Three Punches

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.  

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!
  

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...  

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.          

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.

 

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   

Bride Crossing Part 2

After a few weeks, I was able to pick up my wedding dress from Chinese Lady. The work was completed beautifully: Chinese Lady agreed that deciding to shorten the gross floor-length to a flattering knee-length was perfect for the look I was going for. Well, no shit Chinese Lady, I always know what's best - ask anyone.

The next step was to drop the ivory gown at the dry cleaners - I drove to another nearby location suggested by Chinese Lady. I walked into the facility, layed the plastic-covered dress down on the counter and said hi. There was no hi, no alternative greeting, no smile, no questions as to what I needed coming from the lady behind the counter. And she looked as though she had not showered in 17 days or visited her stylist for a root touch-up since 1992. If I couldn't trust her to take a shower before work, how could I trust her with my wedding dress? This was the exact moment I realized I didn't like the lady working the counter and our relationship was most likely not going to improve: we're going to call her "Roots" from here on out.

I told Roots that I was was dropping off my dress to be cleaned and pointed out a few marks around the bust area. We went over pricing, what kind of chemicals are used, whether or not the marks would come out, and the date of pickup. I was pretty much running the conversation since all Roots had to say was the ever-helpful, "Uh huh". It was beyond difficult to concentrate and not look at Roots' roots during that interaction. Anytime I meet someone I don't like, the same thing physical reaction occurs: my eyes narrow, my palms become cold and sweaty simultaneously, my heart thumps quickly in my chest, and my brain freezes up. Over the years, I've learned to control these symptoms, but yet they remain. (More about why I hate everyone later.)

Two days later, I strolled in to see Roots with the looming feeling that something big, something small, or just something has happened to my dress. There is reasoning behind my craziness and here it is: Roots brought the lovely ivory cocktail-length beaded bust dress out from the back and hung it on the rack for me to view. My eyes honed in on the bust immediately and saw that the formerly beige beads on the bust area were now virgin-FUCKING-white. My eyes narrowed, my palms sweated, my heart thumped, and I could barely think: Roots and her shitty root job fucked up my wedding dress.

To be continued...

  

Why The Gas Company Sucks

About a year ago, I got myself into a bit of a predicament involving numbers and money and my general inability to accurately compute "head math". To make a short story long, the issue first began when I submitted the wrong amount of money toward a gas company bill. I was in a hurry for no reason - probably because I was trying to quicken my shit up so I could continue obsessing about the work shoes Rigatoni left by the front door instead of placing them in their designated area - and mistyped on the final page where the payment is submitted online. Immediately after realizing my mistake, I was on the phone with the dreaded customer service department of said gas company. Dun Dun Dunnnnnnn.

Really, there is nothing worse than calling customer service. I mean, nothing.

"Angela" from the gas company and I had a thorough conversation about the situation and I (non-condescendingly) asked for the online payment to be cancelled so I could resubmit the correct amount in a new transaction. There is where the situation went down hill. "Angela" gave me two options: I could either cancel the payment before it hits the account (which will result in a $30 charge) or I could let the payment go through, cancel it, and resubmit it (which will also result in a $30 charge). Huh? At this point, I was just trying to understand my options, which sounded as though they were exactly alike but with different descriptive words being used to identify one from the other. For a minute it sounded like she was speaking Aramaic - which is a dead language that was practiced by Jesus and his minions. I repeated the options back to "Angela" and this is approximately where she tried to out-snark me.

After I decided that I would utilize option B and cancel my payment, "Angela" then told me that I will be "disciplined" if the amount I originally submitted cannot be taken out of my bank account. What is going on here? Hey "Angela", this is why I'm calling you in the first place: the amount I submitted online is about MUCHO dollars too much and that kind of cash isn't in my bank account this week. Listen up, you condescending bitch, do you or do you NOT work in customer service?

I had about enough of "Angela" so I started speaking in monologue form about how I have been with this shitty gas company for five years, all the while never having missed one fucking payment. Then I threw in the bit about how I was less than appreciative that I was being threatened with "discipline" when I was taking the right course of action by calling to sort out the issue in the first place. The motherless bag of shit they call "Angela" told me that beginning next month, I would have to send in a check via snail mail to pay my bill - I would no longer have the priveledge of conveniently paying my bill online. This was my "discipline".

OH NO! THE BIG BAD GAS COMPANY HAS ME LOCKED DOWN WITH DISCIPLINARY ACTION INVOLVING ENVELOPES AND STAMPS! MOMMY!

Seriously, I hope someone shits on her doorstep. What a bitch.

Your Kid Is An Asshole

I'm one of those 30-year-olds that doesn't have children. That's right: another human being has not exited my body through my vagina. I am as selfish as they come and reproducing would completely shatter my amazing life where I mostly worry about going to work, making social plans on weekends, and whipping up Paleo/Primal recipes (more about that later). Sometimes I make time to obsess about why Rigatoni's dipping sauce bowl is still on the counter, slowing drying and crusting up, after 72 hours.

Facebook provides me with lots of opportunities to see what it is like to have children, but without having to deal with them directly. Honestly, I think I have learned more from Facebook about raising children than any book, pediatrician, or wrinkly grandma could ever provide. I have learned if you want to be a superstar parent you should: own a camera whose battery never dies, post insanely positive Facebook messages even when you are covered in poop, exhausted, and want to kill everyone, and stage your child in funny adult situations so you and everyone else can be conviced you have not lost your sense of humor. Timmy put down that beer (hee hee)! You have to do these things otherwise everyone will think you are a bad parent. Especially me.

There are massive amounts of photos, parent-groups, quotes, and "funny" child moments that I get to live through practically first-hand. Little Nikki smeared poo all over the bathroom walls and her face was precious (Awww.) Baby Stephen was using a pair of scissors as a lollipop while playing "drums" with the pots and pans (LOL-Giggles). Toddler Timmy put the family dog's tail in the blender while humming "It's Beginning to look a lot like Christmas" (HOW Cuuuuuuuute).

Wouldn't it be hilarious if I typed exactly what I was thinking under each and every one of these toddler "milestones"? Guess what parents? That's about to happen right fucking now. Nikki will proably end up as a sociopath making weekly trips to the therapist, Stephen will more likely than not be in seventh grade for two years, if not three, and Timmy will without a doubt blow something up, someday. Trust me, this is for your own good that you now are aware of this.

 Let's say, for example, you have reproduced. I already know you hate me: it's okay, I'm not upset. You hate me because I "don't understand" and somewhere between breastfeeding and diaper changes, your perspective has gone missing. You most likely, at some point, had an excellent perspective about other peoples' children, but then: you reproduced. Now, what I say is offensive because "all children are miracles". Maybe you'll find that perspective. Maybe you won't. Either way, you can now thank me for telling you, based on your crazy Facebook photos/updates/comments, how your children will really turn out. And also, your kid is an asshole.

You're welcome.

 

Vodka, Sweat, and Tears

A few years ago, I implemmented a pre-cohabitation training program known as Operation Rigatoni. This training program consisted of various household routines such as paying bills in a timely manner, washing dishes after they are used, taking the trash out every weekend, closing cabinet doors that had been opened, placing dirty laundry in a laundry basket, grocery-ing on a weekly basis, and wiping up liquid that had been spilled the same day as said spill. If you ever met the Rigatoni, you would immediately realize that training the Rigatoni to do anything would take massive amounts of vodka, sweat, and tears.

Operation Rigatoni started off pretty successfully with him being eager to help out and make our lives more organized in general. The "honeymoon" portion of our pre-cohabitation days quickly transformed into a downward freefall and I have been battling with the Rigatoni through these cycles of ups and downs ever since. Woah woah woah, you might say: Why are you being such a rageaholic bitch about meaningless household tasks? Why don't you worry about solving world hunger or volunteering at a homeless shelter? Because, goddamnit, that shit isn't nearly as important as the stuff I'm talking about here. I need dirty dishes to be in the dishwasher. I need clean clothes to be hung in the closet. I need mail to stay on the glass table by the front door in the area I have specified it to stay. I need both of the television remotes to remain on the coffee table. I need the second bedroom to not look like the fucking laundry basket barfed Banana Republic button downs and Penn State sweatshirts on every flat surface. I need the trash to be taken out every single weekend whether the bag is full or not. And for god's sake, I need the new toilet paper roll to be placed ON THE TOILET PAPER ROLL HOLDER.

Let's go over some of the excuses Rigatoni has thrown my way over the years: I was tired. I forgot. I didn't know how you wanted me to do it. I wasn't sure if that needed to be done this week. I fell asleep. I didn't have time. I got a call from my mom. I saw that it was late and didn't want to wake you up. It was raining. It was cold. I needed work clothes and only had time to do laundry. I thought I did everything. My stomach was bothering me. I had to pay some bills online. Time out. Let me understand this: You had to "pay some bills online" so you thought you would save a bunch of time by putting mail in the bedroom, on the coffee table, in the kitchen, in the second bedroom, and on the couch? Um, what?? Thank baby Jesus he isn't an attorney, because his defense is typically weak like a vodka sprite from a campus bar.

This morning I'm ready to walk out the door when I see something truly appalling: the couch is being used as a coat rack. I can feel the rage building. My plams start to get tingly and my heart starts to race. OMFG, not this again. My brain screams, Son of a bitch! Goddamnit! What the fuck! Rigatoni sucks! I paced toward the bedroom, flipped on the hallway light, and threatened Rigatoni with bodily harm if this abomination continued. It must have been too much for him to place his coats in the closet that is 4 feet from the couch.

Bride Crossing Part 1

Knowing myself as well as I do, it was best that the amount of time between our "engagement" to the day we said "sure, why not" was exactly three months. There was just enough time for me to plan the essentials, but not enough time to freak the fuck out over ridiculous details that I would only end up kicking myself later for ever caring about. If any more time were given, I surely would have ended up sucker-punching puppies.

A couple days after Rigatoni and I finally set a date, I decided that finding the dress would really make the rest of the planning more organized. It must have been some sort of wedding-planning miracle, because the first dress I tried on fit perfectly and didn't cost one-million dollars. There weren't any idiots with me ooooo-ing and ahhhh-ing at the dress or anyone getting all emotional about an ivory sheet of material - I hate that shit. Being the modern people we are, I put the dress on hold so Rigatoni could come back with me a few hours later to see it before I made the purchase. Dress: check.

The following day, I drove the dress to another location to be altered. When I say "altered", I mean shortened to cocktail length: I wouldn't be caught dead in a ridiculous floor-length gown. Oh god, I just barfed a little bit thinking about that. Here is how the alteration session went:

Chinese Lady: Oh hai, are you JD?
JD: Yes, I called. I have my wedding dress and I need to have it shortened.
Chinese Lady: Okay, you go try on and come out and I shorten for you.
JD: Perfect. *tries on dress*
Chinese Lady: Okay, we make long dress this short. *motioning with pins in mouth*
JD: No no no. Here give me the dress. THIS short. *hikes dress to knee-length*
Chinese Lady: You make long dress short??
JD: Yes! The LONG DRESS needs to be SHORT.
Chinese Lady: You make long dress short.
JD: Yes yes. This LONG DRESS needs to be THIS SHORT. *more motioning to knee-length*
Chinese Lady: Hmm, okay. Long dress be made SHORT.
JD: How long have I been here? It's like hours have passed. I'm starting to sweat. And I'm hungry.
Chinese Lady: What?
JD: Nevermind.

It took all of me not to walk into speeding traffic.

To be continued...

I'm Going To Turn Your Airbag Off

Yeah, I'm at that point. I have a feeling that Christmas does this to me every year, but I find other events to blame it on. Maybe it's the three-story sock pile in the second bedroom. Or the crusty pizza stone on the counter. Or maybe it's the seventeen bags of recycling lounging in the kitchen waiting for one of us to finally drive it three blocks to the recycling station. (More about my OCD later.) You're not going to pull the wool over my eyes this year, Christmas. YOU are to blame.

My husband's name is Rigatoni, by the way. I mean, not really, but on this blog it is. Whatever works, right? Last night I contemplated setting Rigatoni's ugly blue chair on fire after an argument about Christmas presents. Actually, multiple remarks and snarks got the ball rolling, per say, on the argument. The day before, I may have mentioned to him while we were driving that I was going to turn his airbag off. Perhaps that's where it really started...

Either way, the fact is that I vowed one year ago this Christmas that I would stop spending in December like it was going out of style. I would stop using that visa so much that the black strip on the back felt warm at the end of a shopping day. I would stop wrapping eighty presents all marked "To: Rigatoni". I would stop going into holiday debt. The irony behind all of this is that I'm more than aware of the meaning of Christmas.

In the end, Christmas isn't really to blame, but it's hilarious to attribute overreactions/crying/temper tantrums on said holiday because no normal 30-year-old has temper tantrums, right? I'm partially to blame for making it all about the presents year after year and then stopping short last year without a thorough explanation. He is partially to blame for buying me such good shit the last 10 years. Rigatoni and I should talk about this (again) tonight; then I can finish wrapping his six presents. Baby steps.