My Horrible Evening At Pukeplantation

Pukeplantation

Am I overwhelming you most faithful blog followers with too many posts? This is something like the fourth in two days, I’ve just really had a lot to say these past few days. I promise, I’ll slow down (maybe).

Went to dinner this evening. Just me and Pookies, which meant that it ended up being somewhere kid-friendly. I wasn’t in the mood for Denny’s or Panera Bread, though; and fast food was of course out of the question. So Souplantation it was.

Now I do typically enjoy Souplantation. Typically. We used to live in the heart of Los Angeles and had a really nice one. One that had everything, plus amazing customer service. Their space was bigger than any restaurant I had ever been to. And it was walking distance from our apartment – just awesome.

The Souplantation out here is a far cry from that; although it was still decent up until recently. In the last few months, though, it’s become a little ghetto. Or perhaps more accurately, it’s become proof that the town in which we live is going downhill. More white trash. A lot people running into each other and acting like total pigs. Basically the entire swath of the state of nature, all packed into one tiny restaurant with a 210 person capacity.

Sad to say, today was the last time we will ever go to that Souplantation. By the time you get through our experience, hopefully you will support my decision.

4:45 pm

We cruise into the Souplantation parking lot. It looks like the dinner rush is starting to get there a little early, but then again it shares the parking lot with Ross – dress for less – so maybe it’s just overflow from early high school prom shoppers.

4:50 pm

Finally inside, we are beginning to make our way through the line. A family of four has come in behind us. The husband is holding a baby that looks like it hasn’t been bathed. Ever. The husband begins sneezing. I start to push Pookies a little quicker down the salad bar. I notice the fourth in their group is a teenager. He has blue hair, in a flock of seagulls cut. He has handcuffs hanging from his belt buckle. Maybe he’s just broken out of jail. He starts sneezing too.

5:00 pm

I’ve paid and we’ve found a booth as far away from the rest of the people that are already seated. Kids are screaming and running around. The family of four sit near us shortly afterwards.

5:05 pm

I go to get drinks. The drink bar is in complete view of the table, so I go alone. The kid with the blue flock of seagulls hair cut walks past our table, and it looks like he has said something. I rush back to the table.

5:15 pm

Finishing up the salad and it’s starting to get packed. People are sneezing, coughing, belching, and ripping ass everywhere. The woman sitting at the table next to us actually lifted her ass to blow one – I kid you faithful blog followers not. You know I’m not a fan of ass jokes, this is really happening.

I decide we are not at Souplantation. We are at Pukeplantation. Time to get some Pukeplantation soup.

5:18 pm

I’m waiting at the soup bar to get the chicken and alphabet soup. There is a rather portly man in a hooded sweatshirt and khaki shorts filling four bowls. I assume he is getting them for multiple people. Or that he really likes the soup. In spite of all the belching and burping and blowing and puking and sneezing and snotting, I will admit – that soup is tasty. He is taking forever though, so people are getting in line behind me, and I inch a little closer. He turns around and rips a belch so loud, so ferocious, that I swear I see his lips quiver. Like Barney on The Simpsons. Or worse.

As I’m dishing up the soup, I realize he’s belched a piece of chewed food onto my sweater.

5:25 pm

I have had about enough of this place. Having totally lost my appetite wiping the stranger’s food off my sweater, I sit and wait quietly. The lady sitting next to us rips another one. Her husband tells stories about “Rod in seasonal” grabbing his ass. He’s wearing a Home Depot polo shirt. I assume he works at the Home Depot in the same shopping complex. I make a mental note never to go this Pukeplantation or that Rip Ass-Grab Butt Depot ever again. I consider running to my car and speeding home to drink heavily and forget about this place.

But the deal with Pukeplantation is that dessert is always a given. Fat free frozen yogurt is a healthy way to dessert anyway. I sprint to the yogurt machine so that we can leave soon.

5:32 pm

There are four exits from this particular Pukeplantation. The one closest to us is in the back of the building and we are parked in the front, but rather than wade our way through the belches and boogers of this rancid state of hillbilly nature, we walk out the back door and just traipse around the entire building to get to my car.

While walking I am informed of what transpired when the blue haired flock of seagulls, jail break walked past our booth while I was getting our drinks. As he walked by, with his handcuffs clanging against his leg, he leaned over and said “hey … your mom’s hot …”

From there we ran to my Jeep.

We will not be returning to that place. Ever. Again. Would you? It concerns me that so many of these experiences are cropping up more and more around my community. Is it just that I’m hanging out in the wrong places? Or is pigslob hillbilly becoming the status quo?

Destroying Your Carpool: A Tutorial

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Be it a carpool for work, extra-curriculars with the kids, vacations, school – you name it, there are a lot of reasons people carpool. If everyone in the carpool is on the same page, it’s great. But for every carpooling success story out there on the Internet, there are about ten times that in horror stories. It’s as if these people are actually hellbent on destroying their carpool from the start; or, they just don’t care about anyone but themselves.

I’ve mentioned a few times, both in recent blog posts and on my blog’s Facebook page, that my husband has been in a carpool from hell for a little over a month now. What made the situation that much worse was that my husband just thought it was the next best thing to my vagina and a bowl of pistachio-flavored ice cream. The woman he was carpooling with was in the exact, same sector of the film industry as him, so he just lapped that shit up like a lost puppy dog wandering the streets in search of anything. I imagine that every day they sat there and just blew their editorial, industry bullshit up each other’s assholes the whole way to and from work (well, that is when they actually carpooled on the days they were supposed to carpool). I fully believe at this point that were that woman single, I would have had something to worry about. Maybe I still did (or do). That is the depth to which Poor Nick seemed to be taking this relationship, and what he was willing to sacrifice to maintain it. In the end, the carpool is no more, though. Too many things stacked up against their woe-begotten arrangement, which has led me to throw together this little tutorial on how to destroy your own carpool.

Because that bitch didn’t just destroy their carpool. She dropped a fucking nuclear bomb on it.

Let’s go step by step on how you – too – can lay waste to your own carpools. We’ll use film industry ass can lady as our tutor.

Always Show Up Late In the First Leg Of Your Carpool

Doesn’t matter what you are carpooling to, if you want to fuck your carpool up worse than you fucked up your marriage, just always show up late in the first leg of your carpool. By “first leg,” I mean the “to” part; so if you are driving to work (for example), I mean driving there.

Never let the other person or people know you are running late either. When you get there twenty minutes late, act as if there is nothing wrong with you being late.

Film industry ass can lady was the best at doing this. Once I had to use my husband’s car when mine was in the shop and she knew we would be sitting there waiting – half asleep and waiting to go back home – and that bitch showed up twenty-five fucking minutes late. To make matters worse, she was disheveled and her kid was in the car with her. Which leads me to our next lesson in destroying your carpool …

Expect Your Carpool Mates To Run Your Personal Errands

I always thought that no matter what a carpool was for, it was totally tacky to run errands and shit while your carpool mates are in the car. Say you are carpooling a group of kids and their moms to a soccer game. Would you stop at Ralphs and pick up some bread on your way there, then pick up your dry cleaning too (I mean, it is on the way..)? Fuck no, you wouldn’t run your bullshit errands while you are carpooling. It’s rude and reeks of the notion that others have nothing better to do with their time but sit in the fucking car for no reason.

So film industry ass can cunt lady would sometimes have my husband go along with to drop her kid off at school. Happy fucking family that they were: dropping the daughter off to preschool and waving good-bye on their way to pursue their illustrious careers in film industry ass can cunting. I asked my husband where the fuck this lady’s husband was, to which I got no response.

Indeed. Run your fucking errands into the motherfucking ground if you want to destroy your carpool.

Never Do What You Say You Are Going To Do

This must be a film industry thing, because my husband often does not do what he says he is going to do either. I mean with regards to me.

They agreed to meet at the carpool point near her home on days that she drove, and at the carpool point near our home on the days that he drove. He drove a lot of fucking times. I mean a lot. She met at the carpool point near our home once. He went to her every other fucking time.

If you want to bury your carpool, never do what you say you’re going to do. If you say you are going to meet in one place, meet in another. If you say you are going to leave earlier, leave later. Always expect others to cater to you when you don’t do what you said you would do too.

End the Carpool Day By Expecting Everyone To Wait For You

At the end of a long day, I think the last thing I ever want to do is sit around and wait for people. At the end of a long vacation, the last thing I want to do is be delayed in getting back to my regular routine too. I could go on with every scenario in which one might carpool; you faithful blog followers get the point. The real surefire way to destroy your carpool like film industry ass can bitch cunt lady did is to always make people wait for you at the end of the day.

This bitch was so ballsy about it. She’d just show up forty-five minutes after they were supposed to leave, and act like there was nothing wrong with it. Once it was an hour and a half. The worst was when she kept telling my husband to wait for her until it ended up being two hours after the work day ended. He got home that night at 10:15. Family? Household responsibilities? No such thing can exist or be considered for anyone in the carpool, if you want to destroy your carpool.

In the end, the real kicker was that driving to and from this woman’s work in city traffic from my husband’s work, as well as to and from her home since she could never make it down fairly for him, added our gas bill up to such a point that he spent more money on gas in the month he carpooled than in the months he drove himself. Between the extra driving, and the many times she just never showed up, this was the end of this cuntly behavior affecting our lives.

He has yet to tell her she destroyed the carpool. They are off carpool this week and he is probably coming up with ways to justify continuing to do the carpool anyway. I’m sure he’ll blame me, like he always does. Not to emasculate my husband, but he doesn’t really seem to even want to have the cajones to be honest with anyone. But me, of course. If it were me he would have told me I was a film industry ass can bitch cunt face and that the carpool was off on the second day (which is another blog post altogether).

If you want to destroy your carpool, I highly suggest you follow that broad’s behavior, with her nappy ass hair and her disrespect for anyone’s priorities other than hers.

Good riddance, carpool!

STFU Fridays: Dinner Next to A’holes

Kill me, faithful blog followers. Fucking kill me. Kill me by inserting some large stick up my asshole, weedling it up there as high as you can before turning and maneuvering it around, causing my internal organs to twist and bend until they get tied up; then take the stick out and leave me to wither away with my fucked up, knotted colon until excrement has no where to go but out my ears.

That would be better than the dinner next to the a’holes that I experienced today.

Let’s first pause to welcome all the newbies hanging around the ol’ B(itch)Log these days. My name is Heather. People call me a B(itch). Sometimes I swear a lot; sometimes I am really serious. This is supposed to be a mom blog, but I usually talk about anything that is either funny and/or annoying and/or about my miserable life and/or filled with stupidity (and possibly all of the above). In real life (if there is such a thing), I’m a homeschooling, stay at home mom and full time writer, who is really – and truly – the nicest person you will ever meet.

We have here a fun, little theme for Fridays. Shut the Fuck Up Fridays is what I like to call them. While I swear and act crass a lot, STFU Fridays go above and beyond anything you’ve ever experienced before in the “foul-mouthed bitch” department. So welcome to my blog, and if you don’t like it … well, shut the fuck up (Fridays).

So back to the a’holes.

AholeSTFU

We went out to dinner with my dad tonight. He’s the guy shoveling food down his throat in the red sweatshirt. As we were walking in I noticed that we were being sat down next to those people sitting behind him. See them? There were actually five: a husband and wife, their nappy-headed bitch of a kid, and the husband’s parents. The nappy-headed bitch of a kid is in 5th grade. Her mom is a stay at home, like me. Her dad is a minister. The grandparents do I don’t know the fuck what, but they are the biggest dicks on the planet.

How do I know all of this? Because the husband (the dad, the minister) was my boss when I worked in pharmacy all those eons ago.

I won’t go into all of the injustices that went on when I worked under his reign. Well, not too much of it. I will say that he was the store manager and a pompous asshole from day one. I will further say that after four years of working tirelessly, sacrificing a lot for the job, and even letting myself be bullied into working for free a few times, he cut my hours to below 20, effectively causing me to lose my health insurance a whole year before I was planning on transferring to four year college (from community college) full time. I will say all of that. I will also describe for you faithful blog followers the time that the rancid bitch wife came in and told me that “one phone call, and your ass is grass if you don’t get my pills for me now.” Or the time that dear old dad back there screamed at me that I was being idiotic about his insurance problem, and that he should have me fired.

Nice people. I will never forget the rejoice we all felt when the douchecanoe of a store manager announced that he would be leaving to pursue his calling to the ministry.

So we went in and I noticed them, but I don’t believe they recognized me. I hope they didn’t. My hair is a different color now than when I worked under him; and it has been quite a few years. I also envision that they were so self-absorbed in their own arrogant and pompous goings-on that they hardly noticed anyone else in the entire restaurant.

There were quite a few times that I wanted to stand up, punch that nasty bitch in her crotch, and spit in the face of the ol’ “fuck you and your health insurance, Heather” manager.

“I Was Smarter Than You In 5th Grade”

One thing that guy did when he was the boss man was always put people down. He would make stupid jokes, that no one thought were funny; and they were always at the expense of other people. I remember one time in the break room he started cracking jokes about how annoying the sound of my voice was to him. Funny because at least my voice sounds appropriate to my gender, unlike him – who sounds like a five year old girl with a plugged nose and an occasional puberty-induced crackle. Fuck face.

Well the two of them (husband and wife) were showing off the bastard kid’s quote-unquote talents to the grandparents, but at every step they took it as an opportunity to take her down a notch. When talking about the science fair, dad said “but no one cares about plants…” (her project was about plant something or other). When she was talking about her math journal, the cunt with the red nails said “when I was in 5th grade, I was smarter than you though because I had no problem with fractions.”

Shut the fuck up, cunt.

“Catholics Worship Priests Instead of God”

Now apparently that little 5th grader is more of a stupid fuck than I thought, though, because at some point in their loud ass fucking conversation (so loud that all of the waitstaff and bus boys that came over to talk to us – as regulars – mentioned that they were sorry we got stuck by those overbearing dicks), the four adults had to explain to her what a Catholic is.

Here was how the grand tee-ton (the one who told me that I was an idiot and that he could have me fired since his son was the all-powerful minimum wage store manager) laid it out: “you see, Catholics worship their priests instead of God.” Nappy-headed 5th grader I previously felt sorry for went on to respond “that’s stupid. Catholics are stupid. Catholics are stupid and bad.”

Sadly, that poor girl is going to turn out to be just like her nasty parents, and even worse grandparents. Catholics worship priests about as much as I enjoy cooking. She too needed to shut the fuck up.

By the time the meal was over, I was about ready to go home and rip up my pharmacy technician’s license. I renew it every year just as a fall back; you know, in case my husband gets laid off or I decide to finally stop tolerating his shit and send him packing. Why the fuck would I want to go back to that, though? Not that it would be the same manager – he’s clearly moved on to greener, more shit-filled, pastures; but that was really just a microcosm of the shit I had to deal with working in the pharmacy. At this point I wouldn’t tolerate it. I would be fired in about a day because every other thing out of my mouth would be, simply stated: oh, just shut the fuck up!

Can I Have Your Autograph?

When my husband and I first got married, his bosses gave us a pair of their season tickets to a Lakers game. Sure, I fucking hate the Lakers and anything-Los Angeles, but they were two rows behind court-side, so I figured – what the hell?

What they failed to tell us was that their tickets were seated directly behind those idiotic Kardashian whore-faces. This was when Lamar was still on the team, so the whole time we had to sit there and listen to the mom, Khloe, and one of the pig bitch teenage twins talk on their fucking cellphones about how much they hated basketball. It was horrible, only made worse when Khloe fanned her nappy hair out and spilled dandruff into my goddamned nachos.

So during the halftime, they had a security guard set up right there to stop people from coming down, although once Mother Hubbard and the Pig Bitch left, Khloe allowed her fans to come ask for autographs. The number of desperate and pathetic young women that approached the overweight, acne-ridden, dandruff-fanning cow was astounding.

There are few celebrities that I despise more than her after that whole dandruff incident. And while I would offer to have Derrick Rose’s babies while asking him for a signature, I would never ask these celebutants for anything other than to get out of my way. Here they are, in no particular order:

#1 The Queen Pig Bitch: Kimmie Kardash

This woman’s ass is so fucking horrifying. Sometimes when I see the emphasis placed on it in photos or magazines, I feel like asking her fan club if it’s got it’s own zip code. And now someone has allowed her to breed? Yeah, let’s see how fucked up that kid comes out. It’ll have a big ass, be just as much of a pig bitch as the rest of those Kardashians, and will likely carry itself with the shameless sense of entitlement the entire family has.

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#2 The Walking STD: the Biebs

I don’t mean to imply that Justin Bieber is a slut or anything, but I do sometimes wonder about a 17 year old that let the papparazzi photograph him dry-humping his girlfriend on a beach in Hawaii. Two years later, the Biebs has turned 19 and in celebration, the media has made his news story about said birthday more popular and of importance than the country’s fiscal crisis. Worse, Justin apparently has spat in the face of all fashion sense at this point, because he’s walking around with no shirt on, wearing tight blue pants, with his ass hanging so far out, if you look close enough you can probably see his teeny-weiney hanging down.

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#3 Shit-faced Stewart

Something that really irks me every time I see Kristin Stewart is that she always looks like ever-living shit. And yet still ghads of teenage boys and middle-aged lesbians are wanking off to her nightly. I look like shit all the time and you don’t see people wanking to my illustrious debacle of an appearance! She doesn’t just look like shit, though – Kristen Stewart has got to have the worst attitude on the entire planet. She’s always bored. She’s constantly agitated. And her hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in forever.

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Those are my big three. Do you have any celebrities you can’t stand? Or do you salivate at the sight of any of them? The big thing for me (I think) is that I don’t watch much TV and am particularly unimpressed by stardom. Or maybe it’s because I live near Hollywood – the land of the fruits, nuts, and celebrity weirdos.

STFU Fridays: Restaurant Loudtalkers, Illegible Texters, My Mom’s Gut

Here I am. It’s Thursday night. I’m in my pajamas. As you see, no make up. I’m just hanging out. I’ve written a lot today – both a blog post, as well done revisions on my new blog book coming out soon. I also went bowling and to the library. Those were pretty good times. I should be spending my night relaxing and reading my new Hem biography with a nice glass or two of skim milk.

But I’m just so fucking excited for this week’s Shut the Fuck Up Fridays that I cannot wait to post it. So I’m writing it early and posting it tonight because it is just that good. At least as it’s worked out in my head.

Shall we begin?

Restaurant Loudtalkers

Have you ever been in a restaurant, only for someone to be talking so fucking loud that you just want to break a glass and cut the motherfucker to get him to shut the hell up? It’s not always men – that’s sort of sexist for me to say “him.” In fact, more often than not, it’s been the broads.

Once we were out to eat and these three humungous women (I don’t mean their physical girth … well, they were a little heavy, but I mean like Amazon Women – tall, muscular, and quite frankly frightening); these women were loudly rambling on about their new marriages, the inadequacies of their husbands, and how nice it would be if they didn’t have to get porked every night. In the middle of the goddamned restaurant! In front of children! I will never forget as they pounded out of the restaurant, little Pookies clung to me in fear then asked what they were talking about. I really appreciated that.

Today’s experience was no different. We were picking up take-out salads and this old guy was shouting – literally shouting – to the person sitting right across from him. MY NEW NUMBER IS 7-9-5-4-4-3-7 … NO!! 7!!! 7!!!!” Then he kept going on and on about how his grandkid was in soccer and his son was getting a promotion and his fantasy football club was meeting up again and blaa blaa blaa blaa blaa, in the highest decibel possible. In the five minutes I waited for our food, I learned more about this guy’s life than I have ever wanted to know about another human being, a complete stranger no less.

Walking out, I was so overwhelmed by the Restaurant Loudtalker that I immediately turned into this crying lady who has the balls I don’t have to say what’s making me cry:

Illegible Texters

The other day I was talking about how my Trailer Trash Mom started texting and it is – like – seizure-inducing to read the things. I’m not talking about texters like her, though. I’m talking about the people that text, Tweet, email, Facebook, Instagram – whateverthefuck social whoring you want to reference – shit that just looks stupid.

B4

L8

Ta2

H8er

Seriously. There are very few acronyms I find to be acceptable alternatives to basic English literacy. OMG is one. WTF is another, with its variants WTS and WTH. B4 and L8 are not; nor is Ta2. H8er just makes me emotional again:

My Mom’s Gut

Everyone has been asking what the conclusion of my Terrible Tuesday was the other night. My mother and grandparents came over to dinner; it was such an awful day and I was essentially wasted by 6 o’clock. Before that, though, my mother announced that she was going to bring my grandparents over around 2 or 3, instead of when I invited them to come over, at 7. Being a generous host, I canceled my afternoon plans and made sure to be home by 2.

They showed up at 4:45.

So I had laid out some appetizers since they’d be there for so many hours before dinner. Just some chips and dip, and some caprese salads. I spilled an enormous amount of chips with dip on my chest, licking every one of them up with no comment from the crowd. Then I served dinner – again, relatively healthy. Nothing too bad and pretty low cal.

To be precise, I served some garlic bread, nonfat tortellinis with fat free feta, bar-be-qued sirloin (even though I don’t eat red meat), and a medley of vegetables (brocollini, asparagus, and snap peas). My mother – having just returned from her couple of months at the trailer with her hillbilly husband – was not used to eating such an healthy meal. It’s all Ramen, chili dogs, and McDonalds for those two, so her gut was a little ill-prepared for such an easily digested and nutritious meal.

As everyone sat and let their food digest before taking a piece of red velvet cake for dessert, my mother suddenly leaned forward and scooted to the edge of the couch. She spread her legs and positioned her hands on her knees, then puffed out her chest and let out the most uproarious and earth-shattering belch I have ever heard another human being let out.

My grandparents sort of sat there as if nothing was going on, although my grandfather did verbalize what she had just done by saying belch, like he normally does when he does it.

To make matters worse, when she was done letting out the gut-busting, time-stopping esophageal foulness, she wiped her mouth, giggled and said “I guess I’m ready for dessert.”

While everyone else ate their dessert – acting as though not a goddamned thing had happened – I snuck to the bathroom and sat there, tears leaking from my eyes at the horrifying display my mother had just turned the evening into. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was my Trailer Trash Mom’s gut rot. No one will ever know, but in the end it was all emotional and teary and STFU:

 

The World Does Not Stop…

I’m not quite sure why this has happened, but more and more it seems that people have this weird idea that the world stops just because [fill in the blank] has happened to them.  To be honest (and I’m sure this will annoy some of you closest to me), it really makes me pause and question just where our heads are.  Sad to say, I think they are on (ahem, in) the wrong end.

So to help us all get those proverbial heads out of our real-life asses, I’ve decided to make a list of things that the world does not stop for.  The point is not only to advocate for a healthier, less egocentric viewpoint (typical of the misanthropic vein of this blog); but more importantly to harken back to the idea of happy and healthy balance that we discussed yesterday.  There is hope for everyone, and there is no room for “well everyone has different priorities…”  So with that in mind:

The world does not stop … because you are having a baby.  Remember that first blog on this new site about the tendency people have now to act like they are the first people on the planet to have a baby?  Well, you aren’t … and the world does not stop for that very reason.

The world does not stop … because you have a big project going on at work.  This one hits really close to home for me.  While I know that in a trying economy, employees want to bend over backwards to please their employers or open new career paths, there still must be a balance to make sure you do not hurt your entire life in the process.  If you cannot have that balance, you either need to find a new job or consider whether it is the best time in your life to take on that extra level of responsibility.  Just because you are working 24/7 does not mean that bills can go unpaid, kids can go uncared for, prior commitments can be canceled, and relationships outside of work can just set to autopilot.  That just isn’t the case.

The world does not stop … because you are planning a big event.  It could be a wedding; it could be a baby shower.  In any event, as important as that big event seems to you, a lot of people around you don’t care.  Remember with friends, family, and coworkers to talk about things they are interested in; and give them a chance to talk about their big things too.

The world does not stop … because your girlfriend/boyfriend dumped you.  Get over it:  there are plenty of fish in the sea, right?  Just because your girlfriend/boyfriend couldn’t take your snoring/feet/body hair anymore, doesn’t mean life around you ceases to continue.  Marriage is a much different story, but as for kiddie-type relationships that probably never went further than first base, try and move on.

The world does not stop … because your favorite TV show/sporting event is on.  God is there nothing more annoying than someone who will blow off an important phone call because of Dancing With the Stars; or someone that spends an entire dinner watching the baseball game showing on the big screen behind them.  Invest in a DVR if it’s that important to you.

The world does not stop … because you walked in the room.  More accurately, I should probably say “… because you got on the freeway.”  These people that act like they own the road (when the rules of it generally mandate that we should all be sharing …) really have gotten bad.  It starts with those people that do not realize they are supposed to yield to traffic when they are entering the freeway; and is capped off with those that change lanes without even looking.

The world does not stop … because you are on the rag.  Yep, I did just say that.  What a terribly sexist thing for me to say; but I’m a woman and I can say with absolute certainty that the worst thing ever is a woman that thinks the world is supposed to bow to her because she has cramps and a foul attitude.  It goes for men too (because they do, in fact, go through monthly hormonal fluctuations just like women); so perhaps I could soften it to “… because you are in a bad mood.”  However it’s phrased, take note.

 

The list could go on, but you, faithful blog followers, get the point.  Head-in-ass-syndrome could very well be substituted for “egocentric” or “narcissistic personality disorder.”  There is a healthier, balanced way to live life than you are.  Wise up and realize that the world does not stop for anything.

The Lady With the Pink Hat

About a week ago some controversy was spurred over a trend that is growing across the country, that trend being the No Children Allowed Restaurant.  More and more, restaurant owners are responding to the complaints of clientele who would prefer to eat their meals in peace, rather than have it ruined by some bratty kid whose parents are entirely hands-off on the discipline.  On the surface, this seems vaguely reminiscent of the old “one bad apple ruins the entire bushel;” although, to be fair, those without children at the dinner table have just as much a right to eat in peace as those with them have to let their kids run the show.

Some varied responses have been made to this.  Some have agreed, even those with kids, because they recognize the fact that parents these days just don’t believe their child should be disciplined (or, possibly that their child can do no wrong).  Some have disagreed on the basis that, while they recognize children can be completely out of control, it seems inherently wrong to refuse service to people just on the basis of the fact that they happen to be in a particular group of people (dare I call them:  the birthers).

We’ve talked about this before, the notion of people acting as though they are the only people on the planet, and so everyone else should cow-tow to their desires.  And, in fact, it seems to be happening more that people in society feel a sense of being entitled to do whatever they want, even if it means that they and their children are infringing upon the rights (and even safety of others).

Today I was at the library with my father, who happens to be a candidate for full hip replacement surgery.  Nearing his seventies, his bones have become so brittle that even the slightest fall could result in a fracture of his hips.  He even has a handicapped placard for his car.  While at the library, a child was running around and screaming while his mother was nowhere to be found.  Inevitably, the child ran into my father, nearly knocking him over.  My father looked down at the little boy and said “watch where your going, where is your mother?” and the kid ran off without another word.  Five minutes later, though, this lady in a pink hat stalked up to us and started yelling at my dad – in the middle of the library – for daring to respond to her son, who can clearly do no wrong.  After calming the situation down (although I did say that she should learn to be a parent as she walked away), she went off with her bratty toddler and we went about our business.

Despite the fact that the situation was calmed down, though, and the kid and his mother eventually got kicked out of the library because the little terrorist was ripping books off the shelf and screaming, this raises again the issue of the No Child Restaurant.  Had my father (or any other older person that spends a fair amount of their time at the library) been knocked over, he very likely would have broken a bone at the hands of a little boy that was allowed to run all over the place.  And had my father broken a bone, the only people that would have been liable for it in the end would have been the library.  Worse than him running all over the place, though, was the lady in the pink hat:  his mother.  Without knowing the situation or the health or the beliefs of other people, that woman has taken the position that so many other parents today take, which is that the safety and happiness of others is of no matter as long as they can do whatever they want.  That poor, little boy is on a surefire course for destruction later on in life and his mother has done nothing but teach him that he can be a monster, and to raise his voice if anyone questions that.  One day, that little monster will hurt someone in a place other than the library, where the only one liable is him; and then they will all have to pay the price of a mother that simply doesn’t want to deal with an unruly child.

When considering how to act in any public place, it seems we need to remind ourselves that public means that other people will be there, with entirely different situations than ours.    Not everyone thinks a screaming and destructive kid is the cutest thing next to teddy bears.  And sometimes, it can even be dangerous.  To those that still don’t understand why some restaurants have chosen to have a policy that no children be allowed, consider the actions of the lady with the pink hat.

Things to Forgo Being All A’Twitter About

Somehow I came across this blog the other day.  Don’t waste your time clicking the link, actually:  the blogger’s 14 places not to Tweet did not prove as entertaining as I thought it would.  This is of no fault to the blogger so much as it is (in the end) just already pretty obvious where you shouldn’t be posting on your Twitter or Facebook (for real, who updates their Twitter during their wedding photos).  Although, the area where it is not as clear is in that of what you should not be posting about.

The reason for this is simple:  everyone uses Facebook, Twitter, and all of their other social networking sites, for different reasons.  Some use it to complain about their lives; others to market themselves for work.  Still others are on to keep in contact with friends and family and share information.  The possibilities of why people are hooked in to social media are endless; and yet, the thing to remember is that not everyone is on for the same reason as you.  As a result, it’s important to follow some simple discretion when it comes to your posts.  Your friends/followers/connections/whatever-you-may-call-thems will thank you.

You all remember my blog a few weeks ago about things I would prefer you not post online.  While that was an all encompassing list of photos, updates, articles, etc. that seems more for Facebook than anything else, this handy-dandy list pertains specifically to the status-update; or, in Twitter-land, the Tweet.

Things to Forgo Being All A’Twitter About

  1. Consistent with the main theme of things I would prefer you not post online, let’s kick this list off with anything relative to bowels or personal hygiene.  That includes (but is not limited to): showers, baths, shaving your legs, shaving your face, shaving your nether-regions, waxing, and anything having to do with the effects of one too many Triple Steak Burritos at taco bell.
  2. Posts about how your [fill in the blank] is the best [fill in the blank] ever.  Your [fill in the blank] is not the best [fill in the blank] ever because someone else on my page says that their [fill in the blank] is the best [fill in the blank] ever, and quite clearly there can’t be more than one best [fill in the blank] ever, so you must both be wrong.
  3. Details of your labor and delivery.  If you’re like me and you’re in that 20 – 40 age range, every other post on Facebook or Twitter is about pregnancy and childbirth.  Share the happy time with everyone, sure; but spare us how many centimeters you’re dilated.
  4. Sex.  Sex.  Sex.  As in, you having it.  The only thing your status updates about sex let us know is where we should make sure to bring a prescription of penicillin along with next time we travel.  Please, spare us all.
  5. The dramatic ups and downs of your relationship.  If you are announcing a new boyfriend, or a finale to your traumatic marriage, that’s fine.  But every day with the “I’m so alone in this marriage” and the “feeling rejected by my man” gets really old and seems more a cry for attention than anything else.
  6. And on the note of cries for attention, everyone should just skip past those vague posts that are intended only to get people’s attention.  Save us the “well that was just great”s and just say what you mean.
  7. Excessive quotes.  I have been known to post a quote or two about things that are truly entertaining, or more often from a book I’m reading.  But people that post quotes ad nauseum, very often with those happy crappy “isn’t life grand” themes just pisses everyone off.  Limit your quotes to infrequent; and make sure there’s some meaning behind them.  As one blogger puts it:  “Quoting the wisdom of someone else does not make you philosophical or smart. It simply makes me dislike you.”
  8. Have you ever seen one of those annoying status updates that go on and on about sisters, brothers, people with cancer, the military, etc, etc?  You know those ones that try and guilt you into reposting them at the end with some jargon like “85% of people won’t repost this, let’s see if you do.”  Yeah, those.  Friggin’ stop it!
  9. While we’re on that, the Facebook games.  Like the one about posting your shoe size with a frowny face afterwards to try and “trick the guys” into thinking you’re posting about being disappointed about the size of a man’s member; or the one where everyone posted the color of the bra they were wearing to raise breast cancer awareness.  I’ve got news for you ladies:  you aren’t raising awareness of anything except how much of  a ninny you can be.
  10. Posts about how you are having a nervous breakdown.  I’m not talking about the occasional “had a really bad day” or “relieving my stress with a glass of wine” … those are fine.  I’m talking about the posts that go on and on, complaining about how you just can’t take it all anymore; and that occur so frequently in the week it’s all anyone expects from you.  I get that a lot of you may have very stressful lives, but just remember this:  somewhere out there there is someone in a much worse situation than you, and it is very likely they are on your friends/followers list and thinks you’re being nothing but whiny and ungrateful for the things you have.  If you have some personal problems, share them with others in private – telephone, email, and in person works much better than a broadcast to the entire Social-Network-a-verse.
  11.  This one isn’t so much a thing you should avoid posting so much as improper ways to post.  STOP POSTING IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS!  PLEASE!!!  ALL YOU ARE DOING IS YELLING AT ME!  AND WHILE WE’RE AT IT, LET’S STOP USING IMPROPER GRAMMAR, SPELLING (WIT U), AND PUNCTUATION.  THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO REASON TO PUT A SPACE BETWEEN YOUR EXCLAMATORY SENTENCE AND THE EXCLAMATION POINT ! ! !
  12. The ever-dramatic, attention-getting posts about how you’re quitting Facebook or Twitter “for good this time.”  One person on my friends list on Facebook continually goes back and forth between having her Facebook active and not, and frankly it drives me insane.  The last time she was on she posted status after status about how she was deleteing her page again and someone commented “stop crying for attention and either delete your page or delete me from your friends list.”  Here!  Here!
  13. Finally, let’s all stop posting that we are on your way somewhere mundane.  If you are on your way to a wedding or a cool new place, that’s fine, but spare us the daily update that you’re on your way to work.  No one cares.
There’s a start, although I’m sure we can make this list much longer.  Leave a comment on what you want to see people forgo being all a’Twitter about.