Party Peeves

We went to a couple family parties this weekend. One was a Labor Day bar-b-que – which was relatively mild; the other was a family dinner in honor of the seventh birthday of my cousin’s kid. These parties (the latter for the most part) inspired me to compile yet another list of pet peeves. Today while we were eating lunch at Panda Express, I got a little teary over the music they were playing and realized it must be getting close to Rag Time, so excuse me if my reasoning sounds particularly bitchy.

Party Peeve 1:

You Scratch My Back, I’m Not Scratching Yours

How many birthday parties have we gone to where the other person never comes to ours? These people with this seven year old kid (relatives of my Trailer Trash Mom) are the worst offenders. They are the only real family we have in California – which makes it particularly difficult – because every kid party we have they never show up for, making ours sort of un-kid kid parties.

Year after year, though, I send down a gift when it’s time for one of their two kids to celebrate another birthday. When they have a family party for it, we make the two hour drive there and two hour drive back and bring wine and a side dish. We smile. We listen to people talk about their hillbilly family dramas. We show interest when my aunt talks about all the oppressions put upon her working for the Girl Scouts. We laugh when her husband tells jokes about watching pornography on the Internet.

But when it comes time for a kid party here, they can’t make the same trek.

Party Peeve 2:

Cow-Towing To the Old People

I’m sure when I’m elderly, I’ll want everyone to cow-tow to me like they do at my family parties. Kiss my ass and act like everything I say is plated in gold and shit. I’m not being a dick, either, by saying it’s a problem to let the elderly have the comfortable chairs or use the bathrooms first or whatever would make me sound like a real asshole. Because that’s not what I mean.

By cow-towing I mean that everyone in the family acts as they always do – as though what the old people say goes. An example: my grandma and grandpa went to college in Nebraska, so of course are Cornhusker fans. But if you aren’t a Cornhusker fan too, you have to sit there for forty-five minutes while grandpa fucking yells at you for being such a dumb ass. It’s really mean, actually, if you think about it because he will shout at you and tell you to get out of his presence if you support a team other than the Cornhuskers.

Just about everyone in the family swore their allegiance to the Cornhuskers a long time ago just to get grandpa to shut the hell up.

Party Peeve 3:

Feeding Kids Different Food

Oh dear God, this really roasts my ass. If you think it’s totally acceptable to let your kid drag you around by your she-balls, and therefore prepare meal after meal after meal until you settle on Spaghetti-O’s because your precious cargo has been conditioned (by you) to be a terribly picky and unhealthy eater – well then you should stop reading now. Because I don’t tolerate that shit, and so it really pisses me off when other people do it at a kid’s party we attend.

I can see that not all kids at the party are healthy eaters and the host just doesn’t want them to go hungry. I’ll accept that a lot of people were born and raised in a barn and, therefore, don’t care much about instilling basic values in their kids’ upbringing.

At our house, you have to try everything that is put on your plate. If we go out to eat or to someone else’s home for dinner, we all eat what is served. We do not request that people make us something special because we’d rather have neon-orange fat-O’s in a can.

At the family dinner Sunday night, they served BBQ chicken, bread rolls, fresh fruit – all in all, a pretty healthy meal. You can imagine, then, that I was fucking livid when I saw my mom carrying plates of per-request food for all the kids, none of which had BBQ chicken or fruit. All of which were covered in Spaghetti-O and macaroni and cheese slop.

Party Peeve 4:

Inadequate Planning

When I plan a party, I typically plan everything down to the “T.” It isn’t what you faithful blog followers are probably thinking: that I’m terribly anal retentive and OCD. (Well I am, but that isn’t what this is about.) The thing is that when people take the time and effort to come to a party you’ve thrown, the least you can do is have things organized at least enough so that things don’t get out of control and chaotic.

I mean, every party in which kids are involved is going to have a little chaos. But at least have it be organized chaos.

This party on Sunday was so poorly planned (go figure, it was done by my mother and her sister with the porno-watching-husband). It was supposed to be a kid’s party (sort of), but they really didn’t plan anything for the kids to do besides terrorize everyone else with chaos, out of control screaming, and whining that they were bored.

Of course my Trailer Trash Mom was too busy rambling on about her recent Hillbilly Husband sagas to actually entertain the kids. My aunt was busy cooking the food. My grandpa was yelling at me for being a Notre Dame fan, instead of the Cornhuskers. My aunt’s husband was in the other room looking at his Internet porn. Pretty much everyone else was just sitting back, watching carnage unfold until finally, towards the end of the party, Poor Nick and I took charge and played Duck-Duck-Goose with the kids to try and get things under control.

Party Peeve 5:

Dresscode

This is always a sensitive subject for some people. I get it: people didn’t come to the party to see my fancy house or my fancy clothes. So the place isn’t perfectly cleaned, and I’m wearing sweatpants – but we’re family so it should be OK, right? Or as a guest, you should just be grateful that I came and spent the money on a birthday gift and the time preparing these appetizers and the gas driving down and my Sunday that could have been spent doing something else I actually want to do, so I should be cool in these coolots and halter top, no?

Actually, NO. You should not be “cool” or “down” with people dressing down for a party. As is the case with organization, the least people could do is wear regular clothes or even just pants. When I opened the door to my aunt and her husband’s home Sunday, you can all imagine my surprise when I was greeted by her porno-watching husband wearing nothing but a t-shirt and Cornhusker boxer shorts. Maybe he was trying to impress my grandpa. Maybe he needed easy-access for when he’d be spending the duration of the party in the other room, looking at Internet pornography. Maybe he was just really hot. I don’t know, I just thought he could have actually put a pair of pants or at least shorts on. His boxers, in combination with my mother’s pant-wedgie that lasted the duration of the entire party and seemed to cause her nothing but pleasure, made the dresscode at this particular hillbilly brawl just intolerable for me.

After the lack of organization, the food problems, the underpants, the screaming at me for not pledging my loyalty to the Cornhuskers, and my mom rubbing her pant-wedgie further and further up her asscrack during the inevitable family photos that always cap off a family party with these people, I had just about had it.

What are your party pet peeves, faithful blog followers?

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My local taco shack now serves douchesauce

Yes, that’s right: you faithful blog followers are getting a double dose of the B(itch) today for I have come to something of an epitome that cannot wait to be shared: apparently, my local taco shack now serves douchesauce.

Awhile ago, I had a bad day and posted about it. Included in there was a pretty (retrospectively speaking, of course) hilarious story about an asshole sneezing in my tacos. We have a local taco shack that we go to maybe once a week or so; being a non-native to California, I gobble up Mexican food like my next door neighbor gobbles up drug-related misdemeanors. In other words, I’m stuck on salsa and tacos and all things spicy. Okay, but I’m a pretty picky eater too and like the healthy food kid options at the places that are a step above your average my-Dorito-is-a-taco-joints, so this taco shack pretty much remains my regular go-to. When I posted about that dude sneezing in my plate (I mean, he literally bent over and sneezed right into my food), it was there. I considered it a one-time incident and can laugh about it now.

The last few times we’ve been there, some pretty bizarro things have gone down, though. There was a fight going on in the parking lot when we left one time. Another time – I shit you not – I heard a guy say to his girlfriend ‘don’t worry about it, baby – you can pay me back later’ as he pointed towards his pants region and winked. So I guess you could say I’ve started to realize this place attracts a particular type of person. That person is – in a word – an asshole.

Today was no exception.

After ordering our food and picking out our table, I was waiting for our number to be called and I noticed a pregnant lady waddle in with the baby daddy. I knew it was the baby daddy because she said as they walked in the door “oh, the baby is kicking so hard right now!” and he said “that’s my boy!!” It was also obvious, though, that they were not really together; and in the event that I’m wrong and they are, the situation is clearly messed up.

So pregnant lady ordered her food and went to pay for hers separately from the baby daddy. Her card declined. She looked around embarrassed, made excuses, said she was just at the bank, then rifled through her wallet for money. Now, let’s not impose judgment on this woman one iota about how if she has no money she shouldn’t be eating out; or any other such thing. Let’s focus on what the baby daddy did – just fucking stood there. When she finally found her cash and was able to use that, he ordered his food and paid for his and then made a comment while they were at the salsa bar that really put his status as douchesauce over the top – “maybe you shouldn’t have maxed out your card on the crib and just had the baby sleep in bed with you, like I suggested.”

Jerk.

Then we finished eating and I was going to throw away our trash and leave our tray on the top of the trash can. Standing in front of the only trash can there, though, was a guy about 50 and clearly angry with the world. I said “excuse me” and he didn’t move. I smiled – looking him directly in the eyes – and said “excuse me, can I just throw out my things?” and he moved about 1/2 an inch, crossed his arms, and scowled as he waited for his food. I squeezed in to throw away our trash and then his number was called. He jumped a little and bumped my tray, knocking all our empty plates, leftover rice, and used napkins on the floor.

He walked out without a word of apology.

No wonder our children in this town are either bullies or bullied. It seems almost obvious that so many kids are on medication for anxiety and depression around here when parents are such jerks – even to each other. I’m pretty horrified by the way some of the people in my community treat each other; and apparently my local taco shack is the Grand Central Station of it all.

‘Now serving douchesauce’ should be included on their menu. Of course, I won’t stop going – the tacos are good and the company has nothing to do with the assholes that eat there. But one day I’m going to finally speak up and be the b(itch) I am on this blog. Then it’ll be b(itch)sauce that’s being served.

Lessons on Being Cool From the 22 Year Old Verizon Employees At Chuck E Cheese

So I was at Chuck E. Cheese today, and as if I wasn’t already getting my daily dose of “hell on Earth” just by being there, a pack of about a dozen young adults came sauntering in, where there was a party table set up for them right in front of the stage with the animatronic characters singing Rock the Casbah.

Being the nosy-ass lady that I am, and bored out of my fucking mind while waiting for the 10 billion tokens I purchased to be used, I investigated a little bit. Of course, this meant I had to make every excuse possible to parade around their party in order to get the scoop. I went to “check out” the ticket explosion machine – which I still am not sure what the fuck the thing does. I walked up to “check out” the characters as they moved on to a clean version of “Whip It.” And when the party-goers disbanded to play games while waiting for their pizza, I even marched over to the Dance Dance Revolution to pretend like I was considering playing.

Here is the scoop that I got, what I like to call: Lessons on Being Cool From the 22 Year Old Verizon Employees At Chuck E Cheese:

Lesson #1: If you work at a retail store and the company wants to reward you for your increase in sales, the only cool option is: Chuck E Motherfucking Cheese

Lesson #2: Even though it is the day off for all of you, the coolest thing to wear is your Verizon uniform. For the majority of you, it’s a suit and tie. Many of you wore your Verizon shirt with the logo and all. Some of you added some flair, like your Crips bandana hanging out your back pocket. If wearing a tie, a real cool guy will wear your tie and flip it up over your shoulder. That makes you look at ease.

If you are the only girl in the group, dress like a ho. You never know, one of your coworkers might bang you in the balls.

Lesson #3: The coolest guy at the table, with the most knowledge of this high class establishment, will wear his sunglasses inside. He will keep them on the entire time. The entire time – not even to be removed for games or pizza. He is clearly the coolest of the bunch – follow his lead.

Lesson #4: When the Chuck E. Cheese character comes to the table and starts trying to give you all high fives, make sure you all snap photos to put on your Facebook pages. You are extra cool if you stand behind Chuck E while one of your friends has his photograph taken with the human-sized rat, and dry hump the air.

Lesson #5: If a woman walks by you while you are shredding on Guitar Hero, quickly wipe the sweat off your brow and make sure you turn to her and say “yeah … a bunch of 22 year olds playing Guitar Hero at Chuck E Cheese. I know lame.” Acknowledge your lameness, because irony is in and she might think you are being ironic, thus cool.

Lesson #6: When it is announced over the intercom that your pizza is ready, run to the table. Cool people don’t walk. Cool people do not fucking saunter. Cool people run like they haven’t eaten is years. If you do not run, you may destroy the facade that you are a starving intellectual who lives off pizza and beer and the occasional package of Top Ramen; versus the truth, which is that your mommy made you a nice and wholesome breakfast of french toast and eggs while you changed out of your Spiderman jammie-jams this morning.

Lesson #7: Your Verizon store manager was kind enough to include 20 tokens per employee for this venture – it isn’t just pizza and pictures with Chuck E. A cool person will make sure that he gets his/her 20 tokens under any and all circumstances, even if it means standing up and yelling for everyone to run back to the table because you counted yours and there are only 18.

We left before these numb nuts 22 year old Verizon employees had finished their little party. As we left, I noticed that while they were all off playing video games and taking photos of themselves dry humping the characters placed in miscellaneous places around the restaurant, the Lone Ho had placed certificates of achievement at each of their place settings and a cake in the shape of a pirate ship with a Chuck E Cheese at the mast was being brought to the table.

That – by far – was the most ridiculous thing I have seen in a long time. And you faithful blog followers know I have seen a lot. As we left I looked at my phone and thought to myself “fucking shit, I’m glad I stuck with Sprint.”

Conversations With Nick

I feel bad for my husband sometimes. Not only does he have a terribly dysfunctional job situation (works far from home, works too many hours, etc); and has the likes of Hello Kitty Toaster for a family situation, but he’s also married to me. I can be one of the most foul-mouthed, hard-to-tolerate women on the planet sometimes. I’m blunt. I’m crude. I was raised by a man, so every other sentence out of my mouth is “suck my balls.” And while I talk about balls and drop the f-bomb constantly, I’m horrified by things like leaving the toilet seat up, belching in my face, and hogging down our dinner like it’s feeding time at the barnyard. I’m a tough nut to crack at times.

My husband and I also have very little in common. I hate the film industry. He works in the film industry. He is an avid Laker fan. I love the Bulls and  punch things when I see Kobe come on TV. Another thing we don’t really have in common is a sense of humor. My husband has none and I am constantly making jokes about everything going on around us.

Today there were a few times when Nick was being good old, serious Nick, and I was just being my typical crude and poking fun at everything-self. I like to call them Conversations With Nick.

Conversations With Nick, Episode 1: Do I Look Pretty?

B(itch): “I don’t even know why I get dressed or put on makeup anymore.”

Nick: “Neither do I. You look the same no matter what.”

B(itch): [insert glare]

Nick: “What?”

B(itch): “Are you kidding me?”

Nick: “What?”

B(itch): “When was the last time you thought about complimenting me?”

Nick: “Our wedding.”

B(itch): “One: one compliment every so many years is insufficient. Two: ‘you look bone-able’ is not a compliment.”

Conversations With Nick, Episode 2: Are You Putting Your Penis in My Donut?

B(itch): “Hahah! That donut picture I showed you earlier made you want donuts and now everyone on Facebook thinks you’re going to stick your penis in it.”

Nick: “Heather… seriously…”

B(itch): “What, do you want to stick your dick in a donut tomorrow morning? Was that your plan?”

Nick: “No that wasn’t my fucking plan, Jesus!”

B(itch): “Are you sure?”

Nick: “Pretty sure. I’m going to bed.”

B(itch): “It’s 8:15!!! Stay here, I have to come up with a snappy comeback!”

Nick: “You do that. I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow for donuts that I will not be sticking my dick in.”

Conversations With Nick, Episode 3: Peeing Policy

B(itch): [walking out of the bathroom] “I just realized we never got into that whole ‘pee with the door open’ thing people do.”

Nick: “I didn’t know people peed with the door open.”

B(itch): “Yeah, I’ve seen people do it in movies and shit.”

Nick: “So are you saying because you’ve seen people pee with the door open in movies ‘and shit’ that you want to start peeing with the door open?”

B(itch): “No.”

Nick: “Are you saying you want me to pee with the door open?”

B(itch): “No, I’m just saying we never got into that.”

Nick: “Okay, whatever.”

……….

Nick: “So, just to be clear, do you want me to start leaving the door open when I pee?”

B(itch): “No, my God what are you thinking!!”

Conversations With Nick, Episode 4: Oh, you just want to schtick her with your donut dick.

B(itch): “I think Zoey Deschanel has had some major plastic surgery.”

Nick: “I don’t think so.”

B(itch): “Look – in this movie [watching All the Real Girls] she looks totally different than she does now.”

Nick: “She looks the same.”

B(itch): “No way!! She doesn’t have that stupid fucking puckered lip bull shit that makes me want to rip her face off. And she clearly has had some kind of Botox shit put around the top of her face so she doesn’t look like such a meth addict.”

Nick: “I think you have issues with Zooey Deschanel, not whether or not she’s had plastic surgery.”

B(itch): “Oh, you just want to schtick her with your donut dick. I bet you’d tell her she looked nice more often than once every few years.”

Nick: “What in the hell are you talking about? I am not sticking my penis in that donut! I’m going to bed.”

B(itch): “You said that over an hour ago. You can’t resist my foulness.”

I know … I know what you all are thinking: poor Nick. It’s hard to be married to a foul-mouthed skank such as myself.