I get annoyed by little things. That's no shock. Big things do not annoy me as much as little things. Little things annoy me because most people think that it is so small and insignificant they can get away with it not making any sense. And, most of the time they sit back and have a laugh over how dumb the consumer is to fall for a ploy like that. Well, not this consumer.
The other day I heard a commercial for McDonald's new iced coffee. The announcer said, "now available in three flavors, french vanilla, hazlenut and regular."
Regular is not a flavor. Infact, it's UNFLAVORED.
How can coffee be coffee flavored?
I may have to write McDonald's a letter.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
Wheelchair Asshole
I know, from the title you thought I was going to make fun of people in wheelchairs. Well, the truth is, I am. But, not until a bit later in this blog. This blog is actually about entitled assholes but the direct quote “Wheelchair Asshole” was too funny not to spotlight.
The term entitlement seems to reign supreme in my family. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that we have no fear of red lights, stop signs, speed limits and the like. It’s not that we don’t obey the rules of the road but just that if we should get pulled over by the po-po, it’s not going any further than radioing in our plates. This has carried over to other aspects. Recently, the final stages of wedding planning has caught me in a time bind. While I understand that I have to work around the schedules of others, my mother can’t grasp that concept. She is ready to throw down with my wedding coordinator. When I informed her to believe that the weight of our name was leaving the confines of our small town, she refused to believe me. REFUSED.
Everyday , when I pull into the parking garage at work, I am faced with the inconsideration of others. It seems like everyone here cannot park their cars. They either pull over the line or park crooked. This results in me having to park miles away because every car is taking up two spaces. And one person had the nerve to shoot me a look because I pulled in straight next to her crooked ass. My apologies that I can park and you can’t.
Often, I am faced with some traffic dilemma near the bakery by my house. People like to park in the firelane outside the bakery because parking in a space like everyone else must just be too fucking inconvenient for them. The problem is, the area where the bakery is a corner and the road in front of it where the firelane is a two lane road. It makes rounding that corner when a car is stopped at the Stop sign next to a vehicle parked in the firelane IMPOSSIBLE and forces the person trying to make a left to drive through the parking lot way out of their way because someone was too fucking lazy to walk 20 feet.
I feel like following these people in the bakery and asking them what makes them think their time is ANY more important that mine that I can spare the few extra seconds to walk from a legitimate space to the door but they can’t. Instead the inconvenience a few people.
This brings me to the wheelchair asshole. The boy and I went to a fancy party hosted by a vendor. There was a gentleman there in a wheelchair. At first he had my admiration because despite being in a chair he was one of the few people on the dance floor most of the night. You go sir. You go. But my admiration quickly turned to dislike when I felt something ram into me at top speed a few hours later. I looked down to see what almost knocked me over and it was wheelchair asshole. See, he had plenty of room to pass but instead he decided that he needed to weave his way through the group of people I was standing with rather than wheeling an extra foot over. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt and figured it couldn’t be easy to navigate a chair. However, it didn’t stop him from saying, “Oh, I’m sorry” and stepping to the side while speaking to him like he was a cute 5 year-old boy whose cheeks I wanted to pinch.
Later in bed I expressed my frustration at wheelchair asshole and the boy said “that guy was an idiot.” I was like, “Oh my god, you can’t call someone in a wheelchair an idiot.” The boy explained that I didn’t see the half of it. Apparently, while I was in line for the raw bar, the wheelchair asshole rolled up to our table because wanted to help himself to the box of cigars. One of stew’s co-workers was using the top of the box to put her plate on because the tables were very small. Wheelchair asshole rolled up, moved her plate while sticking his thumb in her shrimp and helped himself to a fine Cuban cigar. Who remembers that Denis Leary song. Oh yeah. Sing with me.
That is where the term was born. The words I knew I had to spotlight in my most offensive blog ever.
“He was an idiot acting like he was entitled because he was a wheelchair asshole.”
The term entitlement seems to reign supreme in my family. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that we have no fear of red lights, stop signs, speed limits and the like. It’s not that we don’t obey the rules of the road but just that if we should get pulled over by the po-po, it’s not going any further than radioing in our plates. This has carried over to other aspects. Recently, the final stages of wedding planning has caught me in a time bind. While I understand that I have to work around the schedules of others, my mother can’t grasp that concept. She is ready to throw down with my wedding coordinator. When I informed her to believe that the weight of our name was leaving the confines of our small town, she refused to believe me. REFUSED.
Everyday , when I pull into the parking garage at work, I am faced with the inconsideration of others. It seems like everyone here cannot park their cars. They either pull over the line or park crooked. This results in me having to park miles away because every car is taking up two spaces. And one person had the nerve to shoot me a look because I pulled in straight next to her crooked ass. My apologies that I can park and you can’t.
Often, I am faced with some traffic dilemma near the bakery by my house. People like to park in the firelane outside the bakery because parking in a space like everyone else must just be too fucking inconvenient for them. The problem is, the area where the bakery is a corner and the road in front of it where the firelane is a two lane road. It makes rounding that corner when a car is stopped at the Stop sign next to a vehicle parked in the firelane IMPOSSIBLE and forces the person trying to make a left to drive through the parking lot way out of their way because someone was too fucking lazy to walk 20 feet.
I feel like following these people in the bakery and asking them what makes them think their time is ANY more important that mine that I can spare the few extra seconds to walk from a legitimate space to the door but they can’t. Instead the inconvenience a few people.
This brings me to the wheelchair asshole. The boy and I went to a fancy party hosted by a vendor. There was a gentleman there in a wheelchair. At first he had my admiration because despite being in a chair he was one of the few people on the dance floor most of the night. You go sir. You go. But my admiration quickly turned to dislike when I felt something ram into me at top speed a few hours later. I looked down to see what almost knocked me over and it was wheelchair asshole. See, he had plenty of room to pass but instead he decided that he needed to weave his way through the group of people I was standing with rather than wheeling an extra foot over. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt and figured it couldn’t be easy to navigate a chair. However, it didn’t stop him from saying, “Oh, I’m sorry” and stepping to the side while speaking to him like he was a cute 5 year-old boy whose cheeks I wanted to pinch.
Later in bed I expressed my frustration at wheelchair asshole and the boy said “that guy was an idiot.” I was like, “Oh my god, you can’t call someone in a wheelchair an idiot.” The boy explained that I didn’t see the half of it. Apparently, while I was in line for the raw bar, the wheelchair asshole rolled up to our table because wanted to help himself to the box of cigars. One of stew’s co-workers was using the top of the box to put her plate on because the tables were very small. Wheelchair asshole rolled up, moved her plate while sticking his thumb in her shrimp and helped himself to a fine Cuban cigar. Who remembers that Denis Leary song. Oh yeah. Sing with me.
That is where the term was born. The words I knew I had to spotlight in my most offensive blog ever.
“He was an idiot acting like he was entitled because he was a wheelchair asshole.”
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Bridezilla attacks
The gods must be crazy.
I woke up today before the boy. That is not a shocker if you think of how I have been sleeping lately . . . or not sleeping. As I went to carefully sneak out of the bed as tho not to disturb sleeping beauty, he wakes from his slumber and asks me to tell him a story. It's far too early to be creative and all that is running through my veins is poison at the forces around me trying to push every button in my body as I try to plan this huge wedding I did not want to have to plan.
See, yesterday, I got a call from my Bridal Shop who I now consider to be holding my dress hostage. Let me go back to July 28th , 2006, a lovely Friday when I had summer hours. On Friday, July 28th, against my better judgment, I purchased my wedding dress because I was advised by the lady at the bridal shop that I should purchase a gown at least 9 months ahead of time. She measured me and we plunked down a deposit. Now, knowing how my body is (ever changing) I stated this point to her and she still ordered me the size she thought would fit me like a glove because "they usually are big when I get them."
A cold day in March, my dress comes in. I rush to the shop to try it on and it's way too tight. She accuses me of gaining weight. While I did put on 6 pounds, that hardly means my dress should fit like I went up two sizes. She says they can let it out. In April, I find out they can't. After much finger pointing where she even tells me that when she measured me I was between two sizes but "I went with the smaller size since most of my brides say they will be that size that day." I explained, I am not like most brides and I would have told her to err on the side of caution instead of being where I am now, WITH A DRESS THAT DOESN'T FIT. I now see why people pay thousands of dollars for a dress as an uppity bridal salon because I don't think this would have happened at one of those. I also don't think I would have to wait for Sally Teenybopper to vacate the dressing room with her $99 prom dress. Long story short, we had to order another dress. The same dress. Just a larger size. Well 4 sizes larger since they didn't have the next size up in my dress in stock. I had to also pay a restocking fee, a shipping fee and a size fee tacking on an extra $150 to the cost of my dress. My new dress comes in some time in May. We begin the alterations.
June 20th. That was my last fitting. June 20th, all she had to do was hem it. I went. She measured, she pinned. I figured the next time I came in, I could take my dress home. When I went with my mom on July 5th, my dress still had not left the shop. So, yesterday I called to make an appointment. I was asked if I could come in on my lunch. I said I could only if she promised to take me as soon as I walked in at 1:10 and I HAD TO BE DONE by 1:50. That meant if Sally Teenybopper was trying on a $99 dress or she was not done with her appointment before me than that girl better sit down and wait until I was done. She did not like that. She asked if I could get there any day before 5. I explained that I work UNTIL 5 and while, yes, sometimes I get out early. I don't know what days I can get out early until that day and any day I told her I could be there by 5, I always got stuck at work until 4:58 and then I had to deal with a snotty attitude when I walked in. My mom told me she had a Saturday morning appointment open so I asked if I could have it. She said she would check with the seamstress but if I came in, I had to be done by 10:15 because she had another appointment.
How come everyone else can get appointments except me? Apparently, I was not being an enormous Bridezilla with the attitude that everyone is there to cater to me.
She called me back a few minutes and yelled that I had to make time. That my wedding was in 10 days.
I took a deep breath. I had to before I spoke or only fire would have shot through and I can't burn my bridge with her until my dress is out of that shop. Yes, My wedding was in 10 days but whose fault was it that my dress was just sitting in her shop for two fucking weeks? Not mine. But now I have to pay the price of her poor customer service. I have two words for thsi bitch. LENS CRAFTERS. Remember my vendetta against them? Well, that was nothing compared to this.
Lucky for me (and her) I was scheduled to leave work early Thursday so I scheduled something for 2:30 Thursday. Itw as dicey for a minute there. Later when my mom called to make her appointment, teh lady said something that really set in stone the fact that she was batshit insane. She said, "I swear. These brides. They act like work is more important than their wedding gowns."
Without a job. I wouldn't have said money to buy said gown. Ih-Duh!
So, this comes full circle when the boy asked me to tell him a story this morning. It went a lot like this.
There was a girl named Lulu and she could not sleep. It's too bad because Lulu loves her some sleep. But she woke up one morning with her heart pounding and determined to solve the insomnia issue. She went downstairs and filled up all her water bottles with gasoline. Then she went to her rag bag and stuffed the rags inside the bottles soaking them real good. She left a little bit out to act as a . . . .
The boy ruined my story.
"Lulu burns down the bridal shop, doesn't she?"
Ruiner.
I woke up today before the boy. That is not a shocker if you think of how I have been sleeping lately . . . or not sleeping. As I went to carefully sneak out of the bed as tho not to disturb sleeping beauty, he wakes from his slumber and asks me to tell him a story. It's far too early to be creative and all that is running through my veins is poison at the forces around me trying to push every button in my body as I try to plan this huge wedding I did not want to have to plan.
See, yesterday, I got a call from my Bridal Shop who I now consider to be holding my dress hostage. Let me go back to July 28th , 2006, a lovely Friday when I had summer hours. On Friday, July 28th, against my better judgment, I purchased my wedding dress because I was advised by the lady at the bridal shop that I should purchase a gown at least 9 months ahead of time. She measured me and we plunked down a deposit. Now, knowing how my body is (ever changing) I stated this point to her and she still ordered me the size she thought would fit me like a glove because "they usually are big when I get them."
A cold day in March, my dress comes in. I rush to the shop to try it on and it's way too tight. She accuses me of gaining weight. While I did put on 6 pounds, that hardly means my dress should fit like I went up two sizes. She says they can let it out. In April, I find out they can't. After much finger pointing where she even tells me that when she measured me I was between two sizes but "I went with the smaller size since most of my brides say they will be that size that day." I explained, I am not like most brides and I would have told her to err on the side of caution instead of being where I am now, WITH A DRESS THAT DOESN'T FIT. I now see why people pay thousands of dollars for a dress as an uppity bridal salon because I don't think this would have happened at one of those. I also don't think I would have to wait for Sally Teenybopper to vacate the dressing room with her $99 prom dress. Long story short, we had to order another dress. The same dress. Just a larger size. Well 4 sizes larger since they didn't have the next size up in my dress in stock. I had to also pay a restocking fee, a shipping fee and a size fee tacking on an extra $150 to the cost of my dress. My new dress comes in some time in May. We begin the alterations.
June 20th. That was my last fitting. June 20th, all she had to do was hem it. I went. She measured, she pinned. I figured the next time I came in, I could take my dress home. When I went with my mom on July 5th, my dress still had not left the shop. So, yesterday I called to make an appointment. I was asked if I could come in on my lunch. I said I could only if she promised to take me as soon as I walked in at 1:10 and I HAD TO BE DONE by 1:50. That meant if Sally Teenybopper was trying on a $99 dress or she was not done with her appointment before me than that girl better sit down and wait until I was done. She did not like that. She asked if I could get there any day before 5. I explained that I work UNTIL 5 and while, yes, sometimes I get out early. I don't know what days I can get out early until that day and any day I told her I could be there by 5, I always got stuck at work until 4:58 and then I had to deal with a snotty attitude when I walked in. My mom told me she had a Saturday morning appointment open so I asked if I could have it. She said she would check with the seamstress but if I came in, I had to be done by 10:15 because she had another appointment.
How come everyone else can get appointments except me? Apparently, I was not being an enormous Bridezilla with the attitude that everyone is there to cater to me.
She called me back a few minutes and yelled that I had to make time. That my wedding was in 10 days.
I took a deep breath. I had to before I spoke or only fire would have shot through and I can't burn my bridge with her until my dress is out of that shop. Yes, My wedding was in 10 days but whose fault was it that my dress was just sitting in her shop for two fucking weeks? Not mine. But now I have to pay the price of her poor customer service. I have two words for thsi bitch. LENS CRAFTERS. Remember my vendetta against them? Well, that was nothing compared to this.
Lucky for me (and her) I was scheduled to leave work early Thursday so I scheduled something for 2:30 Thursday. Itw as dicey for a minute there. Later when my mom called to make her appointment, teh lady said something that really set in stone the fact that she was batshit insane. She said, "I swear. These brides. They act like work is more important than their wedding gowns."
Without a job. I wouldn't have said money to buy said gown. Ih-Duh!
So, this comes full circle when the boy asked me to tell him a story this morning. It went a lot like this.
There was a girl named Lulu and she could not sleep. It's too bad because Lulu loves her some sleep. But she woke up one morning with her heart pounding and determined to solve the insomnia issue. She went downstairs and filled up all her water bottles with gasoline. Then she went to her rag bag and stuffed the rags inside the bottles soaking them real good. She left a little bit out to act as a . . . .
The boy ruined my story.
"Lulu burns down the bridal shop, doesn't she?"
Ruiner.
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