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.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Bride Crossing Part 3
It's not that I'm opposed to white dresses. Or white wedding dresses. Or spending good money on something quality, for that matter. It's just that I believe spending $1000 (or more) on a dress you will wear once is ludicrous. I don't care if you look like a fucking angel sent straight from heaven in the dress - it will never be worth it. When Kim Kardashian was married and everyone kept saying she looked like some Armenian princess, all I saw was a dress purchased from whore-island where the townspeople spent an hour gluing on cheap lace-like details around the neckline. Favoring a prime rib buffet dinner and open bar over a $1000 (or more) faux-virgin dress is much more up my thought-alley. This kind of logic is what landed me at the neighborhood consignment shops in search of a white dress for our civil ceremony.
Reflecting back, it really is no surprise when I picked up my wedding dress from the cleaners that the silvery/beige beading on the bust happened to have turned to bright white during the cleaning process. After demonstrating a "what-the-fuck" look on my face and demanding an explanation, Roots (the dry cleaning staff member) casually told me what happened. I know for a fact her explanation included phrases such as "it's really only a wear-once type of dress" and "the beads were dipped in color, not *made* with color pigment" and "there's always the possibility that this could happen" and "at least they didn't melt off" but all I really heard was blah, blah, blah. And I saw spots - dark spots made of red and black rage - it resembled something close to the moment before you pass out or faint.
The entire situation really wasn't about the fact that I had dug my own grave, so to speak, by purchasing a previously owned dress that turned out to be altered slightly after cleaning. It was more about the fact that none of the staff members, upon inspecting my dress at the time of the drop-off, bothered to clue me in to this possibility. (Um, isn't there a waiver you need to sign?) Although my initial reaction was otherwise exampled, my dress wasn't ruined, the beading wasn't fucked up (entirely), and I still looked like a million bucks at the ceremony. Rigatoni should have awarded me the Medal of Emotional Honor for not calling up the cleaners, demanding to speak to every supervisor available, and cussing them to tears in undecipherable foreign languages.
Until next time...
Reflecting back, it really is no surprise when I picked up my wedding dress from the cleaners that the silvery/beige beading on the bust happened to have turned to bright white during the cleaning process. After demonstrating a "what-the-fuck" look on my face and demanding an explanation, Roots (the dry cleaning staff member) casually told me what happened. I know for a fact her explanation included phrases such as "it's really only a wear-once type of dress" and "the beads were dipped in color, not *made* with color pigment" and "there's always the possibility that this could happen" and "at least they didn't melt off" but all I really heard was blah, blah, blah. And I saw spots - dark spots made of red and black rage - it resembled something close to the moment before you pass out or faint.
The entire situation really wasn't about the fact that I had dug my own grave, so to speak, by purchasing a previously owned dress that turned out to be altered slightly after cleaning. It was more about the fact that none of the staff members, upon inspecting my dress at the time of the drop-off, bothered to clue me in to this possibility. (Um, isn't there a waiver you need to sign?) Although my initial reaction was otherwise exampled, my dress wasn't ruined, the beading wasn't fucked up (entirely), and I still looked like a million bucks at the ceremony. Rigatoni should have awarded me the Medal of Emotional Honor for not calling up the cleaners, demanding to speak to every supervisor available, and cussing them to tears in undecipherable foreign languages.
Until next time...
What. The. Hell.
Seriously, where did the last four weeks go? I figured it was about two weeks since my last entry. Nope. It was definitely a full four. I don't even know what to say.
What the hell have you been doing and where the hell have you been, you might ask. Well, a lot has happened. Roll your eyes and be condescending, go ahead, but here's the full recap:
Four weeks ago was the annual family ski trip to NY and it was nothing short of fantastic. Snow has been scarce this season, not only for Ohio, but for most of the US, from what I've read/heard. We made our way up to our usual spot for what is approximately my 31st year in a row. Literally, my family has been taking this trip every single year - my parents were traveling up to NY together even before they were married. Mom, dad, sister, sister's boyfriend, Rigatoni and I all share a huge hotel room at the ski lodge and basically laugh our asses off for three days straight. At some point, one of us turns bright red and forgets to breathe because we are laughing that hard. Ahh, such a great feeling when you realize your family isn't a bunch of assholes.
Three weeks ago, I was on my way up north to finalize the details for Wedding Reception #1 when my car hit black ice/slush, swerved through the opposite lane, spun around in a dramatic circle, and smashed into a telephone pole in someone's lawn. This really happened. Had the impact been on the front of the car as opposed to the back, my legs would probably be in full casts as I type this. It was extremely traumatic, but I am thankful the accident resulted in only minor injuries to my upper legs, arm, and back. Rigatoni's car is another story - the car died a quick death upon impact. Certain parties are still upset with the death of the golden Camry, but that's okay, I guess it kind of was my fault that the country roads up north weren't salted or plowed during an accurately-predicted snow storm.
Two weeks ago, I was busy stressing the fuck out over whether my legs would feel well enough to bust some sweet dance moves during the reception. Turns out rest, ice, heat, and lots of time to heal works wonders. My dance moves were pretty awesome. You would never have known I almost died two weeks prior.
Last week, I was busy stressing the fuck out over the fact that I never actually made it up north to confirm any of the meaningless details regarding the reception and how it better be a fucking awesome time for my friends and family. Turns out my mom, dad, and aunt did a superb job of handling all of this nonsense while I healed. I should have known to fully trust them. What can I say? I have larger picture and smaller picture trust issues.
The reception was the anti-wedding, wedding reception and I don't believe Rigatoni and I could have asked for more. No garter (whore) dance, no look-at-me-cake-cutting bullshit, no everyone-dance-to-this-shitty-song-because-it's-tradition nonsense. It was drinks, dinner, and dancing. Then a hometown bar. Then a shower for me because I smelled like sweat, vodka, and fun. What does fun smell like? It smells so horrible that it is utterly awesome.
Really, it's too bad we can't have another fiesta just like this. Oh wait. Timeout. We are. Rigatoni's parents are throwing us a party in a couple months so his extended family can attend from out of state. You know how when couple say "it's our wedding so...(insert childish statement here)". Well, ours is "it's our wedding so we'll have two parties if we want to!". I'm looking forward to smelling like fun really soon...
What the hell have you been doing and where the hell have you been, you might ask. Well, a lot has happened. Roll your eyes and be condescending, go ahead, but here's the full recap:
Four weeks ago was the annual family ski trip to NY and it was nothing short of fantastic. Snow has been scarce this season, not only for Ohio, but for most of the US, from what I've read/heard. We made our way up to our usual spot for what is approximately my 31st year in a row. Literally, my family has been taking this trip every single year - my parents were traveling up to NY together even before they were married. Mom, dad, sister, sister's boyfriend, Rigatoni and I all share a huge hotel room at the ski lodge and basically laugh our asses off for three days straight. At some point, one of us turns bright red and forgets to breathe because we are laughing that hard. Ahh, such a great feeling when you realize your family isn't a bunch of assholes.
Three weeks ago, I was on my way up north to finalize the details for Wedding Reception #1 when my car hit black ice/slush, swerved through the opposite lane, spun around in a dramatic circle, and smashed into a telephone pole in someone's lawn. This really happened. Had the impact been on the front of the car as opposed to the back, my legs would probably be in full casts as I type this. It was extremely traumatic, but I am thankful the accident resulted in only minor injuries to my upper legs, arm, and back. Rigatoni's car is another story - the car died a quick death upon impact. Certain parties are still upset with the death of the golden Camry, but that's okay, I guess it kind of was my fault that the country roads up north weren't salted or plowed during an accurately-predicted snow storm.
Two weeks ago, I was busy stressing the fuck out over whether my legs would feel well enough to bust some sweet dance moves during the reception. Turns out rest, ice, heat, and lots of time to heal works wonders. My dance moves were pretty awesome. You would never have known I almost died two weeks prior.
Last week, I was busy stressing the fuck out over the fact that I never actually made it up north to confirm any of the meaningless details regarding the reception and how it better be a fucking awesome time for my friends and family. Turns out my mom, dad, and aunt did a superb job of handling all of this nonsense while I healed. I should have known to fully trust them. What can I say? I have larger picture and smaller picture trust issues.
The reception was the anti-wedding, wedding reception and I don't believe Rigatoni and I could have asked for more. No garter (whore) dance, no look-at-me-cake-cutting bullshit, no everyone-dance-to-this-shitty-song-because-it's-tradition nonsense. It was drinks, dinner, and dancing. Then a hometown bar. Then a shower for me because I smelled like sweat, vodka, and fun. What does fun smell like? It smells so horrible that it is utterly awesome.
Really, it's too bad we can't have another fiesta just like this. Oh wait. Timeout. We are. Rigatoni's parents are throwing us a party in a couple months so his extended family can attend from out of state. You know how when couple say "it's our wedding so...(insert childish statement here)". Well, ours is "it's our wedding so we'll have two parties if we want to!". I'm looking forward to smelling like fun really soon...
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Stupid
This dogshit pile of a week has consisted of pure ridiculousness. Yesterday I thought I was going to lose my shit if one more person asked me a stupid question. It seems no one bothers to problem solve and/or think for themselves anymore. My friend sent this my way a la Blunt Card and it pretty much sums it up:
Friday, January 20, 2012
Pimping The Pimp
When I began documenting my daily aggravations, my friend Candice was hugely supportive and eager to share her pet peeves and customer service situations. She is beyond inspirational. I've already - thoroughly - shared with you why customer service is pretty much the absolute last resort given any scenario. Here is an email Candice recently sent the customer service department of her mortgage company:
"I need someone to explain to me IMMEDIATELY why you have chosen to REVERSE my timely mortgage payment. I have called Nationstar THREE TIMES about this issue, and you will most certainly be hearing from me as soon as you open on Monday morning. I sent in my mortgage payment, which you RECEIVED on 1/6. For some reason, you reversed this payment on 1/12, making my account delinquent. I never asked for this payment to be reversed, and it appears to me that you have absolutely no idea what you are doing.
I was formerly a customer of BOA, and my loan was transferred to Nationstar. Two payments needed to go to Nationstar - the one for December, and the one for January. I did not, however, receive my initial bill from Nationstar in a timely manner - I had already sent my payment to BOA. When I called Nationstar about this, I was advised by someone named Ben that there was no guarantee that the payment I sent to BOA would be routed to Nationstar, and I should call my bank to stop payment on the check, which I did. I then called back several days later, spoke to someone named Irene, and made my payment, originally due Dec 1, over the phone. I foolishly assumed that the situation was resolved.
In the beginning of THIS month, I received a notice that my account was assessed a fee because you tried to cash a check for which there were insufficient funds. Lo and behold, the first person I spoke with did not do their job properly and you had no record of my very first conversation, requesting that there was a stop payment on that check.
I called and spoke to yet another person, who I can now only assume was also incompetent because my account is somehow still past due although you received my January payment. This person was supposed to have reversed the fee due to insufficient funds, and that is all.
Please fix this - it is absolutely ridiculous that you are so horrible at servicing loans, and I can only hope that I am able to refinance my mortgage through another company so I no longer have to deal with this level of incompetence.
Regards,
Candice C. "
Basically, Candice handed their asses to them and I teared up a bit out of sheer pride when reading this email. No one should have to take this kind of bullshit, especially when money is involved.
Note: Candice is an avid reader, a wordsmith, a realist, and an overall good friend to me. While both belonging to the same sorority in college, she and I bonded over how stupid we thought the general population was. Today, we enjoy discussing how stupid we *still* think the general population is. Her blog is called The Book Pimp and can be found at http://cmcasto.blogspot.com/ . You can also find her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/TheBookPimp/166836860089088
"I need someone to explain to me IMMEDIATELY why you have chosen to REVERSE my timely mortgage payment. I have called Nationstar THREE TIMES about this issue, and you will most certainly be hearing from me as soon as you open on Monday morning. I sent in my mortgage payment, which you RECEIVED on 1/6. For some reason, you reversed this payment on 1/12, making my account delinquent. I never asked for this payment to be reversed, and it appears to me that you have absolutely no idea what you are doing.
I was formerly a customer of BOA, and my loan was transferred to Nationstar. Two payments needed to go to Nationstar - the one for December, and the one for January. I did not, however, receive my initial bill from Nationstar in a timely manner - I had already sent my payment to BOA. When I called Nationstar about this, I was advised by someone named Ben that there was no guarantee that the payment I sent to BOA would be routed to Nationstar, and I should call my bank to stop payment on the check, which I did. I then called back several days later, spoke to someone named Irene, and made my payment, originally due Dec 1, over the phone. I foolishly assumed that the situation was resolved.
In the beginning of THIS month, I received a notice that my account was assessed a fee because you tried to cash a check for which there were insufficient funds. Lo and behold, the first person I spoke with did not do their job properly and you had no record of my very first conversation, requesting that there was a stop payment on that check.
I called and spoke to yet another person, who I can now only assume was also incompetent because my account is somehow still past due although you received my January payment. This person was supposed to have reversed the fee due to insufficient funds, and that is all.
Please fix this - it is absolutely ridiculous that you are so horrible at servicing loans, and I can only hope that I am able to refinance my mortgage through another company so I no longer have to deal with this level of incompetence.
Regards,
Candice C. "
Basically, Candice handed their asses to them and I teared up a bit out of sheer pride when reading this email. No one should have to take this kind of bullshit, especially when money is involved.
Note: Candice is an avid reader, a wordsmith, a realist, and an overall good friend to me. While both belonging to the same sorority in college, she and I bonded over how stupid we thought the general population was. Today, we enjoy discussing how stupid we *still* think the general population is. Her blog is called The Book Pimp and can be found at http://cmcasto.blogspot.com/ . You can also find her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/TheBookPimp/166836860089088
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