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
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Mr. BYU
http://tv.yahoo.com/news/toddlers-cuss-word-modern-family-draws-ire-024407751.html
Woah woah woah. Who the hell is this "anti-profanity crusader" Brigham Young University guy? Oh, wow. Nevermind about the show, I need to interview this guy. Or have dinner with him. Even better, he and I need to grab drinks - strong drinks. Strong drinks that transform my mouth into a volcanic eruption of swear words. I absolutely live for this kind of ridiculous person.
It seems as though while I was plotting my weekend bar crawls back in 2007, he was inventing sweet groups like the No Cussing Club. This cannot be serious. I'm looking him up on Facebook right this second. Score - found him. I'm extremely tempted to friend this guy. Should I friend him? I think I owe myself the entertainment of friending him. If I go through with this, I can't promise I won't message him after an evening of drinking homemade wine. There is something exciting about knowing someone will find me completely offensive.
Let's talk about his theory relating swearing to bullying. That's a pretty heavy weight to place on swearing. I would be more adamant to flip it around and say in cases of bullying, more swearing occurs and when bullying increases, swearing increases. Where is my college sociology professor when I need him? He always seemed kind of drunk and definitely liked to swear - maybe he could swear some sociological sense into Mr. BYU.
Nevermind the fact that the young actress isn't even saying fuck, she's saying fudge; the word is going to be bleeped out for effect. Let me cut to the part where I say something so logical and astounding that you will be on an intelligence high for the next 7 hours. If there is something on the television you don't like, then pick up your remote, and change the *fucking* channel. This "crusader" needs to shift his efforts toward actual societal problems.
Woah woah woah. Who the hell is this "anti-profanity crusader" Brigham Young University guy? Oh, wow. Nevermind about the show, I need to interview this guy. Or have dinner with him. Even better, he and I need to grab drinks - strong drinks. Strong drinks that transform my mouth into a volcanic eruption of swear words. I absolutely live for this kind of ridiculous person.
It seems as though while I was plotting my weekend bar crawls back in 2007, he was inventing sweet groups like the No Cussing Club. This cannot be serious. I'm looking him up on Facebook right this second. Score - found him. I'm extremely tempted to friend this guy. Should I friend him? I think I owe myself the entertainment of friending him. If I go through with this, I can't promise I won't message him after an evening of drinking homemade wine. There is something exciting about knowing someone will find me completely offensive.
Let's talk about his theory relating swearing to bullying. That's a pretty heavy weight to place on swearing. I would be more adamant to flip it around and say in cases of bullying, more swearing occurs and when bullying increases, swearing increases. Where is my college sociology professor when I need him? He always seemed kind of drunk and definitely liked to swear - maybe he could swear some sociological sense into Mr. BYU.
Nevermind the fact that the young actress isn't even saying fuck, she's saying fudge; the word is going to be bleeped out for effect. Let me cut to the part where I say something so logical and astounding that you will be on an intelligence high for the next 7 hours. If there is something on the television you don't like, then pick up your remote, and change the *fucking* channel. This "crusader" needs to shift his efforts toward actual societal problems.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Shut The Hell Up
Per Wikipedia: "Shut up" is a direct command with a meaning similar to "be quiet"', but which is commonly perceived as an angrier and more forceful demand to stop making noise or otherwise communicating. The phrase is probably a shortened form of "shut your mouth up", and its use is generally considered impolite.
I don't know how your household runs, but swearing at our place is more common than...well, let's just say it is part of my natural wordage. Sometimes I swear because I'm pissed, or I swear if I'm physically hurt. Other times, I swear as part of humor and more often than not, I simply swear to swear. (Note: I was once made aware that swearing is classless and unncessary - I promptly *fucking* disagreed with that particular person.)
For reasons I'm unaware of at this point in time, the phrase "shut up" has made it's way into our conversations with a vengeance and while said phrase isn't technically considered swearing, it has a nasty undertone and from what Wiki tells me, is generally considered impolite. Some of the derivations I've heard over the years include "zip it up", "put a sock in it", "zip it", "know your role and shut your hole", "hush", "hush up", "watch yo mouth", "you shut your mouth", "shut yo mouf", and most recently, "lock it up". I can blame that last one on our friend PMC for bringing it to our attention.
More importantly, I believe Rigatoni is on to the fact that while "shut up" and all of the glorious derivations are perfectly acceptable in most situations, "ShhhHHH!", is the one that makes my body burn with rageaholic wrath. When I hear this amped-up, crescendo version of "shut up" exit his mouth, I absolutely lose my mind. The first thought in my head is usually, how quickly can I throw all of Rigatoni's shit down the stairwell? Or how long does it take to file for a divorce? Or next time I need toilet paper and we are fresh out, I'm totally using his favorite Penn State sweatshirt. If it's irrational, it goes through my head.
Speaking of irrational, I need Jennifer Hudson to shut the hell up. Right this second, Jenn: I need you to stop singing, and exit my television screen immediately. What's worse than watching you sing for WW cash? Watching you sing TO YOURSELF for WW cash. I would probably be a size 6 too if thousands of dollars were being dangled in front of my hungry face. Please and thank you.
I don't know how your household runs, but swearing at our place is more common than...well, let's just say it is part of my natural wordage. Sometimes I swear because I'm pissed, or I swear if I'm physically hurt. Other times, I swear as part of humor and more often than not, I simply swear to swear. (Note: I was once made aware that swearing is classless and unncessary - I promptly *fucking* disagreed with that particular person.)
For reasons I'm unaware of at this point in time, the phrase "shut up" has made it's way into our conversations with a vengeance and while said phrase isn't technically considered swearing, it has a nasty undertone and from what Wiki tells me, is generally considered impolite. Some of the derivations I've heard over the years include "zip it up", "put a sock in it", "zip it", "know your role and shut your hole", "hush", "hush up", "watch yo mouth", "you shut your mouth", "shut yo mouf", and most recently, "lock it up". I can blame that last one on our friend PMC for bringing it to our attention.
More importantly, I believe Rigatoni is on to the fact that while "shut up" and all of the glorious derivations are perfectly acceptable in most situations, "ShhhHHH!", is the one that makes my body burn with rageaholic wrath. When I hear this amped-up, crescendo version of "shut up" exit his mouth, I absolutely lose my mind. The first thought in my head is usually, how quickly can I throw all of Rigatoni's shit down the stairwell? Or how long does it take to file for a divorce? Or next time I need toilet paper and we are fresh out, I'm totally using his favorite Penn State sweatshirt. If it's irrational, it goes through my head.
Speaking of irrational, I need Jennifer Hudson to shut the hell up. Right this second, Jenn: I need you to stop singing, and exit my television screen immediately. What's worse than watching you sing for WW cash? Watching you sing TO YOURSELF for WW cash. I would probably be a size 6 too if thousands of dollars were being dangled in front of my hungry face. Please and thank you.
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Sociopathic Raccoon
Wildlife is not scarce in Columbus. It is completely common to see deer, squirrels, rabbits, and raccoons on a weekly basis. Columbus, Ohio: equal parts city, country, and suburb.
There was a raccoon living near our place and we would see it from time to time sneaking around the yard or scampering off past the garage. Rigatoni eventually brought it to my attention she was now living and not paying rent near the outside set of stairs leading to our 2nd floor porch. Being the problem-solver I raised him to be, Rigatoni placed a rather large rock to block the space the raccoon was using as an apartment.
I woke up one sunny fall morning about a week later and headed to the kitchen for some aftermath cleanup. I put on some coffee, opened the blinds, and pushed back the curtain on the door that looks out onto the porch. Amongst the bags of recycling, the grill, and the lawn chairs, I saw tiny clawed footprints. Glancing toward the right, I saw more remnants of the claw prints all the way down the entire two flights of stairs leading into the backyard. Upon further inspection of the porch, I saw a massive pile of shit that didn't appear to be anything resembling human fecal matter.
Clearly, we had a passive-aggressive raccoon on our hands. What the hell kind of sociopathic animal walks up two flights of stairs, ignores enticing bags of recycling and a delicious smelling grill, and does a #2 (borderline #3) in the corner of a porch? Since Rigatoni came up with the "spectacular idea" to block the racoon's apartment with a massive rock, I nominated him for back porch cleanup. Good luck with that Rigatoni, let me know how it goes!
An olive branch couldn't hurt the situation - maybe when the weather warms up, I will place some air freshener and some moist wipes out for the little guy.
There was a raccoon living near our place and we would see it from time to time sneaking around the yard or scampering off past the garage. Rigatoni eventually brought it to my attention she was now living and not paying rent near the outside set of stairs leading to our 2nd floor porch. Being the problem-solver I raised him to be, Rigatoni placed a rather large rock to block the space the raccoon was using as an apartment.
I woke up one sunny fall morning about a week later and headed to the kitchen for some aftermath cleanup. I put on some coffee, opened the blinds, and pushed back the curtain on the door that looks out onto the porch. Amongst the bags of recycling, the grill, and the lawn chairs, I saw tiny clawed footprints. Glancing toward the right, I saw more remnants of the claw prints all the way down the entire two flights of stairs leading into the backyard. Upon further inspection of the porch, I saw a massive pile of shit that didn't appear to be anything resembling human fecal matter.
Clearly, we had a passive-aggressive raccoon on our hands. What the hell kind of sociopathic animal walks up two flights of stairs, ignores enticing bags of recycling and a delicious smelling grill, and does a #2 (borderline #3) in the corner of a porch? Since Rigatoni came up with the "spectacular idea" to block the racoon's apartment with a massive rock, I nominated him for back porch cleanup. Good luck with that Rigatoni, let me know how it goes!
An olive branch couldn't hurt the situation - maybe when the weather warms up, I will place some air freshener and some moist wipes out for the little guy.
Friday, January 6, 2012
How To Benefit From A Lie
Just a heads up - this is a long story.
When I originally signed up for my gym membership, I was informed by my HR department that the gym offered a corporate discount to the employees of my company. Score! After double checking this information, I drove to the gym to sign Rigatoni and I up for the discounted rate. An hour later, Sales Rep Round 1 printed out the documents while I inquired as to when he would need my work ID for the discount. Sales Rep Round 1 looked at me like I was bat-shit crazy, said he was unaware of the corporate discount my company offered, and handed me the paperwork to sign. This was where my palms started sweating.
I pressed on for the next few minutes in semi-bitch mode, using my conversation with HR two days prior as proof of said discount. Fifteen minutes later, the paperwork was being signed - without the discount. What can I say? It was a rare, weak moment for me. I needed to join a gym - immediately. Maybe the brand new shiny equipment was to blame.
A handful of months after I initally joined, my co-worker and I were discussing which gyms we belonged to, what we liked about them, and what we didn't like. I began bitching about how HR told me that our company had a corporate discount agreement with my gym, but when I signed with them, Sales Rep Round 1 acted as though he had never heard of such a thing. This was when my co-worker told me that she had been working out at my very same gym under the corporate discount for almost a year. Oh, hell no.
That bastard.
It took 24 hours for me to calm my crazy ass down. I walked into the gym after work and asked to speak with someone from the sales department. After explaining the situation in full-length detail (including the part about how I was utterly offended someone could lie to my face so easily), Sales Rep Round 2 explained that he was sorry this ever happened and offered to cancel my current membership and simultaneously sign me and Rigatoni up for new memberships under the corporate discount. Huh? This may have made sense to anyone else that hadn't WORKED AT A GYM FOR TWO YEARS like I did. I mentioned that in my lengthy experience, there was zero need to cancel our memberships, rather, they needed to be transferred to the new pricing.
Sales Rep Round 2 "promised" to get the new pricing in order before the next billing cycle was applied to my credit card. Since I was already in a big pile of shit without a shovel handy regarding this situation, I figured that requesting a full refund of the overcharges during the nine months prior was the very least they could do for me. Although Sales Rep Round 2 exthusiastically agreed a refund was absolutely in order, he mentioned it would need to go through the Club Manager and then through Corporate before anything could be finalized. From here forth, we will call the Club Manager by her real name: Candy Cane. As was expected, once the billing went through for the next cycle, there was no adjustment on my credit card. Magically, Sales Rep Round 2 was nowhere to be found during the next two weeks, thus my having to now communicate with Candy Cane.
Candy Cane was a gem: a doe-eyed blondie that appeared to listen well, yet she only reponded with "uh-huhs", head-nods, and excessive blinking. Helpful. My monologue to Candy Cane sounded like this:
"Here is the deal: We have been members of this gym for 9 months. When I signed up, a member of the sales staff lied to me about the corporate discount being 'unavailable' to me for a reason that he clearly made up on the spot. The last sales rep I spoke to *promised* to handle this and still, it was handled properly and I'm started to get pissed. I don't *want* to quit this gym. I want to stay, but I won't be staying if I'm going to continue to be lied to. I have zero problem quitting on principle. I need *you* to process this *today* and call me on my *cell* *phone*, which you have on file, to let me know if you need any other forms of identification, credit card numbers, etc so this can happen immediately."
After all the bullshit the gym had put me though, I decided that my conversation with Candy Cane would not be resolving the issue. I opened up my email to compose the classiest/bitchiest, email of my life addressed to all four corporate head honchos. To the mattresses I went. Exactly thirteen minutes after I pressed send on the email that described my experiences during the last thirty days, I received an email from one of the corporate guys asking me to please call him right away on his personal cell phone to discuss the matter.
Yes, this conversation was happening.
To speak with an intelligent person within customer service is a rare occurence. Head Honcho listened to every word of my monologue - it was an extrememly enjoyable conversation. At the very end, he assured me that the corporate discount would be applied to our account from now on. He then offered to "do a little math" for me to compute how much I deserved in refunds from the overcharges. Our math matched and came to approximately $190. Head Honcho - being the awesome dude he was - offered to refund the money or to give Rigatoni and I three free months at the gym. I graciously thanked him for the time he spent out of his day righting the wrongs that were caused by other staff members and also for offering us the free three months. Then I explained that because I had been drowning in customer service/intelligence issues for the last month, Rigatoni and I would need six free months to make this negotiation worth while.
Head Honcho replied with, "Sounds good to me".
JD = 1; Gym = 0
When I originally signed up for my gym membership, I was informed by my HR department that the gym offered a corporate discount to the employees of my company. Score! After double checking this information, I drove to the gym to sign Rigatoni and I up for the discounted rate. An hour later, Sales Rep Round 1 printed out the documents while I inquired as to when he would need my work ID for the discount. Sales Rep Round 1 looked at me like I was bat-shit crazy, said he was unaware of the corporate discount my company offered, and handed me the paperwork to sign. This was where my palms started sweating.
I pressed on for the next few minutes in semi-bitch mode, using my conversation with HR two days prior as proof of said discount. Fifteen minutes later, the paperwork was being signed - without the discount. What can I say? It was a rare, weak moment for me. I needed to join a gym - immediately. Maybe the brand new shiny equipment was to blame.
A handful of months after I initally joined, my co-worker and I were discussing which gyms we belonged to, what we liked about them, and what we didn't like. I began bitching about how HR told me that our company had a corporate discount agreement with my gym, but when I signed with them, Sales Rep Round 1 acted as though he had never heard of such a thing. This was when my co-worker told me that she had been working out at my very same gym under the corporate discount for almost a year. Oh, hell no.
That bastard.
It took 24 hours for me to calm my crazy ass down. I walked into the gym after work and asked to speak with someone from the sales department. After explaining the situation in full-length detail (including the part about how I was utterly offended someone could lie to my face so easily), Sales Rep Round 2 explained that he was sorry this ever happened and offered to cancel my current membership and simultaneously sign me and Rigatoni up for new memberships under the corporate discount. Huh? This may have made sense to anyone else that hadn't WORKED AT A GYM FOR TWO YEARS like I did. I mentioned that in my lengthy experience, there was zero need to cancel our memberships, rather, they needed to be transferred to the new pricing.
Sales Rep Round 2 "promised" to get the new pricing in order before the next billing cycle was applied to my credit card. Since I was already in a big pile of shit without a shovel handy regarding this situation, I figured that requesting a full refund of the overcharges during the nine months prior was the very least they could do for me. Although Sales Rep Round 2 exthusiastically agreed a refund was absolutely in order, he mentioned it would need to go through the Club Manager and then through Corporate before anything could be finalized. From here forth, we will call the Club Manager by her real name: Candy Cane. As was expected, once the billing went through for the next cycle, there was no adjustment on my credit card. Magically, Sales Rep Round 2 was nowhere to be found during the next two weeks, thus my having to now communicate with Candy Cane.
Candy Cane was a gem: a doe-eyed blondie that appeared to listen well, yet she only reponded with "uh-huhs", head-nods, and excessive blinking. Helpful. My monologue to Candy Cane sounded like this:
"Here is the deal: We have been members of this gym for 9 months. When I signed up, a member of the sales staff lied to me about the corporate discount being 'unavailable' to me for a reason that he clearly made up on the spot. The last sales rep I spoke to *promised* to handle this and still, it was handled properly and I'm started to get pissed. I don't *want* to quit this gym. I want to stay, but I won't be staying if I'm going to continue to be lied to. I have zero problem quitting on principle. I need *you* to process this *today* and call me on my *cell* *phone*, which you have on file, to let me know if you need any other forms of identification, credit card numbers, etc so this can happen immediately."
After all the bullshit the gym had put me though, I decided that my conversation with Candy Cane would not be resolving the issue. I opened up my email to compose the classiest/bitchiest, email of my life addressed to all four corporate head honchos. To the mattresses I went. Exactly thirteen minutes after I pressed send on the email that described my experiences during the last thirty days, I received an email from one of the corporate guys asking me to please call him right away on his personal cell phone to discuss the matter.
Yes, this conversation was happening.
To speak with an intelligent person within customer service is a rare occurence. Head Honcho listened to every word of my monologue - it was an extrememly enjoyable conversation. At the very end, he assured me that the corporate discount would be applied to our account from now on. He then offered to "do a little math" for me to compute how much I deserved in refunds from the overcharges. Our math matched and came to approximately $190. Head Honcho - being the awesome dude he was - offered to refund the money or to give Rigatoni and I three free months at the gym. I graciously thanked him for the time he spent out of his day righting the wrongs that were caused by other staff members and also for offering us the free three months. Then I explained that because I had been drowning in customer service/intelligence issues for the last month, Rigatoni and I would need six free months to make this negotiation worth while.
Head Honcho replied with, "Sounds good to me".
JD = 1; Gym = 0
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Minor Irritations
Attention all low talkers, leg twitchers, and snifflers: this entry is for you. Please read on.
Low Talkers - What's that? I can't hear you. No, really, I still can't hear you. Maybe if you mumble whatever it is you need just one more time, I'll be able to hear. Nope, still can't hear you. No, no, no, you don't need to yell, you just simply need to speak clearly. It's called enunciation. You should try it sometime.
Leg Twitchers - Where did this phenomenon originate? It looks like some sort of derivation of pen-tapping. One day I looked around and it seemed like everyone's body was shifting left then right then left then right just enough for me to notice. Is it an anxious mannerism? Is it a way to burn extra calories? Having a physical disability is completely different from what I'm talking about here. Leg Twitchers have no purpose except to irritate me. SIT STILL!
Snifflers - You are the worst. *Sniff* Yeah, I know it's getting chilly outside *Sniff Sniff* and the extreme temperature changes between inside and outside result in runny noses, but it is completely unacceptable. Walk yourself to the nearest restroom *Sniff* and wipe that landslide clean before I take the liberty and hand you 22 tissues myself, like I used to do when I was younger. Believe it or not, I used to be way more obnoxious *Sniff* than I am now. There were multiple times during elementary, middle, and high school when I would get up from my desk in the middle of class, grab the box of classroom tissues, and walk it to the offender's desk *Sniff Sniff* just to put my brain out of its misery.
This has been a public service announcement.
Low Talkers - What's that? I can't hear you. No, really, I still can't hear you. Maybe if you mumble whatever it is you need just one more time, I'll be able to hear. Nope, still can't hear you. No, no, no, you don't need to yell, you just simply need to speak clearly. It's called enunciation. You should try it sometime.
Leg Twitchers - Where did this phenomenon originate? It looks like some sort of derivation of pen-tapping. One day I looked around and it seemed like everyone's body was shifting left then right then left then right just enough for me to notice. Is it an anxious mannerism? Is it a way to burn extra calories? Having a physical disability is completely different from what I'm talking about here. Leg Twitchers have no purpose except to irritate me. SIT STILL!
Snifflers - You are the worst. *Sniff* Yeah, I know it's getting chilly outside *Sniff Sniff* and the extreme temperature changes between inside and outside result in runny noses, but it is completely unacceptable. Walk yourself to the nearest restroom *Sniff* and wipe that landslide clean before I take the liberty and hand you 22 tissues myself, like I used to do when I was younger. Believe it or not, I used to be way more obnoxious *Sniff* than I am now. There were multiple times during elementary, middle, and high school when I would get up from my desk in the middle of class, grab the box of classroom tissues, and walk it to the offender's desk *Sniff Sniff* just to put my brain out of its misery.
This has been a public service announcement.
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