green slime but smells like marshmallows and twinkies).
3. They did not just make one Labyrinth inspired scent - there are five! Including one named "Hoggle" after the ugly creature that guides Jennifer Connolly's character through the labyrinth. The scent is described as "fermented pumpkin, brown leather, dust, tobacco leaf, and dark woods." ARE YOU KIDDING ME? DUST? Is that really a desirable scent? Are people paying money so they can smell like DUST? And "dark woods"? Correct me if I'm wrong, but is that just a fancy way to say "DIRT AND POOP"? Holy crap, screw my legal degree, I've got plenty of stuff in my garbage can that I can jam into a perfume bottle.
4. At $26 per bottle, it's a little too expensive for a gag gift. And yet, I'm fairly certain I need to buy a bottle of Jareth for my Cousin Julie asap.
I don't know where to start. But first, just to get it out of the way: what the &$^( I mean seriously *(&$@) holy *(&@) are they kidding @^%(# what next &$@(*@)##!!!!!!!!!!!!!
In no particular order, several more thoughts:
1. Labyrinth was released in 1986. It's 2012. Does anyone else see a timing problem? If not, I suppose now is a good time for some Caddyshack ketchup, Pretty in Pink bathroom towels, and a Back to the Future wristwatch collection.
2. Is this a new trend I did not know about? Are perfume scents based on movies from the 1980s the new "it" beauty product? If so, then I need some Return of the Jedi perfume and Nathan needs some Ghostbusters cologne (it looks like green slime but smells like marshmallows and twinkies).
3. They did not just make one Labyrinth inspired scent - there are five! Including one named "Hoggle" after the ugly creature that guides Jennifer Connolly's character through the labyrinth. The scent is described as "fermented pumpkin, brown leather, dust, tobacco leaf, and dark woods." ARE YOU KIDDING ME? DUST? Is that really a desirable scent? Are people paying money so they can smell like DUST? And "dark woods"? Correct me if I'm wrong, but is that just a fancy way to say "DIRT AND POOP"? Holy crap, screw my legal degree, I've got plenty of stuff in my garbage can that I can jam into a perfume bottle.
4. At $26 per bottle, it's a little too expensive for a gag gift. And yet, I'm fairly certain I need to buy a bottle of Jareth for my Cousin Julie asap.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Question I Dread Most From People Doing Work On My House:
Our house has demanded a lot of attention this year: a new roof; a new air conditioner and furnace; a lot of attention from our plumber; and a few other things I don't care to remember.
After too many house issues, I now cringe when I hear this question: Can I show you something? Because when my plumber or handyman or roofer asks that question, he never wants to show me something good, like a pot of gold or a baby panda. He always wants to show me something bad, and by "bad," I mean "a problem that requires immediate attention or the entire house is going to collapse, and by the way, this is going to be expensive."
For example, when the air conditioner repair man asks, Can I show you something?, he's really saying, Can I show you the irreparable leak on your ancient air conditioner unit? It just looks like a tiny leak and if it was just three inches over, I could fix it for $200 but now this is going to cost you at least $6000 for a brand new unit. Bummer.
When the owner of the air conditioning company asks me, Can I show you something?, he's really saying, Can I show you the asbestos in your basement? We're going to need a separate company to remove the asbestos and then we have to install all new ducts. Thank god, because my kid needs braces and now I can charge you another $2000.
When the guy prepping my house for our new air conditioner and furnace asks the question, he's really saying, I just removed your old furnace and I discovered a leaking pipe. The pipe is going to be completely inaccessible tomorrow afternoon once we install the new unit, so you better get your plumber out here immediately if not sooner.
When the Sears delivery man says, Can I show you something?, he's really saying, They stopped making ducts like this in the 1950s so I can't properly hook up your new dryer which means your house is probably going to go up in flames. Yes, I know Sears sent me to install your new dryer, but this is not my problem.
And my personal favorite: When the plumber asks the dreaded question, he's really saying, I need to show you the concrete wall that is blocking my access to the leaking pipe that is rotting your floorboards. I'm going to need to drill a hole into the foundation of your house. You should probably have your heart attack now before we go downstairs into the basement just to make it easier on the paramedics.
After too many house issues, I now cringe when I hear this question: Can I show you something? Because when my plumber or handyman or roofer asks that question, he never wants to show me something good, like a pot of gold or a baby panda. He always wants to show me something bad, and by "bad," I mean "a problem that requires immediate attention or the entire house is going to collapse, and by the way, this is going to be expensive."
For example, when the air conditioner repair man asks, Can I show you something?, he's really saying, Can I show you the irreparable leak on your ancient air conditioner unit? It just looks like a tiny leak and if it was just three inches over, I could fix it for $200 but now this is going to cost you at least $6000 for a brand new unit. Bummer.
When the owner of the air conditioning company asks me, Can I show you something?, he's really saying, Can I show you the asbestos in your basement? We're going to need a separate company to remove the asbestos and then we have to install all new ducts. Thank god, because my kid needs braces and now I can charge you another $2000.
When the guy prepping my house for our new air conditioner and furnace asks the question, he's really saying, I just removed your old furnace and I discovered a leaking pipe. The pipe is going to be completely inaccessible tomorrow afternoon once we install the new unit, so you better get your plumber out here immediately if not sooner.
When the Sears delivery man says, Can I show you something?, he's really saying, They stopped making ducts like this in the 1950s so I can't properly hook up your new dryer which means your house is probably going to go up in flames. Yes, I know Sears sent me to install your new dryer, but this is not my problem.
And my personal favorite: When the plumber asks the dreaded question, he's really saying, I need to show you the concrete wall that is blocking my access to the leaking pipe that is rotting your floorboards. I'm going to need to drill a hole into the foundation of your house. You should probably have your heart attack now before we go downstairs into the basement just to make it easier on the paramedics.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Movie Theater Etiquette Rant
I can't believe I have to write this post. Folks, it's two-thousand-and- freaking-twelve. As members of a civilized society, we should all know how to watch a movie at a movie theater. (If you live in a remote village in Siberia, this post does not apply to you).
But while I was recently watching the Hunger Games, I was shocked and appalled by the audience's behavior. You know what movie theaters need? Ushers. Big ushers who act as bouncers and evict any rude patrons. But we since we don't have Usher-Bouncers, I give you the Cranky Pumpkin's Rules for Watching A Movie At A Movie Theater In A Civilized Society:
1) TURN OFF YOUR FREAKING CELL PHONE. You stupid idiots, I don't want to hear your Justin Bieber ring tone. You are ruining a sacred experience.
2) NO TEXTING/TWITTER/FACEBOOK/ETC. I see you. I am trying to watch the movie but out of the corner of my eye, I see you and your stupid smart phone, which is glowing like a freaking bonfire. If the theater is dark, we can all see you stupid text message screens AND IT'S REALLY ANNOYING.
3) NO KICKING. Okay, I am in a charitable mood. I understand that accidental seat kicks happen to the best of us. So just be careful and restrict yourself to no more than one kick for every twenty minutes of the film, including previews. But if you feel the need to kick my chair every thirty seconds, I might feel the need to rip your leg from its socket.
4) DO NOT PLAY MUSICAL CHAIRS IN THE THEATER. When you arrive in the theater, first survey your options. Then, pick your seats, sit in your seats, AND STAY THERE. I understand if you need to get up for the bathroom or concession stand. But you don't need to test every seat in the theater. If you sit down and then discover you are sitting next to a man who has not bathed since the Reagan administration, then yes, of course, you should relocate to the other side of the theater. Otherwise, after the movie starts, stay in one place.
5) NO SLURPING, SMACKING, TALKING, BURPING, OR MAKING OF OTHER RUDE SOUNDS. If you feel the need to talk about Aunt Irma's new haircut during the movie, you forfeit the right to watch it on the big screen. Sorry, asshole, you bought one ticket, not the entire theater. You don't get to ruin everyone's day at the movies. Sign up for Netflix.
6) DO NOT LAUGH DURING EMOTIONAL SCENES. Shamefully, I did this once. I laughed as the Titanic was going down. I should have been tarred, feathered and shot in the leg. I know I should forgive the teenagers who feel the need to snicker during the tear jerkers moments - but I can't. You stupid jerks, it's not funny, so shut up.
7) NO FEDORAS OR VIEW-BLOCKING HATS. I'm looking at you, hipsters, and your stupid hat, because it's blocking my view. Take off your hat or I will crush it until you cry. (p.s. your skinny tie and skinny pants look stupid).
8) DO NOT SMELL THE HAIR OF THE PATRON SITTING IN FRONT OF YOU. This happened to me once, and granted, it happened in high school while I was at a midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and that was the least scandalous moment of the night, but still, I just wanted to throw this out there: Don't smell my hair.
The Cranky Pumpkin reserves the right to revise these rules at any time. If you are caught breaking these rules, nothing bad will actually happen to you. Except, of course, you will probably go to the seventh level of hell and burn unil the end of time. So there's that.
But while I was recently watching the Hunger Games, I was shocked and appalled by the audience's behavior. You know what movie theaters need? Ushers. Big ushers who act as bouncers and evict any rude patrons. But we since we don't have Usher-Bouncers, I give you the Cranky Pumpkin's Rules for Watching A Movie At A Movie Theater In A Civilized Society:
1) TURN OFF YOUR FREAKING CELL PHONE. You stupid idiots, I don't want to hear your Justin Bieber ring tone. You are ruining a sacred experience.
2) NO TEXTING/TWITTER/FACEBOOK/ETC. I see you. I am trying to watch the movie but out of the corner of my eye, I see you and your stupid smart phone, which is glowing like a freaking bonfire. If the theater is dark, we can all see you stupid text message screens AND IT'S REALLY ANNOYING.
3) NO KICKING. Okay, I am in a charitable mood. I understand that accidental seat kicks happen to the best of us. So just be careful and restrict yourself to no more than one kick for every twenty minutes of the film, including previews. But if you feel the need to kick my chair every thirty seconds, I might feel the need to rip your leg from its socket.
4) DO NOT PLAY MUSICAL CHAIRS IN THE THEATER. When you arrive in the theater, first survey your options. Then, pick your seats, sit in your seats, AND STAY THERE. I understand if you need to get up for the bathroom or concession stand. But you don't need to test every seat in the theater. If you sit down and then discover you are sitting next to a man who has not bathed since the Reagan administration, then yes, of course, you should relocate to the other side of the theater. Otherwise, after the movie starts, stay in one place.
5) NO SLURPING, SMACKING, TALKING, BURPING, OR MAKING OF OTHER RUDE SOUNDS. If you feel the need to talk about Aunt Irma's new haircut during the movie, you forfeit the right to watch it on the big screen. Sorry, asshole, you bought one ticket, not the entire theater. You don't get to ruin everyone's day at the movies. Sign up for Netflix.
6) DO NOT LAUGH DURING EMOTIONAL SCENES. Shamefully, I did this once. I laughed as the Titanic was going down. I should have been tarred, feathered and shot in the leg. I know I should forgive the teenagers who feel the need to snicker during the tear jerkers moments - but I can't. You stupid jerks, it's not funny, so shut up.
7) NO FEDORAS OR VIEW-BLOCKING HATS. I'm looking at you, hipsters, and your stupid hat, because it's blocking my view. Take off your hat or I will crush it until you cry. (p.s. your skinny tie and skinny pants look stupid).
8) DO NOT SMELL THE HAIR OF THE PATRON SITTING IN FRONT OF YOU. This happened to me once, and granted, it happened in high school while I was at a midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and that was the least scandalous moment of the night, but still, I just wanted to throw this out there: Don't smell my hair.
The Cranky Pumpkin reserves the right to revise these rules at any time. If you are caught breaking these rules, nothing bad will actually happen to you. Except, of course, you will probably go to the seventh level of hell and burn unil the end of time. So there's that.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
I Really Hate The Overhead Bins
The airlines of the world need to unite and outlaw passengers from storing suitcases in the overhead bins. Let's limit the use of overhead bins to the following items: jackets, extra blankets and pillows, the flight attendants' luggage, and belligerent/scary passengers who need to be cuffed and stowed somewhere safe.
The overhead bins awful-ize the entire process of boarding and unboarding the plane. (Can you spot the word I just invented??) Putting a suitcase in an overhead bin should not be that difficult, but apparently for some people, it is the biggest ordeal in the world. Here are a few passengers that can be spotted on every flight:
(1) A weakling only capable of lifting five pounds, max, who has a carry-on bag that weighs about 80 pounds. The weakling tries to hoist the suitcase into the overhead bin and instead drops it on top of my head. A burly man offers to help, but the weakling insists upon trying again. This time, the weakling falls backwards, and about ten passengers standing in the aisle are knocked over like dominoes. Finally, the weakling agrees that maybe he is anatomically incapable of getting his suitcase into the overhead bin and accepts some assistance.
(2) A passenger sitting in Seat 30D gets to Row 30 and discovers all of the overhead bin space directly above her seat has been claimed. There is plenty of overhead bin space available starting with Row 32, but this will not do. Although there are about 40 people blocking the aisle behind her, the passenger insists that everyone back up so she can put her suitcase in the overhead bin space above Row 21. Because she is the most important person on the plane. The flight attendant is never around when this is happening.
(3) And then there's the person who puts their suitcase in the overhead compartment, sits down, and then remembers Oh no, I forgot my chewing gum! WHY THE HELL IS YOUR CHEWING GUM IN YOUR SUITCASE? COULDN'T YOU THINK ABOUT THIS WHILE YOU WERE SITTING IN THE TERMINAL? IS YOUR PACK OF CHEWING GUM REALLY TOO BIG TO FIT IN YOUR POCKET??? Oh, I hate these people so much. They just stand and block the entire aisle while they rummage through their f***ing suitcase, because their comfort is 1000x more important than, God forbid, an on-time departure.
And while I'm ranting, let's talk about safety. Does anyone actually think the overhead bins are safe? In the event of an aggressive turbulence pocket, do you really think all of those overhead bin doors are going to stay shut? And how do you think it's going to feel when you get hit in the head with a 40 pound suitcase? (Spoiler alert: it's going to hurt. So much.)
Humanity had its chance. We have tried using the overhead bins for carry-on baggage and it just doesn't work. We have therefore forfeited our right to use the overhead bins.
On the day the airlines of the world unite and ban the use of overhead bins for passenger luggage, I am going to throw a party. I'm not talking about a party with some cake and stale potato chips. I'm talking about a party with a moon bounce and a margarita machine and maybe a magician. It's going to be the most awesome party ever, and you are all invited.
Unfortunately, I don't think the airlines will ever give me an excuse to throw my awesome party. (Damn. I knew I should have hired a moon bounce for my wedding).
The overhead bins awful-ize the entire process of boarding and unboarding the plane. (Can you spot the word I just invented??) Putting a suitcase in an overhead bin should not be that difficult, but apparently for some people, it is the biggest ordeal in the world. Here are a few passengers that can be spotted on every flight:
(1) A weakling only capable of lifting five pounds, max, who has a carry-on bag that weighs about 80 pounds. The weakling tries to hoist the suitcase into the overhead bin and instead drops it on top of my head. A burly man offers to help, but the weakling insists upon trying again. This time, the weakling falls backwards, and about ten passengers standing in the aisle are knocked over like dominoes. Finally, the weakling agrees that maybe he is anatomically incapable of getting his suitcase into the overhead bin and accepts some assistance.
(2) A passenger sitting in Seat 30D gets to Row 30 and discovers all of the overhead bin space directly above her seat has been claimed. There is plenty of overhead bin space available starting with Row 32, but this will not do. Although there are about 40 people blocking the aisle behind her, the passenger insists that everyone back up so she can put her suitcase in the overhead bin space above Row 21. Because she is the most important person on the plane. The flight attendant is never around when this is happening.
(3) And then there's the person who puts their suitcase in the overhead compartment, sits down, and then remembers Oh no, I forgot my chewing gum! WHY THE HELL IS YOUR CHEWING GUM IN YOUR SUITCASE? COULDN'T YOU THINK ABOUT THIS WHILE YOU WERE SITTING IN THE TERMINAL? IS YOUR PACK OF CHEWING GUM REALLY TOO BIG TO FIT IN YOUR POCKET??? Oh, I hate these people so much. They just stand and block the entire aisle while they rummage through their f***ing suitcase, because their comfort is 1000x more important than, God forbid, an on-time departure.
And while I'm ranting, let's talk about safety. Does anyone actually think the overhead bins are safe? In the event of an aggressive turbulence pocket, do you really think all of those overhead bin doors are going to stay shut? And how do you think it's going to feel when you get hit in the head with a 40 pound suitcase? (Spoiler alert: it's going to hurt. So much.)
Humanity had its chance. We have tried using the overhead bins for carry-on baggage and it just doesn't work. We have therefore forfeited our right to use the overhead bins.
On the day the airlines of the world unite and ban the use of overhead bins for passenger luggage, I am going to throw a party. I'm not talking about a party with some cake and stale potato chips. I'm talking about a party with a moon bounce and a margarita machine and maybe a magician. It's going to be the most awesome party ever, and you are all invited.
Unfortunately, I don't think the airlines will ever give me an excuse to throw my awesome party. (Damn. I knew I should have hired a moon bounce for my wedding).
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Arizona = Cactus Country
Last week, after our vacation in Las Vegas, Nathan and I drove to Arizona to visit his grandparents. His paternal grandparents live in Nebraska but are wintering in Fountain Hills, a community close to Phoenix that is geared towards the retired set.
Before I go further, I should mention my first blog. Before I started this blog, I had a blog called Wendy the Cactus, which chronicled the adventures of the world's most self-absorbed and delusional cactus. I had a small cactus that I carried around everywhere in a ziploc bag. I even took Wendy to Disneyland once! But after awhile, I retired Wendy. I was sick of toting around a small cactus in my purse and getting stabbed when I reached inside for my keys or wallet. Also, Wendy is a bitch and channeling her negative thoughts was a bit of a downer. But, when we were in Arizona, I thought fondly about Wendy. She would have enjoyed Maricopa County and had a crush on half the cacti population. Maybe one day I'll resurrect Wendy and she can write some guest posts for The Cranky Pumpkin.
Anyway, back to our trip to Fountain Hills, Arizona. Can you guess what the town of Fountain Hills features? If you guessed "an enormous fountain," give yourself a gold star! The town has a lovely park and a fountain that shoots about 500 feet into the air. You can see the fountain from miles away. I'm sorry, but I did not get any good photos of the fountain.
Instead, I took about a hundred photos of cacti. This was easy to do, because the Maricopa County landscape is dominated by the saguaro cactus.
I noticed that some of the cacti had metal supports:
WTF? I'm pretty certain the saguaro cactus evolved before cities and retirement communities were built in Arizona. I'm also pretty certain that the saguaro cactus population was doing just fine before man learned how to work with metal. Are these metal cactus supports part of the fossil record? Do you expect me to believe that an elite cactus species with metal support systems recently evolved?
Okay, so these cacti are growing alongside a busy road. Maybe it would cause a problem if one of the cacti toppled into the road during rush hour. But how often does that happen? During our two days in Arizona, I saw some dead cacti but I did not see a single fallen cactus. No, the dead cacti were still standing up and just looked brown and rotten.
And what makes the saguaro cacti so special that it needs metal supports? If the saguaro cacti needs metal supports, what about all the beautiful trees in Pasadena? Do the trees in front of my house need metal supports? Maybe I should start collecting signatures for a Tree Support Referendum for the next election...
And why do only some of the saguaro cacti qualify for metal supports? Is there a government employee driving around Maricopa County and deciding what cacti need the supports? That sounds like an excellent use of the tax payers' money.
Is there a government department devoted to preserving the saguaro cacti? Maybe I'm just uninformed, but it looks like the saguaro cacti is doing just fine on its own. I saw thousands of them. If Arizona doesn't watch out, the saguaro cacti will revolt and reclaim the desert. In fact, I think I'm going to go write a screenplay now called Rise of the Saguaro. It will be like Hitchcock's The Birds meets Planet of the Apes, except so much better.
I do not know who is responsible for building and installing the metal supports for the Maricopa County saguaro cacti population. But instead of building supports, I think the authorities should start building cages for these cacti. They look treacherous.
Before I go further, I should mention my first blog. Before I started this blog, I had a blog called Wendy the Cactus, which chronicled the adventures of the world's most self-absorbed and delusional cactus. I had a small cactus that I carried around everywhere in a ziploc bag. I even took Wendy to Disneyland once! But after awhile, I retired Wendy. I was sick of toting around a small cactus in my purse and getting stabbed when I reached inside for my keys or wallet. Also, Wendy is a bitch and channeling her negative thoughts was a bit of a downer. But, when we were in Arizona, I thought fondly about Wendy. She would have enjoyed Maricopa County and had a crush on half the cacti population. Maybe one day I'll resurrect Wendy and she can write some guest posts for The Cranky Pumpkin.
Anyway, back to our trip to Fountain Hills, Arizona. Can you guess what the town of Fountain Hills features? If you guessed "an enormous fountain," give yourself a gold star! The town has a lovely park and a fountain that shoots about 500 feet into the air. You can see the fountain from miles away. I'm sorry, but I did not get any good photos of the fountain.
Instead, I took about a hundred photos of cacti. This was easy to do, because the Maricopa County landscape is dominated by the saguaro cactus.
I noticed that some of the cacti had metal supports:
WTF? I'm pretty certain the saguaro cactus evolved before cities and retirement communities were built in Arizona. I'm also pretty certain that the saguaro cactus population was doing just fine before man learned how to work with metal. Are these metal cactus supports part of the fossil record? Do you expect me to believe that an elite cactus species with metal support systems recently evolved?
Okay, so these cacti are growing alongside a busy road. Maybe it would cause a problem if one of the cacti toppled into the road during rush hour. But how often does that happen? During our two days in Arizona, I saw some dead cacti but I did not see a single fallen cactus. No, the dead cacti were still standing up and just looked brown and rotten.
And what makes the saguaro cacti so special that it needs metal supports? If the saguaro cacti needs metal supports, what about all the beautiful trees in Pasadena? Do the trees in front of my house need metal supports? Maybe I should start collecting signatures for a Tree Support Referendum for the next election...
And why do only some of the saguaro cacti qualify for metal supports? Is there a government employee driving around Maricopa County and deciding what cacti need the supports? That sounds like an excellent use of the tax payers' money.
Is there a government department devoted to preserving the saguaro cacti? Maybe I'm just uninformed, but it looks like the saguaro cacti is doing just fine on its own. I saw thousands of them. If Arizona doesn't watch out, the saguaro cacti will revolt and reclaim the desert. In fact, I think I'm going to go write a screenplay now called Rise of the Saguaro. It will be like Hitchcock's The Birds meets Planet of the Apes, except so much better.
I do not know who is responsible for building and installing the metal supports for the Maricopa County saguaro cacti population. But instead of building supports, I think the authorities should start building cages for these cacti. They look treacherous.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The Abandoned Furniture Myth
I enjoy looking at "home tour" photo spreads in magazines and blogs. It's fun and inspiring to see how different people decorate their houses. Usually, I just admire the pictures. I'm not interested in reading about Jane Doe's decorating philosophy. But, if I see a piece of furniture or artwork that I like, I check the caption to see where it is from. This is a bad idea. If I like a piece of furniture, it's never from Crate and Barrel or Pottery Barn. Oh no, that would be too easy. Nine out of ten times, if I like something, the owner claims that they just happened to find the item on the street.
Are you kidding me? In my 33 years, I have seen a lot of abandoned furniture and it was all TOTAL AND COMPLETE CRAP. People don't just abandon a $6000 couch on the curb. No, if they have a $6000 couch that they no longer want, they sell it or give it to a loved one.
If you find a free couch, it will look like this:
If someone has an amazing dining room table or a gorgeous wardrobe, and they claim they found it in an alley, you know what I think? THAT PERSON IS LYING. That person has a trust fund and is too embarrassed to admit she spent $45,000 at an auction for a freaking wardrobe. So, when her house is featured in a magazine, and the editor asks where she got the wardrobe, she lies and says that she found it abandoned on the street.
BULL. CRAP. The only thing you ever find on the street is this:
No one just leaves a leather armchair on the curb. The only thing that gets abandoned is a crappy old lounge chair that will collapse if you even think about sitting on it.
The magazines and blogs have given me a complex. I feel as if someday, if I just have enough faith, I will find the most incredible piece of furniture waiting patiently for me on a curb. But apparently my faith is weak, because the only free furniture I ever find is total, complete and utter GARBAGE.
I have found a new purpose in life: to liberate mankind from the "abandoned furniture myth."
Are you kidding me? In my 33 years, I have seen a lot of abandoned furniture and it was all TOTAL AND COMPLETE CRAP. People don't just abandon a $6000 couch on the curb. No, if they have a $6000 couch that they no longer want, they sell it or give it to a loved one.
If you find a free couch, it will look like this:
If someone has an amazing dining room table or a gorgeous wardrobe, and they claim they found it in an alley, you know what I think? THAT PERSON IS LYING. That person has a trust fund and is too embarrassed to admit she spent $45,000 at an auction for a freaking wardrobe. So, when her house is featured in a magazine, and the editor asks where she got the wardrobe, she lies and says that she found it abandoned on the street.
BULL. CRAP. The only thing you ever find on the street is this:
No one just leaves a leather armchair on the curb. The only thing that gets abandoned is a crappy old lounge chair that will collapse if you even think about sitting on it.
The magazines and blogs have given me a complex. I feel as if someday, if I just have enough faith, I will find the most incredible piece of furniture waiting patiently for me on a curb. But apparently my faith is weak, because the only free furniture I ever find is total, complete and utter GARBAGE.
I have found a new purpose in life: to liberate mankind from the "abandoned furniture myth."
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Courtney the Curdmudgeon; Or, "Hey, Kids! Stop Touching My Rocks!"
As I telecommuter, I often work from the luxury of my living room couch. Our living room is in the front of the house, and the couch is right next to a big window that overlooks our street. I have a prime view of our front lawn, parkway, and all the neighborhood shenanigans.
Our parkway (aka the strip of land between the street and the sidewalk) used to be a frightening mess of ivy. It was disgusting and infested by who-knows-what. We had the ivy removed and replaced with small white river pebbles.
The neighborhood children, ages 2-7, are fascinated with the pebbles in front of my house. They stop, stare, touch, scatter, kick, manhandle and steal my pebbles. Overall, it does not matter. The pebbles are in good condition and the parkway looks attractive, no matter how many children stop and steal. Besides, childhood is such a precious, fleeting moment and children should be encouraged to enjoy nature and the wonders of the world.
But it still bugs the hell out of me.
I love children, but whenever I see a child crouching before my pebbles, I cringe. I stop whatever I am doing and watch through the blinds. I have to resist the urge to run outside and shout something like, "Hey you kid! Get away from my rocks!"
My reaction baffles me. I sat on a crowded bus in Paris and exchanged silly faces with a Parisian five-year-old. I worked at a summer day camp for four years not for the easy riches but because it was fun. Once, in a hotel room in D.C., I let my best friend's baby sleep on top of me for over an hour, even though my need to use the bathroom was dire. I just love children so much.
Except when they are stealing my freaking rocks. STOP. STEALING. MY. ROCKS. Hey, kids, if you like my pebbles so much, I have an idea: grow up; get a job; and buy your own freaking rocks. Seriously, you probably already have an iPhone, a video game system and a robot slave. Must you steal my pebbles as well?
Our parkway (aka the strip of land between the street and the sidewalk) used to be a frightening mess of ivy. It was disgusting and infested by who-knows-what. We had the ivy removed and replaced with small white river pebbles.
The neighborhood children, ages 2-7, are fascinated with the pebbles in front of my house. They stop, stare, touch, scatter, kick, manhandle and steal my pebbles. Overall, it does not matter. The pebbles are in good condition and the parkway looks attractive, no matter how many children stop and steal. Besides, childhood is such a precious, fleeting moment and children should be encouraged to enjoy nature and the wonders of the world.
But it still bugs the hell out of me.
I love children, but whenever I see a child crouching before my pebbles, I cringe. I stop whatever I am doing and watch through the blinds. I have to resist the urge to run outside and shout something like, "Hey you kid! Get away from my rocks!"
My reaction baffles me. I sat on a crowded bus in Paris and exchanged silly faces with a Parisian five-year-old. I worked at a summer day camp for four years not for the easy riches but because it was fun. Once, in a hotel room in D.C., I let my best friend's baby sleep on top of me for over an hour, even though my need to use the bathroom was dire. I just love children so much.
Except when they are stealing my freaking rocks. STOP. STEALING. MY. ROCKS. Hey, kids, if you like my pebbles so much, I have an idea: grow up; get a job; and buy your own freaking rocks. Seriously, you probably already have an iPhone, a video game system and a robot slave. Must you steal my pebbles as well?
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Take Down Your Christmas Decorations! Immediately! If Not Sooner!
Every neighborhood has that house. The house that has a car parked on the lawn, a pile of junk in the driveway, broken windows, and a tarp that has been on the roof since the 80s. When those neighbors put up their Christmas decorations, you know Santa's plastic butt will still be sticking out of the chimney in July.
But this year, an egregious number of houses in my neighborhood are still decorated for Christmas. Houses with well-manicured lawns and freshly painted shutters are still decorated as if it's December 24th. PEOPLE, IT'S LATE JANUARY PUT AWAY YOUR DECORATIONS ALREADY.
I am willing to overlook the houses that leave up a strand of Christmas lights all year. It does not matter how carefully you put away the lights: little demons will sneak into your garage and tie the strands into knots. And putting up the lights is a dangerous task which can result in back injuries and/or divorce. If a family decides to avoid these liabilities by keeping up the lights all year, more power to them.
But that doesn't mean you can leave a three foot Santa statue on your front porch all year. And yes, red is the color of both Christmas and Valentine's Day, but Cupid is not interested in the plastic candy canes lining yor driveway. PUT THE CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS AWAY. If you have the time and energy to put the decorations out after Thanksgiving, then surely you can find a way to put them away no later than January 15th. That's right, I am giving you until January 15th to put the decorations away. I believe I am being very reasonable, even generous, with the January 15 deadline. If you want to procrastinate for two full weeks after the ball drops at Times Square, have at it. I will not judge you.
But, if your lights are up after January 15, that is a Christmas Decorations FOUL and you will be cited by the Christmas Decorations Police. Now, put your stockings and Christmas trees away before I get really mad.
But this year, an egregious number of houses in my neighborhood are still decorated for Christmas. Houses with well-manicured lawns and freshly painted shutters are still decorated as if it's December 24th. PEOPLE, IT'S LATE JANUARY PUT AWAY YOUR DECORATIONS ALREADY.
I am willing to overlook the houses that leave up a strand of Christmas lights all year. It does not matter how carefully you put away the lights: little demons will sneak into your garage and tie the strands into knots. And putting up the lights is a dangerous task which can result in back injuries and/or divorce. If a family decides to avoid these liabilities by keeping up the lights all year, more power to them.
But that doesn't mean you can leave a three foot Santa statue on your front porch all year. And yes, red is the color of both Christmas and Valentine's Day, but Cupid is not interested in the plastic candy canes lining yor driveway. PUT THE CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS AWAY. If you have the time and energy to put the decorations out after Thanksgiving, then surely you can find a way to put them away no later than January 15th. That's right, I am giving you until January 15th to put the decorations away. I believe I am being very reasonable, even generous, with the January 15 deadline. If you want to procrastinate for two full weeks after the ball drops at Times Square, have at it. I will not judge you.
But, if your lights are up after January 15, that is a Christmas Decorations FOUL and you will be cited by the Christmas Decorations Police. Now, put your stockings and Christmas trees away before I get really mad.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Important Driving Tip: Green Means Go
If you drive a car, then you presumably know the basic traffic rules. And if you know the basic traffic rules, then you know that when the traffic signal changes from "red" to "green," that means it is time to ACCELERATE your vehicle and resume driving.
Right? People do know this rule, right? Because lately, I have been stuck behind a shocking number of drivers who just do not want to GO when the light turns green. I don't want to overreact, but PEOPLE WHEN THE LIGHT TURNS GREEN, THAT MEANS IT IS TIME TO DRIVE YOUR FREAKING CAR, WHAT DO YOU WANT, AN ENGRAVED INVITATION TO CROSS THE INTERSECTION? HOLY CRAP JUST MOVE YOUR FOOT FROM THE BRAKE TO THE ACCELERATOR AND DRIVE ALREADY.
(Excuse me, I need a drink).
I understand that sometimes there are reasons to ignore the green light: e.g. there's an approaching ambulance or fire truck; someone is still in the crosswalk; you just spotted Elvis across the street and you are too stunned to drive.
The following, however, are not valid reasons to hesitate when the light turns green:
Maybe you are just out for a leisurely drive. Maybe you just like to do things are your own pace, and "your own pace" happens to be "really slowly." Okay, I hear you. I'm listening. But guess what? I DON'T CARE.
If you are the lead car, and you wait an unreasonably long amount of time before accelerating, guess what happens? Someone behind you, who should have made the light, doesn't. And because you, Princess Slowpoke, failed in your moral responsibilities as a driver, that poor car behind you is going to get stuck sitting through another red light.
Forget speeding tickets. I think the police should be authorized to issue "unnecessary delay at a green light" tickets.
Right? People do know this rule, right? Because lately, I have been stuck behind a shocking number of drivers who just do not want to GO when the light turns green. I don't want to overreact, but PEOPLE WHEN THE LIGHT TURNS GREEN, THAT MEANS IT IS TIME TO DRIVE YOUR FREAKING CAR, WHAT DO YOU WANT, AN ENGRAVED INVITATION TO CROSS THE INTERSECTION? HOLY CRAP JUST MOVE YOUR FOOT FROM THE BRAKE TO THE ACCELERATOR AND DRIVE ALREADY.
(Excuse me, I need a drink).
I understand that sometimes there are reasons to ignore the green light: e.g. there's an approaching ambulance or fire truck; someone is still in the crosswalk; you just spotted Elvis across the street and you are too stunned to drive.
The following, however, are not valid reasons to hesitate when the light turns green:
- You just need to finish typing the text message you are sending your boyfriend/paramour/best friend/boss/etc.
- You do not like being the first car in the intersection, so you are waiting for someone else to take the initiative.
- You can't remember which color means "go" - green? yellow? both at the same time?
Maybe you are just out for a leisurely drive. Maybe you just like to do things are your own pace, and "your own pace" happens to be "really slowly." Okay, I hear you. I'm listening. But guess what? I DON'T CARE.
If you are the lead car, and you wait an unreasonably long amount of time before accelerating, guess what happens? Someone behind you, who should have made the light, doesn't. And because you, Princess Slowpoke, failed in your moral responsibilities as a driver, that poor car behind you is going to get stuck sitting through another red light.
Forget speeding tickets. I think the police should be authorized to issue "unnecessary delay at a green light" tickets.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Cupid: Dumbest Name Ever For A Flying Reindeer
As a small child, I thought it was very important to memorize the names of Santa's reindeer. I remember silently practicing the lyrics to Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer during any downtime I had at school. (I was a huge nerd).
Although I have recited the names of the reindeer about one million times, it only recently occurred to me that Cupid the Reindeer shares a name with Cupid the Greek god. After I made this important connection, I spent an unhealthy amount of time wondering: why the hell did Santa name one of his reindeer after the official mascot of Valentine's Day?
Finally, I put the pieces together: Cupid the Fat Baby God can fly; Cupid the Reindeer can fly; and Santa was trying to inspire his reindeer to soar through the sky like a magnificent Greek god.
But is Cupid the God the sort of role model we want for Cupid the Reindeer? Cupid the God is a fat baby who terrorizes the singles of the world with his enchanted arrows. Do we really want an obese, violent reindeer landing on our roofs? I don't know about you, but I prefer my Christmas reindeer svelte and sedated. (Have you listened to Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer recently? A cautionary tale if I've ever heard one).
And while I'm on the subject: what was Venus/Aphrodite doing letting her fat son fly around and shoot people with arrows? If Venus and Cupid were alive today, Venus would be convicted of child abuse and Cupid would be sent into foster care.
Although I have recited the names of the reindeer about one million times, it only recently occurred to me that Cupid the Reindeer shares a name with Cupid the Greek god. After I made this important connection, I spent an unhealthy amount of time wondering: why the hell did Santa name one of his reindeer after the official mascot of Valentine's Day?
Finally, I put the pieces together: Cupid the Fat Baby God can fly; Cupid the Reindeer can fly; and Santa was trying to inspire his reindeer to soar through the sky like a magnificent Greek god.
But is Cupid the God the sort of role model we want for Cupid the Reindeer? Cupid the God is a fat baby who terrorizes the singles of the world with his enchanted arrows. Do we really want an obese, violent reindeer landing on our roofs? I don't know about you, but I prefer my Christmas reindeer svelte and sedated. (Have you listened to Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer recently? A cautionary tale if I've ever heard one).
And while I'm on the subject: what was Venus/Aphrodite doing letting her fat son fly around and shoot people with arrows? If Venus and Cupid were alive today, Venus would be convicted of child abuse and Cupid would be sent into foster care.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
My B.S. Holiday To Do List
It's here! The holiday season! That wonderful time of year when we slow down and enjoy time with our loved ones.
So why the hell are there so many dumb ass b.s. things on my To Do List?
I feel as if my To Do List is oppressively long. Address Christmas cards! Bake cookies! Wrap presents! Get a wreath! Put out decorations! Buy more decorations! Holy crap we need more decorations! Make a gingerbread house because oh my god if you do not make a gingerbread house, the whole world will hate you. Make an Avent Calendar because the magic of the season will be RUINED unless you have a homemade Advent Calendar made from lace, macaroni and elf dust. Why are you sleeping? That's not on the To Do List! You can sleep in 2012! You have to bake more cookies! Why are you using store bought butter? YOU NEED TO CHURN YOUR OWN BUTTER OR SANTA WILL CRY.
(Excuse me while I go lie down and have a panic attack).
But here's the thing about my holiday To Do List: it's mostly bullcrap. Oh sure, I still need to buy a few more presents. And yes, I would like to mail our Christmas cards before Valentine's Day. But everything else is OPTIONAL and does not actually belong on my To Do List.
I've deleted most of my holiday "to do's" from my To Do List. For example, I thought it would be fun to make homemade Christmas gifts. But then I remembered: knitting a scarf at 3 a.m. is not fun. Cross "homemade gifts" off the list. I also wanted to make a Christmas village for the mantle. I had this murky vision that involved lots of glitter. And then I had a vision of myself in the ER, with my elbow glue-gunned to my forehead. Cross "glitter Christmas village" off the list.
Now that I've revised my Holiday To Do list, I am much more excited for December. I've embraced a new mantra: I am not Martha Stewart; I do not have an army of interns at my beck and call; I do not need to buy any more freaking decorations.
Instead, I'm going to sit and enjoy the (fake) Christmas tree in our living room. Oh sure, it has lots of gaps and needs more decorations. I suppose I could spend every free moment crafting and shopping for more ornaments. But instead, I smile and remember that every year, our tree will have a few more ornaments. And someday, we'll have too many ornaments. But this year, right now, we have just the right amount.
So why the hell are there so many dumb ass b.s. things on my To Do List?
I feel as if my To Do List is oppressively long. Address Christmas cards! Bake cookies! Wrap presents! Get a wreath! Put out decorations! Buy more decorations! Holy crap we need more decorations! Make a gingerbread house because oh my god if you do not make a gingerbread house, the whole world will hate you. Make an Avent Calendar because the magic of the season will be RUINED unless you have a homemade Advent Calendar made from lace, macaroni and elf dust. Why are you sleeping? That's not on the To Do List! You can sleep in 2012! You have to bake more cookies! Why are you using store bought butter? YOU NEED TO CHURN YOUR OWN BUTTER OR SANTA WILL CRY.
(Excuse me while I go lie down and have a panic attack).
But here's the thing about my holiday To Do List: it's mostly bullcrap. Oh sure, I still need to buy a few more presents. And yes, I would like to mail our Christmas cards before Valentine's Day. But everything else is OPTIONAL and does not actually belong on my To Do List.
I've deleted most of my holiday "to do's" from my To Do List. For example, I thought it would be fun to make homemade Christmas gifts. But then I remembered: knitting a scarf at 3 a.m. is not fun. Cross "homemade gifts" off the list. I also wanted to make a Christmas village for the mantle. I had this murky vision that involved lots of glitter. And then I had a vision of myself in the ER, with my elbow glue-gunned to my forehead. Cross "glitter Christmas village" off the list.
Now that I've revised my Holiday To Do list, I am much more excited for December. I've embraced a new mantra: I am not Martha Stewart; I do not have an army of interns at my beck and call; I do not need to buy any more freaking decorations.
Instead, I'm going to sit and enjoy the (fake) Christmas tree in our living room. Oh sure, it has lots of gaps and needs more decorations. I suppose I could spend every free moment crafting and shopping for more ornaments. But instead, I smile and remember that every year, our tree will have a few more ornaments. And someday, we'll have too many ornaments. But this year, right now, we have just the right amount.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Seriously, Does That $%&*ing Dog Have To Bark Everyday?
There's a dog in my neighborhood. It likes to bark. A lot. Especially in the afternoon. It's barking right now as a I write this.
I really, really, really hate that dog.
I mean, SERIOUSLY - HOW LONG CAN ONE DOG BARK? It barks for two hours every afternoon! TWO FREAKING HOURS! If I tried to bark for two hours, my throat would start to bleed. Does this dog have super powers? Is it a genetic experiment? Or is it the devil's demon spawn?
There are dozens of dogs in this neighborhood, but you never hear the other dogs barking. They have dignity and self-control. There's just one stupid insecure egomaniac dog that feels the need to defend it's territory every &^(*!&)#@ing day.
AND DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THE OWNERS. Those stupid, thoughtless, I-hope-they-burn-in-hell owners. Are they completely oblivious to the fact that their dog barks for hours every afternoon? Do they think the neighbors actually enjoy the musical stylings of Spot or Rex or Whatever That Effing Dog's Stupid Name Is? I hope a meteor destroys their house (when they are on vacation - no need for bloodshed) and they are forced to move far, far away.
I really, really, really hate that dog.
I mean, SERIOUSLY - HOW LONG CAN ONE DOG BARK? It barks for two hours every afternoon! TWO FREAKING HOURS! If I tried to bark for two hours, my throat would start to bleed. Does this dog have super powers? Is it a genetic experiment? Or is it the devil's demon spawn?
There are dozens of dogs in this neighborhood, but you never hear the other dogs barking. They have dignity and self-control. There's just one stupid insecure egomaniac dog that feels the need to defend it's territory every &^(*!&)#@ing day.
AND DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THE OWNERS. Those stupid, thoughtless, I-hope-they-burn-in-hell owners. Are they completely oblivious to the fact that their dog barks for hours every afternoon? Do they think the neighbors actually enjoy the musical stylings of Spot or Rex or Whatever That Effing Dog's Stupid Name Is? I hope a meteor destroys their house (when they are on vacation - no need for bloodshed) and they are forced to move far, far away.
Monday, November 21, 2011
This Is The Sort Of B.S. That Really Pisses Me Off.
It's Thanksgiving week! I should be blogging exclusively about pilgrims and stuffing and pumpkin pie. But I had such an annoying experience last week, I simply must rant.
I use a Big Evil Bank for my checking and savings needs. I understand the Occupy Wall Street protesters would like me to move my money into a small, independent bank, such as Unicorn Credit Union, a small local bank in California. (I've changed the name of the bank so I don't get harassed by the Unicorns for blogging about them. I can be cynical that way.)
A collection agency called me last week, claiming I owe Unicorn Credit Union MasterCard thirty-five dollars. That seemed strange because I do not have a Unicorn MasterCard. My alarm bells started ringing - holy eff! identity theft!
I hung up on the collection agency (somewhat politely) and called Unicorn MasterCard. A customer services rep advised me that I had opened an account with Unicorn MasterCard in 1999 but the account had been dormant since 2001. I do not remember any of this, but it sounds feasible enough: in 1999, I was in college and my dad probably told me I needed a credit card to build my credit rating. (I would not have thought to "build my credit rating" on my own).
I'm glad that 1999 Courtney, and not 2011 Identity Theft Villain, opened the Unicorn MasterCard. But if the card had been dormant FOR THE PAST DECADE, why did I owe the Unicorns thirty-five dollars?
The customer services rep explained that a few months ago, the Unicorns started a new rewards program for their credit card holders. They mailed a notice that the program costs $25 and members had to opt OUT or their account would be charged.
I never opened that letter from the Unicorns. Do you know why? BECAUSE WHEN I RECEIVE MAIL FROM THE UNICORNS, I ASSUME IT'S JUNK. It's been a freaking decade. I can't even tell you what credit cards I was using in 2001. I'm a little surprised I had any credit cards at the time BECAUSE I DIDN'T HAVE ANY MONEY. I receive junk mail from various MasterCards and Visas all the time. If I opened every piece of junk mail that I received from credit card suitors, my hands would never stop bleeding from the paper cuts.
Needless to say, I did not opt out and I was charged $25 for a rewards program for a credit card I have not used SINCE THE FIRST YEAR OF GEORGE W.'S PRESIDENCY. And then do you know what happened? The Unicorns sent me a bill which I did not pay because again, I assumed it was junk mail. SO THEN THE UNICORNS CHARGED ME A $10 LATE FEE AND SENT MY ACCOUNT TO COLLECTIONS.
Are you effin freaking kidding me? There are not enough potty mouth words in the English language to express how I feel about this, but let me try:
I use a Big Evil Bank for my checking and savings needs. I understand the Occupy Wall Street protesters would like me to move my money into a small, independent bank, such as Unicorn Credit Union, a small local bank in California. (I've changed the name of the bank so I don't get harassed by the Unicorns for blogging about them. I can be cynical that way.)
A collection agency called me last week, claiming I owe Unicorn Credit Union MasterCard thirty-five dollars. That seemed strange because I do not have a Unicorn MasterCard. My alarm bells started ringing - holy eff! identity theft!
I hung up on the collection agency (somewhat politely) and called Unicorn MasterCard. A customer services rep advised me that I had opened an account with Unicorn MasterCard in 1999 but the account had been dormant since 2001. I do not remember any of this, but it sounds feasible enough: in 1999, I was in college and my dad probably told me I needed a credit card to build my credit rating. (I would not have thought to "build my credit rating" on my own).
I'm glad that 1999 Courtney, and not 2011 Identity Theft Villain, opened the Unicorn MasterCard. But if the card had been dormant FOR THE PAST DECADE, why did I owe the Unicorns thirty-five dollars?
The customer services rep explained that a few months ago, the Unicorns started a new rewards program for their credit card holders. They mailed a notice that the program costs $25 and members had to opt OUT or their account would be charged.
I never opened that letter from the Unicorns. Do you know why? BECAUSE WHEN I RECEIVE MAIL FROM THE UNICORNS, I ASSUME IT'S JUNK. It's been a freaking decade. I can't even tell you what credit cards I was using in 2001. I'm a little surprised I had any credit cards at the time BECAUSE I DIDN'T HAVE ANY MONEY. I receive junk mail from various MasterCards and Visas all the time. If I opened every piece of junk mail that I received from credit card suitors, my hands would never stop bleeding from the paper cuts.
Needless to say, I did not opt out and I was charged $25 for a rewards program for a credit card I have not used SINCE THE FIRST YEAR OF GEORGE W.'S PRESIDENCY. And then do you know what happened? The Unicorns sent me a bill which I did not pay because again, I assumed it was junk mail. SO THEN THE UNICORNS CHARGED ME A $10 LATE FEE AND SENT MY ACCOUNT TO COLLECTIONS.
Are you effin freaking kidding me? There are not enough potty mouth words in the English language to express how I feel about this, but let me try:
&*&@#)(*)(*)(!!!!!
***$#*#()@()(@#*(!!!
&*($&*(&)@(&)(!!!()*!#)(*!!!!
$&^@*(&#(*@&(~@!!
(*)($*@)(*!)(*)!!!!!!
And this is the sort of small "friendly" bank that the Occupy protesters would like me to use.
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