humor

10 Reasons Why Its Funner To Be a Kid at the Zoo

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For an animal lover and avid people-watcher, a visit to the zoo never gets old, no matter your age. However at times I find it far more entertaining to watch the children at the zoo, rather than the animals…

For example: I once witnessed a little girl throw an AMAZING tantrum (screaming, wailing, arms flailing… the whole bit) all the way from the Northern Trek down to the African Savanna… and no one even blinked. I have to say, I envied her a little. I mean, let’s be honest people… sometimes it WOULD be nice for it to be OK if you had a total and complete MELT-DOWN like that in front of everyone. No questions asked.

But this little red-faced, siren-sounding, tantrum-throwing child-coming-down-from-an-extreme-sugar-high not only entertained me, she inspired me. My envy of her led me to think of some other reasons why it is WAY better to be a kid at the zoo than it is to be an adult. So here goes…

1. You get to be chauffeured around everywhere in a plush, shaded stroller or fun little red wagon.

2. You can dress up like the animals and people think it’s cute. No one thinks it is “weird” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “wacky” or “deranged.”

3. Everyone moves out of YOUR way so that you can have the best view of the monkeys throwing poo at one another.

4. You will not be made fun of or teased for spilling ketchup and mustard down the front of your shirt and walking around all day sportin’ a stain on your chest.

5. When you talk to the animals no one thinks it is “strange” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “questionable” or “sad.”

6. It’s totally acceptable and not “dirty” to ask questions like: “What is that kangaroo doing to that OTHER kangaroo?”

7. No one yells: “Hey!” or “Get down from there!” or “You’re too heavy!” or “You’ll break it!” if you climb up and sit on the railing to get a better look at the tortoises.

8. If you make random animal noises while standing in line for the bathroom or concessions no one thinks it is “odd” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “curious” or “psycho.”

9. You can be covered in cotton-candy, having the bestest, stickiest, finger-lickingest time of your life and no one looks at you funny. You do NOT have to carry your cotton-candy home in a concealed plastic bag and secretly devour it at 10 p.m. on the couch in your living room, sitting next to your cat while watching re-runs of Seinfeld… with the blinds drawn.

10. And finally… as previously mentioned… You can throw an elephant-sized fit whenever, wherever and whyever you want to and no one thinks it is “scary” or “just-trying-to-get-attention” or “immature” or “narcissistic.”

Mom Jeans? Never.

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“Tennis shoes?” she asked, disgusted and horrified. “But I feel so old when I wear tennis shoes with shorts. Sneakers look so much cuter with flared jeans.”

“Or bootcut… Bootcut’s OK…” I countered anxiously while trying to reassure the both of us. “… just so long as they’re NOT mom jeans! The key at our age is knowing how to wear tennis shoes, shorts and a trendy fitted tee without looking like we’re trying to be 22 OR one of those hapless, hopeless middle-aged women who wear white Reebok hi-tops and mom jeans with their shirts tucked in!” 

How do we do that?

And that, my friends, is the million-dollar, 30-something question. As the number of candles on our cake creeps ever upward… how do we look attractive and stylish while at the same time age appropriate? And better yet… what the hell IS age appropriate for a woman in her mid-thirties? You know, that time in your life where you’re still in decent shape and you feel young enough to wear the latest trends yet there is this growing awareness that you are no longer 22.

It’s a real dilemma.

My best friend Jan and I are getting together this weekend for the first Ohio State football game of the season. And we are really excited about it. In case you don’t already know, OSU football is a big damn deal around here. However, as someone who works on a college campus—surrounded by young, attractive co-eds whose wrinkle-free parts are still squarely north of the equator—I know what we’re in for at the game this weekend…

… Lots and LOTS of tan, tight, smooth, lean, I-haven’t-a-care-in-the-world 18 to 22 year old girls strutting around in miniature-everything clothing like they’re all auditioning to become the next Football Wives or future Housewives of Franklin County. And then there will be Jan and me… trying desperately to look young and attractive in our (hopefully) adorable-but-age-appropriate attire, firmly in denial about the fact that not that long ago… We were those girls.

Not that she or I need to know this now—because she’s married and I’m in a relationship—but just out of curiosity… Where exactly are you on the meat-market-food-chain when you’re between a rockin-hot college bod and middle-age mom jeans?

God help me if I ever wind up in a pair of acid-washed, high-waisted, tapered-leg denim dungarees! I will NEVER be that woman… the one in the mom jeans… NEVER!! In fact, if you ever see me sporting a pair of them, I give you full permission to rip them from my body during a full-fledged fashion intervention. And Jan does too.

Go Bucks.

Single White Female Seeks…

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Girlfriends. That’s right I said girlfriends. I am searching for a few good female friends… though I’d settle for just one. I have actually been considering taking out an ad and conducting interviews. I’m not searching for the virtual kind of friends with whom I can “chat” electronically across the miles about all sorts of random topics. Those are wonderful, please don’t get me wrong.

I realize that many of you reading this right now are those sorts of “friends” to me. But today I am specifically referring to the real-life-flesh-and-blood-in-your-physical-company kind of friends.

… Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, Chandler, Ross and Joey … Jerry, George, Kramer and Elaine … Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha … And to be fair to the bros out there … Vince, “E”, Ari, Drama and Turtle …

There’s a simple reason why these famous “friends” from popular culture have worked their way into our living rooms and ultimately our hearts over the years. We all want what they appear to have. They have a bond and a closeness that cannot be denied. Someone is always there to bail you out, cheer you up, calm you down or stay in with you and share a bottle of wine.

Some people are fortunate enough to have friends like that in real life. But sadly, for me, I am not one of those people. Make no mistake. I have some amazing friends with whom I have stayed in touch over the years, but we no longer live in the same state, let alone the same city. And the ones who do live in close proximity… well, it seems we’re all too busy with our own little lives to make the time to nurture a friendship. And I am equally as guilty as anyone else when it comes to this.

But now, at 36, I am wishing for that close friend or friends with whom I can share anything. ANYTHING. The kind of friend…

  • who would tell me what a jerk he is (even if he isn’t) because it is what I need to hear in that moment.
  • I have a standing date with on Monday nights to watch The Big C, Nurse Jackie or The United States of Tara.
  • who would tell me the harsh truth no matter how hard it is to hear.
  • who would NOT post compromising, reputation-altering or career-threatening photos or videos of me on Facebook or YouTube (no matter how great their viral potential may actually be).
  • who lived nearby and would show up at 3 a.m. if I think my cat is dying (or just hacking up a giant hairball).
  • who would help me hide a body if necessary (just sayin’).

Any interested party, living within a 15-mile radius and fitting this description please feel free to submit an application to yours truly.

Willingness to share shoes, accessories and clothing a plus. Co-dependant, jealousy-prone, psychopathic, passive-aggressive narcissists need not apply.

No Trespassing or “Dueling Banjos”

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My dad tells me I watch way too many movies. And maybe he is right about that. Plus, I also have a pretty active imagination… But seriously, it did feel like a scene straight out of “Deliverance” at times. The woods were thick in every direction, the roads narrow and winding and the hillsides were extremely steep. Several of the houses and driveways were completely overgrown with weeds, and even though I was only a few miles from town… it felt remote enough that I was fairly certain no one would ever hear me scream.

<cue “Dueling Banjos”>

At one point I passed a boy driving a 4-wheeler, dressed in so much camouflage I almost didn’t see him. He had at least 2 cross-bows with him and as our paths crossed, he just GLARED at me. Come to think of it, everyone that I passed glared at me. Maybe because they knew I didn’t belong. A girl dressed in church clothes and heels, driving a silver Pontiac with the sunroof open and the radio cranked to Billy Joel, doesn’t exactly BLEND in with camo, ammo, tractors, 4-wheel-drive pick-up trucks and 3-legged dogs with one eye named “Lucky.”

But I was on a mission. There’s probably only one, maybe two weeks left of bright sunshine and glorious, leafy, green trees before everything drops to the ground, surrendering to winter. Full of determination and with the camera in tow, I headed out to the country. I was driving on some back roads to find the most beautiful photo ops. And the whole taking-my-life-into-my-own-hands-thing aside… I did manage to get some beautiful shots!

When I was satisfied that I had gotten all of the best pictures I could without my family having to send out a search party, I headed for home. On my way home I spotted these full, verdant trees along the edge of some water and knew that I HAD to get a shot of this. But I couldn’t just stop on the road because any on-coming traffic would not be able to see me. So I looked around for a place to park the car and walk to the right spot in which to shoot the picture. I noticed a little white house that looked harmless enough, and conveniently there was a place to park at the edge of the property, without blocking the driveway. It was technically on their property, and there was a “NO TRESPASSING” sign posted right beside where I parked… But I really didn’t think they would mind. Plus, I’d be so quick about it that they might never even know I was there.

I took my photos and began walking back to the car and was about to climb in when this dog comes out of nowhere and charges toward me barking wildly. Here we go. This is it. I’m in trouble. Either they’ve called the police, who will be here in no time to arrest me for trespassing, or I’m gonna end up in these people’s freezer. I cringe as the dog gets closer… prepared for the mauling I was sure was imminent. My mind flashing forward to the battery of rabies shots I was going to receive if I survived.

Just as the dog reaches me, I see the owner. It’s an older lady, but not the just-got-back-from-church-and-baking-a-pie kind of older lady. No this lady was dressed in jeans and flannel and I honestly couldn’t get a read on her or her dog right away. Instead of fleeing (I’d never outrun the dog) I decided to face my fate head on. I said hello to her and the dog magically dropped to a seated position at my feet. Whew! Rabies crisis averted. She said hello but was definitely not there to make small talk. She’d come to check out the trespasser who’d had the nerve to park on her property. I could tell by the way she was looking at me that she was sizing me up (probably determining whether or not they had room for me in the fridge). And I also noticed that she walked with a bit of a limp. Oh for crying out loud! This was SO a scene from a movie: Nice, innocent girl slaughtered by old, limping, flannel-clad woman in Backwoods House of Horrors.

I introduced myself and explained what I was doing, figuring it sounded decent enough. I mean it wasn’t as if I was out there mutilating squirrels and other small woodland creatures… I was taking nature pictures. What could be more harmless than that? She asked if the photos were “just for me” and I said that they were. I explained how I grew up near there and had been away for years and was still quite taken with the beauty of this time of year. It was then that she said: “I have some lovely trees in my backyard, if you would like to see them. You’re welcome to photograph those.”

Sure, sure… I thought… this was her ploy to lure to me deeper onto her property, and once I was out of public sight in her “backyard,” the real nightmare would begin. But I knew that the polite thing to do was to follow her. After all, I DID trespass and now she was asking me to see her backyard… the least I could do was indulge her. Although I WAS certain that her husband or son would be waiting for me behind the house with a chainsaw.

As I followed her and her dog, I grew a bit more nervous when I noticed that we would have to walk through a little corridor between the house and the shed. The passageway was draped with a tarp and had only slits in the front and back in order to pass in and out. Oh yeah… I’m definitely a goner. However, when I tentatively pulled back the edge of the tarp and peered inside, I saw that the enclosed space was not full of bloody limbs from previous victims… but fresh, garden-grown produce!! All sizes and colors of zucchini and tomatoes with prices marked on them. She was not a homicidal maniac! This woman was just a produce-peddler! For the second time in 5 minutes relief washed over me. I was not going to meet with some horrible demise in the backyard of this sweet old woman’s home.

The view of the woods from her backyard was gorgeous, and she told me how she’s been sitting at her breakfast table every day watching the leaves transform. Her and her dog… Millie. Harmless little Millie… the sweet attack dog who was now licking my hands while I stroked her fur. I took some photographs of the view AND the fresh veggies and talked with her a little while before getting back in the car and driving away. She told me I was welcome to come back anytime to visit or photograph her property. I could park my car on her land and take as many pictures as I’d like. I waved good-bye to both her and Millie as I drove toward civilization.

Perhaps I do watch too many movies… but real life or fiction… you still never know how the story is going to end. Luckily, this one ended happily-ever-after.

<banjo music fades>

Secret Single Behavior

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While not everyone is a Sex in the City fan, I would venture to guess that everyone has some secret practices or behaviors that they would just assume keep that way. I have been a fan of the show for years and have seen every episode at least 3 times. But one of my favorites is the one where Carrie is adjusting to a new life living with Aidan, her boyfriend who has just moved in…

“Carrie lamented to the girls about the loss of her “secret single behavior,” which for her includes eating a stack of saltines with grape jelly while standing up in the kitchen reading fashion magazines. Miranda admitted, “I like to put Vaseline on my hands and stick them in those Borghese conditioning gloves while watching infomercials.”

I have lived alone for 6 years now and am currently in a long-distance relationship. Therefore, much of my weekly interaction with “the man” is via phone or Skype. The other night while on the phone with him we began talking about the things we do all by ourselves when no one is around. In other words … our secret, single behavior (SSB).

I realize that by sharing this with all of you, it will no longer remain “secret,” but that’s OK. I’ll still keep the really odd or creepy ones to myself. I feel like sharing mainly because I am fascinated by human behavior and this inquiring mind wants to know what your SSB is. You know… the old I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours kind of thing.

Here are a few of mine:

When no one is around, I like to…

  • mindlessly watch reruns of Seinfeld and Friends (that I have seen a thousand times already) while reciting the dialogue in tandem with the actors. Verbatim.
  • bake fresh cinnamon rolls and drink mugs of warm coffee while watching indy films and staying in my pajamas for as long as possible on Saturdays. Even if it is mid-June and 75 degrees and sunny.
  • eat microwave caramel corn for dinner.
  • literally lie on the floor playing cat and mouse with Stan, my cat. Obviously, I am the mouse.
  • curl up with a heating pad when I don’t have cramps. Even if it is mid-June and 75 degrees and sunny.
  • read 3-months worth of horoscopes from my Glamour magazines while studying the calendar.
Now that I’ve shown you mine, will you please show me yours? Add to this list in the Comments section and either make me feel like I’m more normal than I suspect or share with all of us just how weird you are.

Red Flags

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Flipping through some old journal entries, I was reminded of a horrifying misadventure that took place a few years ago. The mere recollection of it still sends shivers down my spine… as I’m pretty sure that I spent the better part of the following year trying to recover from it. In an attempt to exercise the demons that still haunt me after this dreaded event AND perhaps provide you readers with a few laughs… I’ve chosen to share it.

I am aware that many of you have (at one time or another) experienced a similar horror. If so, my heart goes out to you. Hopefully yours wasn’t as bad as mine, and if it was… I hope you’ve made a full recovery, or you are actively seeking help. Perhaps yours was worse, or perhaps—and I understand that this is rather uncommon—your experience was quite positive and may have even had a happy ending.

The event that I am referring to is the single person’s worst nightmare: The Dreaded Blind Date.

Up until the fateful night, I had never been on one of these. Since my divorce I have been set up a time or two, but even then, I always had the good fortune of meeting the person in a nice, neutral setting along with the setter-uppers beforehand. I’m not even sure if I ever would have gone on a blind date, had I not been TRICKED into it. That’s right, my friends, I said tricked. And that, should have been the FIRST of MANY red flags that I would soon see…

Rather than tell you the whole story of the ill-fated evening, I thought it best just to hit the highlights by chronologically listing the events of the date in the order in which the “Red Flags” appeared.

Red Flag #1 – You are TRICKED into this rendezvous by an ornery neighbor who has a penchant for lying.

Red Flag #2 – Your “date” is good-looking, has two college degrees, a great-paying job, has custom built his own home in a fancy sub-division, drives an expensive, tricked-out SUV, is 38 years old… and STILL SINGLE.

Red Flag #3 – Aforementioned date (let’s call him Max) decides that instead of meeting at a nice restaurant in a nearby metropolitan area (from which there are many to choose), you should meet up at a BAR in the middle of nowhere. And I mean cornfield-and-cattle-middle-of-nowhere.

Red Flag #4 – After meeting “Max” for the first time at said bar-in-the-middle-of-nowhere, he spends more time talking to the regulars (who he claims NOT to know) than he does to you.

Red Flag #5 – Of all the empty tables in the place, Max chooses the only one that has a severe downward SLOPE, making everything on the table slide toward the floor, hence causing you to chase after your food and beverages the entire night.

Red Flag #6 – When Max DOES finally sit down and talk to you, he cannot seem to talk about anything other than the fact that he was the quarterback of the football team and basketball team captain in HIGH-SCHOOL!

Red Flag #7 – Max reveals to you that he is somewhat of a “neat freak” who feels compelled to MOP his GARAGE floor every single night so that he’ll never get his socks dirty should he decide to venture out there without his shoes on. Every NIGHT. Freak.

Red Flag #8 – Max all of the sudden takes a notion to just get up, LEAVE the table and WALK away without ever saying a word or excusing himself.

Red Flag #9 – Max orders another beer, and another beer, and another beer (you get the idea) and finds it amusing to keep SLIDING the bottles DOWN the table—due to the previously noted slope—WHILE you are speaking.

Red Flag #10 – As multiple beers begin to take effect; Max begins referring to himself in the 3rd person. Examples: “Max liked his dinner” and “Max is going to have another beer” and “Max needs to go to the bathroom”… Seriously people, I am not making this shit up… he actually did this. All of it.

Red Flag #11 – As additional multiple beers begin to take effect; Max now refers to himself as “Uncle Max.” Examples: “Uncle Max is tired” or “Uncle Max wants to know if you’re having a good time” or “Uncle Max wishes he didn’t have to work tomorrow.”

Red Flag #12 – After a brief inquiry, it is revealed that, in fact, “Uncle Max” has no nieces or nephews. That’s right. You can figure that one out on your own because I’m still trying.

Red Flag #13 – At the merciful conclusion of the date, Uncle Max insists on driving home while extremely intoxicated, and actually PEELS OUT of the parking lot after walking you to your car… never asking if you know your way home or feel comfortable driving yourself out of this “cornfield-and-cattle-middle-of-nowhere” and back to civilization.

Of course, I never heard from OR called Uncle Max again after that Terrible-I’m-Going-To-Need-Therapy-If-I’m-Ever-Going-to-Date-Again-Evening. However… the universe, being as ironic (and sometimes) benevolent as it is, gave me the opportunity to meet not one, but TWO of Uncle Max’s ex-girlfriends about a year later. And I have since learned that he has a reputation in at least 4 counties for being quote: “A little-off-his-rocker” and “A total whack-job” as well as “Unable to make a commitment” AND “A Recovering alcoholic”—who oddly enough, still gets drunk on a regular basis.

Needless to say, I have learned from my terrible experience that one should proceed with EXTREME CAUTION when going into a blind-date situation. Because unfortunately, the crazy ones don’t show up surrounded by yellow caution tape, bright orange cones or flashing red lights.

Since the whole dreadful-date-night-debacle, I have been seeing someone very special (in addition to my therapist). He is a wonderful guy and my best friend. He is also the most grounded, kind, thoughtful and selfless man I have ever been in a relationship with. So apparently the “good ones” ARE out there… even if they can be a little tough to spot.

The Mysteriously Missing Section in the Cosmetics Department

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There is a section missing in the skin care aisle of all cosmetics departments. I’m serious. Check it out next time you are in one. It goes straight from the teenage pimple creams, gels, cleansers, exfoliators, toners and masks right to the anti-aging serums, lifting lotions, wrinkle creams, eye illuminators and lip plumpers.

During a recent trip to the drug store, on a quest to find something that would clear up my skin, yet NOT suck out every ounce of moisture—thus causing my face to look and feel like an old catcher’s mit before I’m 40—I discovered this suspiciously absent section.

WHERE I ask, is the section for the women in between puberty and menopause? Are you with me on this, people? Because many of you are here with me now, or you remember having been here, or you will one day GET here. You’re barely beginning to see some laugh lines and little “chick’s feet” (not yet full-blown crow’s feet) yet you still break out once a month like you did back in high school. Now I ask… What is up with that?! I thought we outgrew acne and blemishes? But no… apparently these 2 delightful skin conditions are going to OVERLAP. Wrinkles PLUS acne. Score.

So I ask you, skin-care manufacturers, where are the products for me and my pals deeply submerged in the throes of the Thrisis?

Do cosmetic manufacturers think women go suddenly from sweet sixteen to senior? Because it sure looks like they do by simply cruising down the aisle. Their marketing message initially goes a little something like this: “Hey, look at you! You’re a teenager! You’re skin is disgusting! You suck. Use our product and you will have beautifully-flawless skin just like the pre-pubescent 11-year-old girl in this airbrushed photo.”

Then you walk a few paces, and the message totally changes. It goes a little something like THIS: “What-up Grams! You’re a hag! You have wrinkles, crater-sized pores, dark circles under your eyes, age spots, sagging lids and thin lips. You suck. Use our product and you will have beautifully, wrinkle-free, airbrushed skin just like the surgically-altered-mature-woman in this doctored photo.”

So I beg of you Roc, Olay, Garnier, Biore, Mary Kay, Noxema, Neutrogena, Clearasil, Clean & Clear and Oxy… please get together and create something for us “Skinbetweeners,” because right now, as it stands… you are the ones who suck.

Get It In Writing

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“If you love a thought, set it free. If it comes back to you… It was meant to be.”

There’s more to this quote but I don’t remember what it is.

It has begun. Forgetfulness. I am only 36 years old and I am asking myself… how can this BE?! Of course, if someone has told me the answer, I already forget what it was so who cares. The point is, it is happening… whether I like it or not.

I used to make fun of my parents for their uncanny ability to “misplace thoughts.” Or laugh hysterically at my mom while she furiously searched for her reading glasses when they were right on top of her head. But I’m NOT laughing anymore.

I am amazed at my relatively new ability to think of something while in one room and then completely forget what the hell it was by the time I get to the other room to take care of it. I will literally walk into the kitchen and NOT remember WHY I am there.

I would love to think that this is happening because my head is SO FULL of valuable information, ideas, facts and figures, but alas, I know that it is not due to a brain that is bursting with priceless knowledge. It is because I am (gulp) getting OLDER.

Now, I CAN still remember stuff. If I write it down. That is why I write everything down. I keep notepads, pens and slips of paper tucked away in every nook and cranny of my house like an 85-year-old. For example, if I am in the bathroom and notice that I’m running low on toilet paper or lotion or soap… I do not trust my brain to remember this. So I write it down then and there—in the bathroom—even if I am dripping wet from the shower and wrapped in a towel.

I also write everything down at the office. Especially the office. Where there are frequently impromptu meetings, shortened deadlines and frantic phone calls… and I do NOT want to be the one to drop the ball simply because I FORGOT something critical that someone told me while I was getting my morning coffee.

I take some serious heat for my constant note taking from another woman that I work with. She is 23. Need I say more? I remind her that MY mind was as sharp as a tack when I was 23 too. I guess this is payback for making fun of my parents when their “forgetfulness” started to set in.

Oh well, I have no choice but to accept this as another reality of The Thrisis, and move on. But to little miss Twenty-Three and her flypaper memory I say: Watch out… I am what you have to look forward to. And when I retire, I will hereby bequeath to you my sharpie and extensive collection of multi-colored Post-Its.

A Life of Convenience?

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I bit the head off of the girl at the Circle K convenience store yesterday morning. OK, I didn’t bite it completely OFF… but I’m not gonna lie… I did leave a mark. In all seriousness, I snapped because she didn’t have Cherry Pop Tarts AND she couldn’t do a cash-back transaction at her register, which would have enabled me to purchase future Cherry Pop Tarts out of a vending machine on campus.

Upon realizing what I’d done in showing her my “dark side,” I immediately and profusely apologized to her and said that I was having a terrible, horrible, awful, no good, very bad day and it was barely 8 a.m. And then I said that I hoped that SHE had a great day today (extra emphasis on GREAT)… and I smiled just a bit too wide to show her HOW MUCH I meant it.

I settled on some strawberry pop-tarts instead and drove to work like Andretti on crack. As I drove, I began pondering the potential speed bumps in the life of the Convenience Store Clerk (bad pun intended). Please understand, I mean no disrespect to anyone who currently is or has been a convenience store clerk. Nor do I mean to offend anyone who knows or loves a convenience store clerk. I am merely presenting my take on why I think THIS particular profession would be a toughie.

  • Creatures of the Night – You most likely work odd hours and therefore interact with odd people. Aside from shift-workers, I personally don’t want to know who is roaming about at 4 a.m. in desperate search of a Twinkie, a Ho-Ho or a slushie… nor do I want to know why.
  • Twinkies and Ho-Ho’s – You deal largely with people who either ARE Twinkies and Ho-Ho’s or whose diets consist largely thereof.
  • Midnight Heist  – You probably live in consistent fear of the “hold-up” for the “less than $50” you carry in your drawer. Anyone else ever notice the 7-foot, vertical rulers framing the entrance and exit doors and how the place is lousy with not-so-cleverly-hidden cameras?
  • Lotto Lady – You have to put up with the daily blue-haired ladies who insist upon scratching their scratch-offs AT the counter (despite the ever-growing line of impatient customers chomping at the bit behind them) and if they win even one freakin’ dollar, they will use it to buy yet another scratch-off from you and continue standing there while they scratch that one too. This cycle could continue indefinitely perhaps taking up the better part of an afternoon.
  • The Conversationalist – Every store has at least one of these losers who are clearly one-can-shy-of-a-six-pack and they love, LOVE, LOVE to hang around and talk to you… about everything. And where can you go? Nowhere. Even though you are clearly NOT interested OR listening, they’ll talk about the weather… about their sister spending 2 hours straightening her hair every morning…  about their mother’s psycho ex-boyfiend and a detailed account on why he belongs in prison… about the government’s conspiracy to monitor our every move through jars of Jif peanut butter… and about Stella—their goldfish—and her third nipple.
  • Road Warriors – If your store happens to be attached to a gas station (which they often are) you inevitably deal with a vast amount of misguided wrath over the current price of gasoline.
  • Tobacco and Booze Police – Anytime after 2 p.m., on top of doing your regular work, you must be hyper-vigilant in your efforts to keep illegal substances out of the backpacks, pockets and coats of minors and/or would-be thugs.
  • Breakfast of Champions – Each morning there is a decent possibility that you will be greeted by an angry, I-hate-mornings and the-world-revolves-around-me bitch, running late for work, who throws a fit when you run out of cherry pop-tarts.

The Woman Inside My Phone

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I hate the woman who lives in my phone. You most likely know her, as she is probably the same one that lives in YOUR phone. She tells you what to do and often her instructions are wrong. She misunderstands your voice and touch commands constantly and sometimes cuts you off when you’re in the middle of leaving a message. Like she thinks she knows when I’m done talking? Who the hell does she think she is?

She is also an easy target for the role of scapegoat whenever my phone pisses me off for any reason. If I have a bad signal, no signal, bad reception (whether on my end or the other person’s), a low battery or God forbid—a dropped call—it is all her fault. And I tell her so. Usually really loudly. And my hatred for her grows.

My drive home from work is riddled with shitty and spotty cell reception. I’ll be in the middle of a conversation and… GONE. The call has ended. Abruptly. And usually at a really crucial or pivotal point too. There are at least 4 places that I KNOW a call will drop. I can predict with almost 95% accuracy when this will happen but for some reason that doesn’t stop me from trying to communicate with people. If I have something to say, dammit, I am going to say it! Even if it means calling back 50 times and getting dropped 49 of those times.

While I am driving—for safety sake—I do not wish to use the keypad (I’m such a good and conscientious driver) so I utilize the voice-command feature. Well, I should say that it is a safety measure for myself and the other drivers maybe… but for HER… not so much. She never gets the commands right. For example, I will clearly say: “Call Jan.” And she will reply: “Did you say: Call Ham?” <pause> “Did you say: Call Jam?” <pause> … my anger is building … “Did you say: Call Spam?” <pause> … I’m gonna lose it … “Did you say: Call Dan?”  And I snap. First of all bitch, I don’t have any friends named after food and I don’t even know anyone named Dan. To which she sweetly replies: “Please try again.”  Then she hangs up on me.

That’s when I let loose with a blue streak that could rival any sailor.

As a result of the terrible reception combined by her pure inability to UNDERSTAND ANYTHING THAT I SAAAAY… I cannot even impart to you the abuse this woman inside my phone has had to endure. Let me put it this way… If she were a real person, I’d be in prison by now.

I have been known to scream until I’ve lost my voice while raging at her. I have repeatedly smacked and poked her so HARD that her touch screen flashes all kinds of wild colors. I have thrown her. Also repeatedly. It is a miracle I have not tossed her out the sunroof and into a cornfield by now. Sometimes, after I have exhausted myself from violently cursing at her, I just leave her lying on the floorboard of my car—wherever she last landed—while the blind spots caused by my stroke-level blood pressure clear from my field of vision. I take a few deep breaths, loosen my white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, crank up the radio and yell at her: “We’ll try again later. After I no longer want to rip out your circuitry!”