This old fat guy just called me "Sweetie". Oh hell no. My skin is crawling with disgust, resentment, and theories about his apparent level of ignorance. It is the year 2012 and calling women "Sweetie" is just flat-out repulsive. I'm issuing one punch to his face.
Punch number two is because he ended the quick conversation with a "thank you" and a "darlin'". Help me baby Jesus. I want to punch his face all the way through. God, he is so disgusting.
The last punch is just for simply being an offender of this unwritten rule.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
Lung Transplant
Transplants are very serious medical situations that are not to be mocked - except right here on this blog.
Last week I was standing in line when I heard Pet Peeve #5 happening behind me: the never-ending public cough. This classification of cough is the type that is dry in nature and just continues on and on and on like those stupid Rocky movies - what are we on now, like Rocky 81 - without any cessation on the horizon. There was no clearing of the throat or any search for water to try to alleviate the situation. Oh no, it was just *cough*, pause pause pause, *cough*, pause pause pause, *cough*, etc. Picture me trying to restrain myself from offering my own Nalgene of refreshing Brita-filtered water to this poor, coughing soul.
I'm sure he was suffering from something tragic like Black Lung or emphysema or lung cancer, but all that was dulled down to simple details. My pet peeves take precedence. I was one cough/pause rotation short of offering to transplant my own super-healthy set of lungs for his usage just so my ears could have some relief from this heinously monotonous situation.
For the love of man-kind please just clear your throat so we can wait in this stupid line in peace!
Last week I was standing in line when I heard Pet Peeve #5 happening behind me: the never-ending public cough. This classification of cough is the type that is dry in nature and just continues on and on and on like those stupid Rocky movies - what are we on now, like Rocky 81 - without any cessation on the horizon. There was no clearing of the throat or any search for water to try to alleviate the situation. Oh no, it was just *cough*, pause pause pause, *cough*, pause pause pause, *cough*, etc. Picture me trying to restrain myself from offering my own Nalgene of refreshing Brita-filtered water to this poor, coughing soul.
I'm sure he was suffering from something tragic like Black Lung or emphysema or lung cancer, but all that was dulled down to simple details. My pet peeves take precedence. I was one cough/pause rotation short of offering to transplant my own super-healthy set of lungs for his usage just so my ears could have some relief from this heinously monotonous situation.
For the love of man-kind please just clear your throat so we can wait in this stupid line in peace!
The Q-Tip Showdown
Let's have Honest Time for just a few moments: It really is no secret Rigatoni and I debate everything from household tasks to departure times to social plan details to who the hell restocked the toilet paper last. Entertaining? Usually. Exhausting? Absolutely. But what kind of Type A, facts-based personality would I be if I didn't bring minute life details to surface regularly? I would be a psychological poser pretending I didn't care and we just can't have that.
Rigatoni and I have a Q-tip holder in our bathroom with which we fill instead of having the box just sitting out - the bathroom is Borrowers-sized and having the elongated, rectangle box would put our space over-the-edge. Trust me, this is true. The last time the Q-tip holder was empty, I refilled it and the time before, Rigatoni did. Naturally, this means his turn was up when the container dwindled to nothing last Friday. Being the 50/50, fairness-obsessed individual I am (especially when interacting with people that have penises - more about this later, perhaps) I decided to not immediately refill it in good faith it would eventually be done by him since it was HIS TURN and all. In Rigatoni time, "eventually" typically translates to 2-3 weeks. I'm not kidding and no, I have no idea how I deal with this either.
It took all of me to stay strong this entire week and to not race to the cabinet, grab the Q-tip box and refill the container just to alleviate my brain from the torment. Every time I stepped out of the shower, I could feel myself longing for the container to be refilled. Each time I considered breaking down and refilling it because psychologically it really was just becoming too much a burden, I gathered strength from within and held out another 24 hours. Not only did I impress myself by not giving in to this ignored task, but I didn't even make a condescending remark. Until last night. Unheard of! As I stepped out of the shower knowing I would have to face the empty Q-tip container again, I considered a different approach to this situation might be not only beneficial, but entertaining.
Typically, the kind of situation where "I know he knows I know he knows" is occurring, I would have jumped right to the overreaction and just got it out of the way before the weekend arrived. Rigatoni isn't stupid. But fortunately, neither am I. Certain parties might agree I have the higher level of intelligence. Certain parties might agree Rigatoni has the higher level of intelligence. Certain parties are really thankful they don't live with Rigatoni and I because we do debate this sort of nonsense regularly. Instead of foaming-at-the-mouth raging in his face, I simply asked Rigatoni, "How long are you going to keep using Q-tips out of the box in the cabinet?"
Laughter erupted from Rigatoni. This is what usually happens when I draw attention to his faux-crafty ways. His most genuine laugh is this sort of high-pitched, wide-eyed deal that is so completely unexpected when you look at him physically that I cannot help but laugh. It really is the most odd-sounding noise. I'm laughing now just thinking about the absurdity of it. Amongst two laughing assholes was the point where he deemed our particular situation "The Q-Tip Showdown". He is nothing short of a word-smith and sometimes I just crumble from the ridiculousness of his word choices. How the hell does he come of with this stuff? So ridiculous. Yet so funny. But soooooo ridiculous. Damnit - I hate letting him see I think he's funny. Then he thinks he's in the clear.
Usually this is portion of the story where I intimately describe all the insults I threw his way, but that didn't happen. We didn't argue about it. We just laughed. Then he "promised" he would fill the container today. I'm not sure this is going to happen and yes, I'm thinking about running home and refilling it immediately. But I'm not going to. I will stay strong.
Rigatoni and I have a Q-tip holder in our bathroom with which we fill instead of having the box just sitting out - the bathroom is Borrowers-sized and having the elongated, rectangle box would put our space over-the-edge. Trust me, this is true. The last time the Q-tip holder was empty, I refilled it and the time before, Rigatoni did. Naturally, this means his turn was up when the container dwindled to nothing last Friday. Being the 50/50, fairness-obsessed individual I am (especially when interacting with people that have penises - more about this later, perhaps) I decided to not immediately refill it in good faith it would eventually be done by him since it was HIS TURN and all. In Rigatoni time, "eventually" typically translates to 2-3 weeks. I'm not kidding and no, I have no idea how I deal with this either.
It took all of me to stay strong this entire week and to not race to the cabinet, grab the Q-tip box and refill the container just to alleviate my brain from the torment. Every time I stepped out of the shower, I could feel myself longing for the container to be refilled. Each time I considered breaking down and refilling it because psychologically it really was just becoming too much a burden, I gathered strength from within and held out another 24 hours. Not only did I impress myself by not giving in to this ignored task, but I didn't even make a condescending remark. Until last night. Unheard of! As I stepped out of the shower knowing I would have to face the empty Q-tip container again, I considered a different approach to this situation might be not only beneficial, but entertaining.
Typically, the kind of situation where "I know he knows I know he knows" is occurring, I would have jumped right to the overreaction and just got it out of the way before the weekend arrived. Rigatoni isn't stupid. But fortunately, neither am I. Certain parties might agree I have the higher level of intelligence. Certain parties might agree Rigatoni has the higher level of intelligence. Certain parties are really thankful they don't live with Rigatoni and I because we do debate this sort of nonsense regularly. Instead of foaming-at-the-mouth raging in his face, I simply asked Rigatoni, "How long are you going to keep using Q-tips out of the box in the cabinet?"
Laughter erupted from Rigatoni. This is what usually happens when I draw attention to his faux-crafty ways. His most genuine laugh is this sort of high-pitched, wide-eyed deal that is so completely unexpected when you look at him physically that I cannot help but laugh. It really is the most odd-sounding noise. I'm laughing now just thinking about the absurdity of it. Amongst two laughing assholes was the point where he deemed our particular situation "The Q-Tip Showdown". He is nothing short of a word-smith and sometimes I just crumble from the ridiculousness of his word choices. How the hell does he come of with this stuff? So ridiculous. Yet so funny. But soooooo ridiculous. Damnit - I hate letting him see I think he's funny. Then he thinks he's in the clear.
Usually this is portion of the story where I intimately describe all the insults I threw his way, but that didn't happen. We didn't argue about it. We just laughed. Then he "promised" he would fill the container today. I'm not sure this is going to happen and yes, I'm thinking about running home and refilling it immediately. But I'm not going to. I will stay strong.
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