Tuesday, October 25, 2011

11 and a half things that drive me crazy. and other neat schtuff.

I have many, many lists.  Some I keep to help me focus on things that need to get done in my personal life, or around the house, or TO the house.  Things that I would like to accomplish, or have accomplished.  (secret:  Sometimes I write something on a list that wasn't there before, only so I could cross it off.  so what.)

However, looking down from my lofty perch at 45 years old, (yeah, 45.  Hey, middle age, how ya doing?) I feel that there are some things that I am now qualified to have an educated opinion on.  At least, a crabby old lady opinion on.

The following are things that REALLY DRIVE ME FRIGGIN CRAZY.

  • Hi, Mr. Telemarketer?  You who calls me almost every day at work, pretending to be friends with the president of the company?  Or want to talk to him because you're "working on his driveway and have a quick question." Or keep refusing to give me a company name.  Or who CHANGE their name every single time they call?  You?  You drive me crazy.  And I'll never, ever, ever let you through to him.  I know your voice now, David/Cory.  Suck it.
  • You, in the car ahead of me?  The one who, despite the fact that the light turned green 10 seconds ago, are looking down, and so busy TEXTING that you don't notice the light change?  Yeah, you.  Put the friggin phone down.  Put it down.  I am older, and have more insurance, and I WILL NOT HESITATE TO HIT YOU with my car. 
  • Those of you who try to sneak through the yellow/red light.  You're not sneaking.  You're just breaking the law.  And pissing me off.
  • Stores who don't play fair at the coupon game.  Come on, let me use two coupons for the same thing.  It's not like it is coming out of your own pocket.
  • (but as a side note, thank you to most of the boy check out clerks, who would find it embarrassing to turn down a coupon and therefore let me slide, pretending to be grateful for my old lady wink of thanks.  Thank you anyway.)
  • The concession stand at the movies.  How dare you.  Really?  $8 for a bag of popcorn?  When I can pop up the same amount at home for about a quarter?  And damn you for being so good that I'll pay the stupid $8 and then just bitch about it. 
  • The movie companies who are charging $7.25 to let me in to see a movie.  No wonder so many people try to sneak in.  I, however, am not one of them, nor will I ever be, because I would be the one who gets caught.  Or if not caught, unable to enjoy the movie for the guilt.
  • When some punk got into my Twitter account and sent dirty pictures to people on my twitter list.  It's called the Discovery Channel.  Look it up if you're that bored.  Or at least, do some homework.  If you are smart enough to hack into my computer, apply some of those brains to real life.
  • People who buy vowels on Wheel of Fortune.  I mean, really.  You have the entire puzzle spelled out and you insist on buying a vowel.  Why?  To show the rest of the world what the puzzle is before you solve it?  Serves you right if you land on Bankrupt.  I will WATCH AND LAUGH.
  • Scary movies.  Why do you make me watch you? 
  • The resulting fear of going into my own basement, certain that someone is watching me do laundry/fold/iron from the shadows of the basement.  The fact that I will SPRINT to the stairs, to avoid being caught by whatever it is that is surely only inches from my back.
  • The grasshopper that was about 12 inches from my foot this morning.  You're lucky that I put you outside.  It's only because it was my birthday and I didn't want to ruin it by killing something.
From time to time, I will be adding to this list.  At my advanced age, lots and lots of things make me angry...or if not angry, just put out with the human race in general.

Get a life.  Or make a list of your own.

Monday, October 24, 2011

...and it's Monday again

  • Monday in bullets!!!!
  • saw a coyote in the parking lot at my work.
  • Reminded myself to talk to the people in my building about walking their little dogs outside with Wile E Coyote roaming around.
  • Was surprised at work today by a devious co worker who was able to smuggle in a birthday cake for me and have everyone I work with sign a card, ALL UNBEKNOWNST TO ME...and I'm the most devious of the devious.  I didn't have a clue.  But enjoyed it and the dirty card I got to go with it.
  • Bumped the pizza we were supposed to have Friday to today.  Thanks, Dominos, and more specifically, Katie who apparently made our pizza.
  • Saw Paranormal 3 with girls on Sunday.  Soiled myself only slightly.
  • Probably a good thing, then, that my husband got me a Victoria's Secret gift card for my birthday (along with a mug I was coveting from Starbucks.)
  • Worked out today on treadmill.  Probably burned off the calories I ate in cake.
More later...

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

A Fit of the Vapors

(From a recent Gas Ex commercial) 

Woman to interviewee:  "I see you've graduated at the top of your gas and that you’re flatulent in three languages." 

Her secretary, opening the door: "Excuse me, your son Rip is on line toot." 

Babies and small children do it, and then giggle.

Family members of mine have different ways of doing it...one laughs so hard afterward he gets tears in his eyes.  One points.  One actually lifts up off the chair to enable production.  One claims that she has never, ever done it. 

I do it then blame it on the dog.  For all I know, the dog does it and blames it on me. 

We all know what "it" is, we've all done it.  (Yes, even you.) 

Admit it...tooting is funny.  It IS.  Except when it’s not.

Like when I have a belly dancing class that I really don't want to miss. 

It was a normal Monday, which for me means a) I was late to work, b) I sullenly put in sweaty time on the treadmill and c) I dreaded my belly dancing class that loomed ahead...a 6:15 p.m. punishment for those who forgot to practice any belly dancing moves from the last class. 

I dread it, yet I go because I know that once I'm there, of course, I enjoy myself immensely.  I am transformed into Shakira.  Or at least her slightly plumper alter ego, the one hidden away and still practicing in Mexico. 

This past Monday was particularly awful for me, in that I pumped up the fiber a little that day.  Ok, a lot.  Oatmeal.  Fiber bar.  Carrot sticks.  Perhaps an apple or two.  It went along with that whole "It's a new week, better do well on the diet." mentality. 

However, these foods, I have found out in the worst way, are not very shimmy friendly.  In fact, even the drive home from work that day before class was a downright uncomfortable...when all my tummy wanted me to do was lay down flat somewhere and "relieve the pressure." 

I couldn't.  I have half hour between getting home and leaving.  No time.   

I had some coffee the moment I got home, hoping the caffeine would act like a type of Drano, getting to the root of the problem quickly so that the rapidly expanding, painful belly I had would perhaps calm itself down within the half hour before class. 

It didn't work.  I moved carefully, getting dressed for class in loose clothing, hoping I'd feel better once there. 

First order of business in class is the stretching exercises.  Down and to the riiiigggghhhttt!! Each stretch we were asked to perform was a test of muscles I didn't know I had, frantically working together to prevent any extraneous noises.  Our class is three people on a busy night and very, very quiet.  Any disturbance would be immediately heard.  I was in agony yet absurdly proud of myself for not giving in.  I wonder if not giving in will affect me later in my old age. 

Our stretching torture thankfully ended, but now a new chapter in poot prevention was about to take place.  The battle had begun in earnest.  I wasn't only taking a belly dancing class at this point; I was going to war. 

I tied my coin belt on, like a soldier going to war, over a tummy that I had given up trying to suck in.  If someone had tapped it with a ball peen hammer it would have poinged like a drum. 

You might be asking yourself at this point, why didn't you just excuse yourself and leave early, stupid?    

Because leaving early would mean having to explain why.  It was not an option.  Plus, there was only a little class time left.  Surely I would be ok.

We were asked to practice an "entrance", which is when a belly dancer enters a room where she will perform (which for the record I will never, ever, ever do publicly).  She throws her head back confidently, plasters on a smile, shoulders/back/chest back and out, and prances into the room on the balls of her feet, a veil-covered, shimmying, hip-rolling belly dancing feast for the eyes about to give you the SHOW OF YOUR LIFE. 

If at a party I were to do this type of entrance, people would say, "Why, there's Chris.  I didn't know she was coming.  I think she stepped on a tack.  She better move off stage before the belly dancer gets here." 

My stomach is feeling worse and worse, but now there's only five minutes left.   I tell myself to suck it up.

The two other class members wait for the correct count of the music and one by one, practice their entrance while I formulate a reason why I  can’t do mine, why I need to leave.

Backing away slowly, I tell my instructor, "You know, I really have to get going now."  I can barely keep the desperation out of my voice.

She starts the music up for my turn and levels a steely look my way.  "This music is 24 seconds long.  You can stay for another 24 seconds."   

I do it. 

Later, I don't remember exactly how my turn went.  I remember some type of arms-in-the-air-prancing, and her telling me not to look at the floor next time.  I'm not sure if she said anything else because there was a haze over my vision and a loud clanging in my ears.   

Much later, at home, I made some adjustments to my grocery list, crossing out anything that had fiber in it.   

And lucky for me, our dog laid on the floor next to me the entire time.