I always thought it was a few hormones and genitalia. But it's not. The difference between man and womyn is much more simple than that. It's not biological, hormonal or genital.
It's electronic.
All my life I could have cared less about a TV. I mean I watched it. I enjoyed it but I could care less about the size. Twenty inches, twenty five, twenty seven, whatever. I was fine with it. My whole freshman year of college I lived without a TV. I remember if we wanted to watch 90210 we all crowded around my friend Marcie's 12-inch tv.
I had no issue with my TV since my parents got me the one for my first place. It fit into my beloved entertainment center (the recipient of MANY compliments) and life was good.
Until.
It took a couple of weeks after the boy moved in for him to start dissing my TV. The one he had at his place was enormous. I gave up my office so he could make it into his den and fit his TV. His TV would simply not fit into my entertainment center and I wisely chose my entertainment center over that monstrosity of a TV. I was not sacrificing Pottery Barn life for a corner of Best Buy. No way. I got my satisfaction when the mother of a Halloween trick-or-treater poked her head inside my crib and said, "wow, what a beautiful entertainment center." I closed the door, looked at Stew, who by the way was dressed like a pirate, and said, "did you hear that. She called it beautiful. It took her breath away." He immediately dismissed her as "a broad' and said my entertainment center lacked entertainment. he went on to trash the fact that it only had two outputs and I committed the sin of all sins by adding to my crappy TV a DVD/VCR combo which he practically threw up knowing we had to watch a movie on it. Geeze, don't hold back. He told his friends about my small TV and my combo and they ridiculed me incessantly. I fed into it by sending them pictures of how my crap-tastic TV would somehow change to Spanish subtitled around 9 p.m. every night. It annoyed Stew but i loved it. It helped make me bi-lingual and that comes in handy.
So. It was no surprise when Stew's parents gifted us with a check ear-marked for a TV on our wedding day. Anticipating this I put an entertainment center I found comparable to mine on our registry. I knew nobody was going to buy it for us but just having it on there would earn us 20% off when we did purchase it. The week after the wedding we sat in Fortunoff's as the saleslady went nuts trying to figure out how to discount it. Sadly enough we didn't have the TV yet but I knew it was just a matter of time. I pushed the delivery out as far as I could go and within a couple of weeks, Stew happily wrote me an email saying he picked out his TV. He sent me the link (like I actually had an input on it) and I pretended like I actually cared. I only cared about one thing, how much was delivery of this thing going to fuck my day up. When he got home he told me how pissed his friends were because his Tv will be two inches bigger. TWO INCHES. That is when I realzed, a man's TV is like a how a girl compares her boobs with those of another girl. Size does matter.
The entertainment center came first. Actually, we cheated a bit. The one I had was vanilla distressed wood and so was the new one so we just bought the expandable stand and the bridge saving ourselves about $1000. I did a little returning, some gift card schmoozing, "what do you mean that promotion had an expiration date, nobody told me. Can you go get your manager?" It ended up costing us a lot less. I never take no for an answer. Unacceptable. When the entertainment center came, Stew literally sat on the couch in front of the new and improved LOTSAENTERTAINMENT center with a huge smile on his face. I swear if he could have put his hand down his pants at that moment, he would have. I quickly put my 20 inch TV in the massive void. I thought the smile was disappear but it didn't. He was thinking ahead.
We both played hooky the day the TV got delivered. They gave us the generous window of 12-6. Stew "worked from home" and I just took the day off. I actually did work at home tho'. Stew spent the day pacing, perking up and running to the window every time he heard a truck. We live next door to a shopping center and trucks are always making deliveries so stew's hopes were dashed - A LOT. The TV came around 5 like we suspected. As soon as he confirmed it was the right truck he quickly (seriously, I never saw him move that fast) pushed the door open and waited there like a kid at Christmas. As soon as the guys left he quickly got to work with the wiring (special cables only), hooking up the Blu-Ray dvd player. We had some minor set-backs with the cable box but as soon as everything was done, his world was complete. He misses the TV more than me during the day now.
I guess he won't miss me then when I reclaim my office so I can get some work done since the TV is always on. I need some compensation tho', he made me get rid of my beloved L-shaped desk and that's going to cost a trip to Ikea.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Pie in the sky . . . or trash
The sugar free "pie" lasted until this evening. It's Wednesday for you late comers. I decided to give it another whirl when I walked into the kitchen to get some Cadbury mini-eggs.
Now, I know what you're thinking:
1.) How did you score mini-eggs in August?
The answer is simple. I have an Easter candy addiction. As we know Easter is my favorite candy holiday so I leave no shelf unturned in every store I go in around Easter time. Normally, I buy Easter candy after the official holiday to get it at 50 and sometimes 75% off but those mini-eggs have to be scooped up early. They are almost NEVER left on clearance racks. So, i buy a few bags and that way i have them throughout the year. In fact, I recently opened a bag I had leftover from LAST year. As in Easter 2006. Oh yeah. I still have Peeps too. It's Easter everyday in my house. I went a wee bit crazy this year and came home with about $25 worth of candy every time I went to CVS or Target. It got to the point where my chocoliscious loot was taking up and entire cabinet in my fridge. The sick part of me feels safe having it. Knowing it's there. I do not eat some everyday. I save it for PMS moments. I save it for the peanuts when they visit. I offer it up when a visitor says, "i wish i had something sweet." I'll share . . . unless I am down to my last cream egg and then you're on your own, pal.
2.) Why would you go into the kitchen for sugar ridden mini-eggs and suddenly get side-tracked by sugar free "pie."
Again, the answer is simple. I already had a handful of mini-eggs a little earlier and now I was planning to undo the damage (or curb the urge for another handful of mini-eggs) by attempting the "pie" again. Maybe another go at it wouldn't be too bad.
Two bites later that thing was in the garbage and I was digging in the freezer for some Reeces eggs.
Throwing out pie is unheard of. Unless it sprung mold (not that it lasts that long to turn bad) it is a sin to throw pie out in this house. But alas, it went bye bye.
Now, I know what you're thinking:
1.) How did you score mini-eggs in August?
The answer is simple. I have an Easter candy addiction. As we know Easter is my favorite candy holiday so I leave no shelf unturned in every store I go in around Easter time. Normally, I buy Easter candy after the official holiday to get it at 50 and sometimes 75% off but those mini-eggs have to be scooped up early. They are almost NEVER left on clearance racks. So, i buy a few bags and that way i have them throughout the year. In fact, I recently opened a bag I had leftover from LAST year. As in Easter 2006. Oh yeah. I still have Peeps too. It's Easter everyday in my house. I went a wee bit crazy this year and came home with about $25 worth of candy every time I went to CVS or Target. It got to the point where my chocoliscious loot was taking up and entire cabinet in my fridge. The sick part of me feels safe having it. Knowing it's there. I do not eat some everyday. I save it for PMS moments. I save it for the peanuts when they visit. I offer it up when a visitor says, "i wish i had something sweet." I'll share . . . unless I am down to my last cream egg and then you're on your own, pal.
2.) Why would you go into the kitchen for sugar ridden mini-eggs and suddenly get side-tracked by sugar free "pie."
Again, the answer is simple. I already had a handful of mini-eggs a little earlier and now I was planning to undo the damage (or curb the urge for another handful of mini-eggs) by attempting the "pie" again. Maybe another go at it wouldn't be too bad.
Two bites later that thing was in the garbage and I was digging in the freezer for some Reeces eggs.
Throwing out pie is unheard of. Unless it sprung mold (not that it lasts that long to turn bad) it is a sin to throw pie out in this house. But alas, it went bye bye.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Sugar Free Pie
Okay folks, let's face it. Sugar free and pie are two words that should NEVER go together in the English language. Pie without sugar, may not affect your glycemic levels while giving you the illusion of eating pie but the fact of the matter is Sugar Free pie tastes like shit.
Actually, I take that back. It does not actually taste like shit. The first bite renders some satisfaction that this Sugar Free confection may not be so bad afterall. The second bite tests your endurance and the third bite makes you throw your fork down and just give up.
In case you don't believe me. There is still some pie left. Pie left untouched since Saturday is unheard of in my house. If anything that pie would have been wolfed down for breakfast Sunday morning.
But, alas, I am glad I tried it because I would have always wondered. Now I know. It tastes like shit and gives you a horrendous case of garbage ass.
Actually, I take that back. It does not actually taste like shit. The first bite renders some satisfaction that this Sugar Free confection may not be so bad afterall. The second bite tests your endurance and the third bite makes you throw your fork down and just give up.
In case you don't believe me. There is still some pie left. Pie left untouched since Saturday is unheard of in my house. If anything that pie would have been wolfed down for breakfast Sunday morning.
But, alas, I am glad I tried it because I would have always wondered. Now I know. It tastes like shit and gives you a horrendous case of garbage ass.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Spiders in my ear and Triscuits in my eye
So. Imagine this. You are me and you have NO insurance. None. And you're eating Triscuits and you finish the box and you get to the best part. All those yummy salty crumbs in the bottom of the bag. You run into the kitchen, grab a scissors and slice off the crinkled messed up part of the bag so you have a smooth, straight sailing, easy slide right into your mouth. How many times have you done with a bag of chips? many. You don't think that this particular time will be the time that may cause you great embarrassment and shame.
I tip the bag so that all the deliciousness goes to one side. I tilt my head back and prepare for decadence. I forgot to close my eyes realizing this after it was too late and dozens of triscuit shreds (they were cheddar flavor too so nice and fake orangey yellow and salty) poured right into my right eye. It felt like I have several shards of salty glass scratching at my eyeball.
I panicked.
Stew was upstairs in the den playing a computer game and I was covering my left eye and blindly flailing about in the living room trying not to DIE from embarrassment that I may have to go to the hospital because I had Triscuits in my eye. Not only would they look at me like I was uncontrollable chubby wubby who has just to put the Triscuit bag over her face like a feedbag and couldn't face the fact the bag was empty; but this was going to cost a small fortune. I'd almost rather go blind and tell people a lie like I woke up one morning and was blind in my left eye than admit I went blind because I had Triscuits in my eye.
I could not stand the pain anymore and ran up the stairs. Stew heard the clumsy stomping and opened the door to his den. I couldn't really see if he was coming so I casually screamed, "get outta my way, I have Triscuits in my eye." That's right, pal. You married Mama Cass. I'm only a good 10 years away from choking on an Italian combo. Who loves ya, baby?
Stew just stood back while I ran into the bathroom and put on the water with every intention of flushing out my eyeball. Those plans quickly ended after the first splash revealed I put on the hot water. Stew stood there looking at me and wondering what he did to commit himself to a girl who blinded herself with Triscuits.
"How did you do that?" He asked but answered his own question. "Lulu, were you pouring the bag into your mouth."
You know. I wear glasses. they should be just as good as safety goggles in events like this but apparently I contorted my head far enough back to reach Linda Blair proportions. Stellar.
"Yes," I growled at him as I inspected my eye looking for soggy bits of yellowy orange wheat shreds. "I feel something way back there."
Stew told me it would work itself out but I was convinced it was going to rot first and cause an infection in my brain and produce maggots in my head.
"Just try not to rub your eye," he warned.
Um. Okay. Easy for you to say. Your eye didn't just get sprinkled with granules of salt and dried fake cheese.
Eventually, the feeling went away. I don't know if the Triscuit bits did work themselves out or if they just got soggy enough from eye juice that they broke apart and went away. By the time I went to sleep that night, I just felt a mild scratching behind my eye. However, for some reason there was this bad itch in my ear. Surely it was a spider.
"Stew," I said from under the covers, "My ear itches. I think it's a spider."
He assured me I was wrong. "I'm sure you don't have a spider in your ear."
Hah! How does he know? I have Triscuits in my eye.
I tip the bag so that all the deliciousness goes to one side. I tilt my head back and prepare for decadence. I forgot to close my eyes realizing this after it was too late and dozens of triscuit shreds (they were cheddar flavor too so nice and fake orangey yellow and salty) poured right into my right eye. It felt like I have several shards of salty glass scratching at my eyeball.
I panicked.
Stew was upstairs in the den playing a computer game and I was covering my left eye and blindly flailing about in the living room trying not to DIE from embarrassment that I may have to go to the hospital because I had Triscuits in my eye. Not only would they look at me like I was uncontrollable chubby wubby who has just to put the Triscuit bag over her face like a feedbag and couldn't face the fact the bag was empty; but this was going to cost a small fortune. I'd almost rather go blind and tell people a lie like I woke up one morning and was blind in my left eye than admit I went blind because I had Triscuits in my eye.
I could not stand the pain anymore and ran up the stairs. Stew heard the clumsy stomping and opened the door to his den. I couldn't really see if he was coming so I casually screamed, "get outta my way, I have Triscuits in my eye." That's right, pal. You married Mama Cass. I'm only a good 10 years away from choking on an Italian combo. Who loves ya, baby?
Stew just stood back while I ran into the bathroom and put on the water with every intention of flushing out my eyeball. Those plans quickly ended after the first splash revealed I put on the hot water. Stew stood there looking at me and wondering what he did to commit himself to a girl who blinded herself with Triscuits.
"How did you do that?" He asked but answered his own question. "Lulu, were you pouring the bag into your mouth."
You know. I wear glasses. they should be just as good as safety goggles in events like this but apparently I contorted my head far enough back to reach Linda Blair proportions. Stellar.
"Yes," I growled at him as I inspected my eye looking for soggy bits of yellowy orange wheat shreds. "I feel something way back there."
Stew told me it would work itself out but I was convinced it was going to rot first and cause an infection in my brain and produce maggots in my head.
"Just try not to rub your eye," he warned.
Um. Okay. Easy for you to say. Your eye didn't just get sprinkled with granules of salt and dried fake cheese.
Eventually, the feeling went away. I don't know if the Triscuit bits did work themselves out or if they just got soggy enough from eye juice that they broke apart and went away. By the time I went to sleep that night, I just felt a mild scratching behind my eye. However, for some reason there was this bad itch in my ear. Surely it was a spider.
"Stew," I said from under the covers, "My ear itches. I think it's a spider."
He assured me I was wrong. "I'm sure you don't have a spider in your ear."
Hah! How does he know? I have Triscuits in my eye.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Love, Honor and What . . . .
For those of you wondering, I do not feel any different. I probably would if Stew and I did not live in sin for almost two years before we got married. But, it's not like I'm suddenly picking up his dirty boxers off the bedroom floor. I've been doing it far too long to admit. However, strategically placed hampers have now eliminated that problem.
The only time I feel slightly different (and it's more weird than it is different) is when I refer to him as "my husband." I never really referred to Stew as my "boyfriend." I always just called him Stew. Rarely did I say "my boyfriend" because I remember being single and internally rolling the shit out of my eyes when some broad used to say, "my booyyyfriend." And even after we got engaged, "fiancee" rolled off my tongue about as well as if I tried to speak French. Even when I talked about him, his title was still "Stew" or "my boyfriend" but almost ALWAYS Stew. So, you can imagine how much I stutter the word "husband". I have to get in the habit of saying it but everytime I do, it jolts me something fierce and I have to start asking myself, "really? a husband? Are you sure? You barely look a day over 22, you can't possibly have a husband." Heck, if it weren't for my dental hygenist pointing out my gray hairs I wouldn't look a day over 13.
Having a husband has led to the great name change debate. Everybody keeps asking me what I am going to do. Am I going to take his, leave mine or compromise and hyphenate. The plan was to leave it alone. If someone wanted to call me Mrs. Doodyhead, I was fine with that. I wasn't going to take their head off and say "I am still Lisa Craplips." The other option was to hypenate but honestly, doing that makes me sound like a staunch german womyn who wants you to make her lick her boots. And, if you have ever looked into changing your name, it is a GIANT pain in the ass. I need my marriage license to do anything and THAT is currently being processed. I was just going to leave well enough alone until I met the branch manager at my bank.
A few days after the wedding I went to the bank to DEPOSIT the monetary gifts we received. The account has BOTH of our names on it. When I log into my account online I also get the joint accounts listed. From there I can move money around all I want. I can take from the joint and put it in my account and I can do whatever I want with it.
However, going there that day to deposit money into the joint account where they could see I was REALLY Lisa Craplips was probably harder than robbing that very same bank. Because some of the checks were made out to: "Mr. and Mrs. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Lisa and Stew Doodyhead" or "Mr. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Stewart Doodyhead and Lisa Craplips Doodyhead". I had Stew sign the back of every check. That was not good enough for the manager. The manager, who was talking to himself. The manager who was sniffling and choking on his own phlegm like a 2 year-old. The manager I wouldn't even trust to count my change jar. Suddenly, despite my having FULL access to this money online; I was trying to pull a fast one on him. I pointed out that I have online rights. I also pointed out that until this very moment I made weekly deposits into that same account without there ever being an issue.
I smiled. I made small talk with the girl he was training thinking this was going to be a very good lesson for her. I sat there while he looked like he was genuinely struggling with the decision to let me do this or not. I made this phlegm-bot's decision very easy for him. I sat back in the chair, crossed my arms like Sitting Bull and simply said, "all those checks are signed by Stewart Doodyhead so they are as good as cash. I am not leaving until all those checks are deposited." We were both there in person when we opened it. We both gave them our licenses. There was NO reason he could not do this.
He did it. But not without warning that there might be a problem. There wasn't.
And not without saying that he really shouldn't be doing this. Give me one good reason why? I am DEPOSITING money.
He said I should change my license. That some piece of identification on me needs to say that my lastname is Doodyhead or Craplips-Doodyhead. Something. Anything. So, I came home and looked into it and you know what, it's just too much f-ing trouble. I'd rather change banks.
Btw, this was a sponsored link. http://www.kitbiz.com/?AID=806247&PID=1116763
The only time I feel slightly different (and it's more weird than it is different) is when I refer to him as "my husband." I never really referred to Stew as my "boyfriend." I always just called him Stew. Rarely did I say "my boyfriend" because I remember being single and internally rolling the shit out of my eyes when some broad used to say, "my booyyyfriend." And even after we got engaged, "fiancee" rolled off my tongue about as well as if I tried to speak French. Even when I talked about him, his title was still "Stew" or "my boyfriend" but almost ALWAYS Stew. So, you can imagine how much I stutter the word "husband". I have to get in the habit of saying it but everytime I do, it jolts me something fierce and I have to start asking myself, "really? a husband? Are you sure? You barely look a day over 22, you can't possibly have a husband." Heck, if it weren't for my dental hygenist pointing out my gray hairs I wouldn't look a day over 13.
Having a husband has led to the great name change debate. Everybody keeps asking me what I am going to do. Am I going to take his, leave mine or compromise and hyphenate. The plan was to leave it alone. If someone wanted to call me Mrs. Doodyhead, I was fine with that. I wasn't going to take their head off and say "I am still Lisa Craplips." The other option was to hypenate but honestly, doing that makes me sound like a staunch german womyn who wants you to make her lick her boots. And, if you have ever looked into changing your name, it is a GIANT pain in the ass. I need my marriage license to do anything and THAT is currently being processed. I was just going to leave well enough alone until I met the branch manager at my bank.
A few days after the wedding I went to the bank to DEPOSIT the monetary gifts we received. The account has BOTH of our names on it. When I log into my account online I also get the joint accounts listed. From there I can move money around all I want. I can take from the joint and put it in my account and I can do whatever I want with it.
However, going there that day to deposit money into the joint account where they could see I was REALLY Lisa Craplips was probably harder than robbing that very same bank. Because some of the checks were made out to: "Mr. and Mrs. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Lisa and Stew Doodyhead" or "Mr. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Stewart Doodyhead and Lisa Craplips Doodyhead". I had Stew sign the back of every check. That was not good enough for the manager. The manager, who was talking to himself. The manager who was sniffling and choking on his own phlegm like a 2 year-old. The manager I wouldn't even trust to count my change jar. Suddenly, despite my having FULL access to this money online; I was trying to pull a fast one on him. I pointed out that I have online rights. I also pointed out that until this very moment I made weekly deposits into that same account without there ever being an issue.
I smiled. I made small talk with the girl he was training thinking this was going to be a very good lesson for her. I sat there while he looked like he was genuinely struggling with the decision to let me do this or not. I made this phlegm-bot's decision very easy for him. I sat back in the chair, crossed my arms like Sitting Bull and simply said, "all those checks are signed by Stewart Doodyhead so they are as good as cash. I am not leaving until all those checks are deposited." We were both there in person when we opened it. We both gave them our licenses. There was NO reason he could not do this.
He did it. But not without warning that there might be a problem. There wasn't.
And not without saying that he really shouldn't be doing this. Give me one good reason why? I am DEPOSITING money.
He said I should change my license. That some piece of identification on me needs to say that my lastname is Doodyhead or Craplips-Doodyhead. Something. Anything. So, I came home and looked into it and you know what, it's just too much f-ing trouble. I'd rather change banks.
Btw, this was a sponsored link. http://www.kitbiz.com/?AID=806247&PID=1116763
Monday, July 16, 2007
Flavor my coffee with coffee
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.
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.
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.
Friday, June 29, 2007
There is a fine line between insult and flattery
I went for a cleaning yesterday. I only have 21 more days to brighten and whiten this smile the cheap way. I had a different hygenist an Asian/Korean/Japanese/Chinese/Contonese/Taiwonese (I'm sorry but I don't know the difference) womyn who was so gentle with me that I almost forgot she was there.
I wish I were Asian/Korean/Japanese/Chinese/Contonese/Taiwonese because these people don't seem to have a filter on what is appropriate to say and what's not. I'd kill to go through life dissing people in broken Engrish and then smiling and laughing a slight shy laugh that makes the person you dissed wonder if it was a insult or a compliment. A friend of ours married a Korean girl who said to him on their first date, 'You're really fat, you must want to lose weight, huh?" And when he went to Korea to meet her family they mocked him incessantly about being stocky. He told us how her uncle would giggle and say, "fat boy, I bet you want some ice cream, don't you?" if they passed an ice cream place.
So, yesterday, I sat down in the chair and started flipping channels which is always a moot point since I have to take off my glasses when they start the process. It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't have a "fixed volume" and I could at least hear what's going on even if I can't see it. And to add insult to injury, it's permanently on closed caption. I may as well have been Helen Keller. The hygienist kept rolling back and forth looking at me and looking at my chart.
Then she finally said, "I had to look at your chart because I thought you were a teenager."
Wow! A teenager. I am genuinely flattered. I have been mistaken for a college student or in my mid-twenties but never my teens.
"But then I saw the hair and knew you couldn't be a teenager. Not with that."
The "that" she was referring to (and pointing to) was the patch of gray hairs that were starting to break through from my last hair appointment. And she had to have really good vision because they are still so new they're barely noticeable still.
"Well, thanks . . . . I guess," I said. One might think my engagement ring would give away the fact that I was not a teenager (since we don't live in Alabama) not the less than a quarter of an inch of gray roots on a one-inch section of my temple.
"You look really young," she kept saying, "I would have thought you were a teenager if not for that. I didn't think you would get that so young. Your chart has your birth date so that is why I looked."
Ummm.... okay, you wanna stop making me feel really old and just get to the scraping and polishing, lady.
After a few more minutes she asked me if I work. Now, mind you, between the broken Engrish, the mask, the fact she is soft-spoken and dental equipment is whirring she is even more difficult to understand. I explained that I took the day off because my appointment was smack in the middle of the morning for two hours (following the cleaning I had to see the real doctor and get my temporary crown put on) so there was no point in my going to work and telling them they couldn't put me in court when it was my job to be in court. She asks me what kind of court I work in and I tell her I am in every court from family to criminal and she said that my job sounds like fun. I told her it is but her work seems like fun too.
"No, it's not," she said. "It's boring. It's really boring. Like you. You are boring. I'm bored."
I've been called a lot of things in my life including (but not limited to) "Hitler," "black souled" and a "black widow" but I have NEVER been called boring. How do you respond to that? That's even a worse slam than the aforementioned in my book.
"Some people are really boring," she elaborated. "You're boring because there's not much for me to do. Your teeth are pretty clean."
Okay. I felt a little bit better. At least I was boring for a good reason and not because I wasn't entertaining. I pride myself on being entertaining . . . even if I am the only one who thinks that. I wouldn't want to be old AND boring. Heavens no!
After a few more minutes of scraping and awkward silence, she puts the goggles on me signaling its time to administer the baking soda power washing. She turned around to set up and I quickly put my glasses on under the goggles (because scraping dried on baking soda off glasses is a real bitch) just in time for the Breakfast Club to start on one of the channels I landed on.
When she turned around and saw what I did, she laughed. "You so funny and cute," she said.
Hah! I'll show you boring and old.
"So funny. So funny. Do you have kids?"
I told her I did not have kids yet. I had to get through the wedding first and then I'd think about kids.
"I can tell," she said. I was waiting for some sort of backhanded compliment. I was starting to think she should just cut me in half and count my rings (read: scar tissue) so she could know everything about me.
"You're still very . . . " and she made this gesture with her hands and her face (which was half obscured by her mask). It's hard to describe the half that I did see, but she kind of put her hands up by her head and waved them around while bobbing her head. Its the gesture you might make if you found someone to be an airhead or flighty. However, it could also be interpreted as carefree and without worry. Did she just call me immature by way of charades? Her confusing gesture, much like her, was like a fortune cookie. Confucius say what?
"People who have kids are very . . ." and she made stern face and held her arms in a rigid manner. "I don't like them. They very different. Very . . ." and she made the gesture again.
Okay. I get it.
Finally she was done. I couldn't get out of the chair fast enough even if they were at my favorite part in the movie where they're all in the library taking out their lunches and Judd Nelson launches into his "woe is me" routine. Whatever happened to Judd Nelson?
She bid me farewell and wished me good luck and sent me off with a toothbrush and trial of floss. "Thanks," I said muttering "for nothing" under my breath.
I came home and told Stew what transpired between me and my Hyde-gienist. He started complimenting me in a Chinese accent saying he was reversing the days misfortune. 'You so young," he said, "so young and not boring." Later he put it into perspective. "She basically backhanded you for an hour or so and you paid her to do it AND because there was barely anything left to clean, you paid for nothing."
Way to make me feel better.
I wish I were Asian/Korean/Japanese/Chinese/Contonese/Taiwonese because these people don't seem to have a filter on what is appropriate to say and what's not. I'd kill to go through life dissing people in broken Engrish and then smiling and laughing a slight shy laugh that makes the person you dissed wonder if it was a insult or a compliment. A friend of ours married a Korean girl who said to him on their first date, 'You're really fat, you must want to lose weight, huh?" And when he went to Korea to meet her family they mocked him incessantly about being stocky. He told us how her uncle would giggle and say, "fat boy, I bet you want some ice cream, don't you?" if they passed an ice cream place.
So, yesterday, I sat down in the chair and started flipping channels which is always a moot point since I have to take off my glasses when they start the process. It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't have a "fixed volume" and I could at least hear what's going on even if I can't see it. And to add insult to injury, it's permanently on closed caption. I may as well have been Helen Keller. The hygienist kept rolling back and forth looking at me and looking at my chart.
Then she finally said, "I had to look at your chart because I thought you were a teenager."
Wow! A teenager. I am genuinely flattered. I have been mistaken for a college student or in my mid-twenties but never my teens.
"But then I saw the hair and knew you couldn't be a teenager. Not with that."
The "that" she was referring to (and pointing to) was the patch of gray hairs that were starting to break through from my last hair appointment. And she had to have really good vision because they are still so new they're barely noticeable still.
"Well, thanks . . . . I guess," I said. One might think my engagement ring would give away the fact that I was not a teenager (since we don't live in Alabama) not the less than a quarter of an inch of gray roots on a one-inch section of my temple.
"You look really young," she kept saying, "I would have thought you were a teenager if not for that. I didn't think you would get that so young. Your chart has your birth date so that is why I looked."
Ummm.... okay, you wanna stop making me feel really old and just get to the scraping and polishing, lady.
After a few more minutes she asked me if I work. Now, mind you, between the broken Engrish, the mask, the fact she is soft-spoken and dental equipment is whirring she is even more difficult to understand. I explained that I took the day off because my appointment was smack in the middle of the morning for two hours (following the cleaning I had to see the real doctor and get my temporary crown put on) so there was no point in my going to work and telling them they couldn't put me in court when it was my job to be in court. She asks me what kind of court I work in and I tell her I am in every court from family to criminal and she said that my job sounds like fun. I told her it is but her work seems like fun too.
"No, it's not," she said. "It's boring. It's really boring. Like you. You are boring. I'm bored."
I've been called a lot of things in my life including (but not limited to) "Hitler," "black souled" and a "black widow" but I have NEVER been called boring. How do you respond to that? That's even a worse slam than the aforementioned in my book.
"Some people are really boring," she elaborated. "You're boring because there's not much for me to do. Your teeth are pretty clean."
Okay. I felt a little bit better. At least I was boring for a good reason and not because I wasn't entertaining. I pride myself on being entertaining . . . even if I am the only one who thinks that. I wouldn't want to be old AND boring. Heavens no!
After a few more minutes of scraping and awkward silence, she puts the goggles on me signaling its time to administer the baking soda power washing. She turned around to set up and I quickly put my glasses on under the goggles (because scraping dried on baking soda off glasses is a real bitch) just in time for the Breakfast Club to start on one of the channels I landed on.
When she turned around and saw what I did, she laughed. "You so funny and cute," she said.
Hah! I'll show you boring and old.
"So funny. So funny. Do you have kids?"
I told her I did not have kids yet. I had to get through the wedding first and then I'd think about kids.
"I can tell," she said. I was waiting for some sort of backhanded compliment. I was starting to think she should just cut me in half and count my rings (read: scar tissue) so she could know everything about me.
"You're still very . . . " and she made this gesture with her hands and her face (which was half obscured by her mask). It's hard to describe the half that I did see, but she kind of put her hands up by her head and waved them around while bobbing her head. Its the gesture you might make if you found someone to be an airhead or flighty. However, it could also be interpreted as carefree and without worry. Did she just call me immature by way of charades? Her confusing gesture, much like her, was like a fortune cookie. Confucius say what?
"People who have kids are very . . ." and she made stern face and held her arms in a rigid manner. "I don't like them. They very different. Very . . ." and she made the gesture again.
Okay. I get it.
Finally she was done. I couldn't get out of the chair fast enough even if they were at my favorite part in the movie where they're all in the library taking out their lunches and Judd Nelson launches into his "woe is me" routine. Whatever happened to Judd Nelson?
She bid me farewell and wished me good luck and sent me off with a toothbrush and trial of floss. "Thanks," I said muttering "for nothing" under my breath.
I came home and told Stew what transpired between me and my Hyde-gienist. He started complimenting me in a Chinese accent saying he was reversing the days misfortune. 'You so young," he said, "so young and not boring." Later he put it into perspective. "She basically backhanded you for an hour or so and you paid her to do it AND because there was barely anything left to clean, you paid for nothing."
Way to make me feel better.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
B.Y.O.D.C. - Bring Your Own Damn Coffee
It started. The end of my convenience.
I can only function in the morning after a cup of coffee. I reheat some cold coffee from the fridge and chug it before I get in the shower. Then, because I live right next to a bakery, I drop in there to get a cop before going to work because the cafeteria in the courthouse charges $1.50 for about 6 ounces of coffee when I can pay $1.75 for 20 ounces at the bakery. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what is the better deal . . . and better cup of joe. I don't care of the guy at the courthouse has a sign by the exorbitant price that says, "it's not quantity, it's quality" it's bullshit and it sucks either way.
The bakery is stop is not without annoyances because they have the coffee station set up in some half-ass manner. One might think they would put the trash by the station at the end where you stir your coffee and maybe have to use a napkin or two. But now, they have the garbage all the way in the middle of the station where all the coffee is. It's a narrow aisle and it's usually clogged so getting back to the trash is not an easy feat. Everybody that goes in there comments on what a dumb place that is to have the garbage but apparently those complaints have fallen on deaf ears. Other than that, the only other minor annoyance is that they occasionally run out of half and half. Sometimes, it is for a couple of days which blows my mind as to why they would even let this happen because they are next door to a grocery store.
After the third day of having to use milk (I know it doesn't seem like a hardship but i HATE milk) I thought I was going to have tos tart bringing my own cream. I thought of how if I had to bring my own cream, I deserved some sort of discount. But that is when I noticed the sign posted to the empty black holder that housed Splenda stating, "Please ask for Splenda at the counter."
Okay. People steal Splenda. It is completely retarded that people steal Splenda and my mom is one of those people. So, I get their rationale for hiding their Splenda. But, how many people are standing there in that narrow and totally exposed aisle stuffing their pockets with Splenda that you feel the need to hide it. And I go in there every morning (albeit only for a few minutes) and I have never seen anyone hoarding Splenda. Also, if you are charging $1.75 a cup and I see you sell at least $10 worth of coffee in the 5 minutes I am there, I think you can afford some Costco Splenda . . . . and some f-ing Half and Half.
Ask for it at the counter. In theory it seems fine. It seems effortless. But in reality, it's not and here's why:
I have a system for doing my coffee up which goes against the flow of the ass backwards way they have their silly station set up.
Step 1. Grab a cup
Step 2. Walk past all the coffee to the opposite end of the stations to pour in some half and half (if they have it)
Step 3. Walk back to the mid-point to fill my coffee cup. If nobody came in behind me it's easy, if someone did, it's a bob-and-weave maneuver.
Step 4. Go back to where the cream was to add two Splenda packets and stir some in.
Step 5. Bob-and-weave back to the midpoint to throw out my stirrer in the trash slot which is at crotch level with most of the patrons so I have to be careful not to give some stranger a morning thrill.
Step 6. Pay.
But now that i have to ask for Splenda, my flow is ruined.
Step 4 becomes - Go to the counter and wait for other customers to finish up deciding how many scones they want until the girl (because there are usually two girls but one is always busy and the other one is missing) is freed up to get my Splenda. Meanwhile my coffee is getting cold at the end of the counter with the lid off as strangers shuffle around it while they are helping themselves to the real sugar which seems to grow on trees judging from the way they just leave it out for anyone to use.
Step 5 - Go back to the counter to put in the sugar and stir.
Step 6 - throw out my trash.
Step 7 - Pay.
Yes, I am well aware there are ways to avoid the extra step. I have tried waiting patiently to get the Splenda when I first walk in but there is usually a mob of people there. I have also paid for my coffee when I get the Splenda to avoid having to go back.
But honestly, the only way to really save the time is to just bring my Splenda and if I am now bringing my own Splenda and my own cream, I should just get a coffee pot with a timer and a travel mug.
I can only function in the morning after a cup of coffee. I reheat some cold coffee from the fridge and chug it before I get in the shower. Then, because I live right next to a bakery, I drop in there to get a cop before going to work because the cafeteria in the courthouse charges $1.50 for about 6 ounces of coffee when I can pay $1.75 for 20 ounces at the bakery. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what is the better deal . . . and better cup of joe. I don't care of the guy at the courthouse has a sign by the exorbitant price that says, "it's not quantity, it's quality" it's bullshit and it sucks either way.
The bakery is stop is not without annoyances because they have the coffee station set up in some half-ass manner. One might think they would put the trash by the station at the end where you stir your coffee and maybe have to use a napkin or two. But now, they have the garbage all the way in the middle of the station where all the coffee is. It's a narrow aisle and it's usually clogged so getting back to the trash is not an easy feat. Everybody that goes in there comments on what a dumb place that is to have the garbage but apparently those complaints have fallen on deaf ears. Other than that, the only other minor annoyance is that they occasionally run out of half and half. Sometimes, it is for a couple of days which blows my mind as to why they would even let this happen because they are next door to a grocery store.
After the third day of having to use milk (I know it doesn't seem like a hardship but i HATE milk) I thought I was going to have tos tart bringing my own cream. I thought of how if I had to bring my own cream, I deserved some sort of discount. But that is when I noticed the sign posted to the empty black holder that housed Splenda stating, "Please ask for Splenda at the counter."
Okay. People steal Splenda. It is completely retarded that people steal Splenda and my mom is one of those people. So, I get their rationale for hiding their Splenda. But, how many people are standing there in that narrow and totally exposed aisle stuffing their pockets with Splenda that you feel the need to hide it. And I go in there every morning (albeit only for a few minutes) and I have never seen anyone hoarding Splenda. Also, if you are charging $1.75 a cup and I see you sell at least $10 worth of coffee in the 5 minutes I am there, I think you can afford some Costco Splenda . . . . and some f-ing Half and Half.
Ask for it at the counter. In theory it seems fine. It seems effortless. But in reality, it's not and here's why:
I have a system for doing my coffee up which goes against the flow of the ass backwards way they have their silly station set up.
Step 1. Grab a cup
Step 2. Walk past all the coffee to the opposite end of the stations to pour in some half and half (if they have it)
Step 3. Walk back to the mid-point to fill my coffee cup. If nobody came in behind me it's easy, if someone did, it's a bob-and-weave maneuver.
Step 4. Go back to where the cream was to add two Splenda packets and stir some in.
Step 5. Bob-and-weave back to the midpoint to throw out my stirrer in the trash slot which is at crotch level with most of the patrons so I have to be careful not to give some stranger a morning thrill.
Step 6. Pay.
But now that i have to ask for Splenda, my flow is ruined.
Step 4 becomes - Go to the counter and wait for other customers to finish up deciding how many scones they want until the girl (because there are usually two girls but one is always busy and the other one is missing) is freed up to get my Splenda. Meanwhile my coffee is getting cold at the end of the counter with the lid off as strangers shuffle around it while they are helping themselves to the real sugar which seems to grow on trees judging from the way they just leave it out for anyone to use.
Step 5 - Go back to the counter to put in the sugar and stir.
Step 6 - throw out my trash.
Step 7 - Pay.
Yes, I am well aware there are ways to avoid the extra step. I have tried waiting patiently to get the Splenda when I first walk in but there is usually a mob of people there. I have also paid for my coffee when I get the Splenda to avoid having to go back.
But honestly, the only way to really save the time is to just bring my Splenda and if I am now bringing my own Splenda and my own cream, I should just get a coffee pot with a timer and a travel mug.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
I liked your cookies, bitches!
Dear Dunkin Donuts,
I have to say that i really dig your new cookies. I dug the old ones at 69 cents a pop but the new, larger and more expensive ones are a pretty good trade up.
However, I couldn't help but notice that you have altered the peanut butter cup recipe. The point of the peanut butter cup cookie is that it was loaded with hunks of melted peanubutter cups. Sweet fancy goodness!!! The last two I got looked like peanut butter cookies with peanutbutter chips and maybe one piece of "cup." Not cool. It's just a peanubutter cookie. It's almost too much a good thing and void of that delicious combo of peanutbutter and chocolate. That is okay if you want to start selling peanutbutter cookies, but then you should advertise them as such and drop the "cup" part completely. Seriously, if it ain't broke, don't try to fix it.
Bring back the original recipe. I don't know a single person who didn't find that cookie to be out of this world.
Both Coke and the Colonel messed with their original recipe and took a lot of heat for it. You know what happened? Original recipe and Coke Classic back on the market. Learn from them.
- Dr Horder
I have to say that i really dig your new cookies. I dug the old ones at 69 cents a pop but the new, larger and more expensive ones are a pretty good trade up.
However, I couldn't help but notice that you have altered the peanut butter cup recipe. The point of the peanut butter cup cookie is that it was loaded with hunks of melted peanubutter cups. Sweet fancy goodness!!! The last two I got looked like peanut butter cookies with peanutbutter chips and maybe one piece of "cup." Not cool. It's just a peanubutter cookie. It's almost too much a good thing and void of that delicious combo of peanutbutter and chocolate. That is okay if you want to start selling peanutbutter cookies, but then you should advertise them as such and drop the "cup" part completely. Seriously, if it ain't broke, don't try to fix it.
Bring back the original recipe. I don't know a single person who didn't find that cookie to be out of this world.
Both Coke and the Colonel messed with their original recipe and took a lot of heat for it. You know what happened? Original recipe and Coke Classic back on the market. Learn from them.
- Dr Horder
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Hep C and a Wii
As you know I am on a Coke cap quest. My goal is to get enough caps to get a Nintendo Wii. We averaged it out and I have to drink like 5 Cokes a day for the next year in order to get one. Considering I only drink about 1 a month that is quite a jump.
I've started soliciting my friends to send me their reward codes. When I see someone drinking a Coke, I ask for their cap. It's more or less co-workers at this point but I am starting to consider asking strangers. When I see an abandoned bottle on the ground, I unscrew the cap, wrap it in tissue and bring it home like a coveted prize.
Sunday, after feasting on gyros and souvlakis at the Greek Festival, we were walking back to the car when I spotted a crushed Sprite bottle. I pulled my sweatshirt sleeve down over my hand and unscrewed the cap. Stew tried to tell me not to, insisting I was going to get some disease but I did not care.
157 Reward points baby. Less than 6000 to go.
I've started soliciting my friends to send me their reward codes. When I see someone drinking a Coke, I ask for their cap. It's more or less co-workers at this point but I am starting to consider asking strangers. When I see an abandoned bottle on the ground, I unscrew the cap, wrap it in tissue and bring it home like a coveted prize.
Sunday, after feasting on gyros and souvlakis at the Greek Festival, we were walking back to the car when I spotted a crushed Sprite bottle. I pulled my sweatshirt sleeve down over my hand and unscrewed the cap. Stew tried to tell me not to, insisting I was going to get some disease but I did not care.
157 Reward points baby. Less than 6000 to go.
Monday, June 11, 2007
One, extra hot Hoff with whip
I had this rather disturbing dream the other night. I'm not quite sure what to make of it so if anyone is good at deciphering dreams, give this one a crack.
I know there was way more to the drea than this part but this is the only part I can remember. And for good reason.
I was in Walmart shopping for some things quickly before I came home. For soem reason, Walmart had a hopping (and might I add packed) coffee bar. It was Starbucks-like but with Walmart prices. I scanned the menu and decided on a latte. The line was huge but I waited. I gave my order to the Wal-rista and she whipped it up amazingly fast. This was a dream for the simple fact I didn't have to repeat my order ten times. It came time to pay and I asked the Wal-rist how much I owed. She said, "$1.60." I got out my wallet to pay when she snagged the latte back behind the counter and said it was only $1.60 if I saw the episode of Sienfeld where David Hasselhoff played a pizza delivery guy.
Now, I was fucked for two reasons. One, I was never a regular Sienfeld watcher. I mean, i mwatched it but never tuned in every Thursday night. Two, i am 99% sure David Hasselhoff never played a pizza delivery guy on the show but never having watched every episode, I could not be sure.
I told the Wal-rista that i was not familiar with the episode and asked what the non-Hoff price was. She said, "$3,000."
I argued with her about why this episode was so great that it warranted a "2,998.40" price increase. Apparently, i was the only person in the line that never even heard of it because the whole line was aghast at the fact I let this episode slip by. I was offended for two reasons. One, i am a pop culture queen and if i even heard anybody talking about it, I would have done everything in my power to find it somehow and watch it. Two, christ people, it was just one scene in one show.
I paid $3,000 for my latte (I musthave needed coffe somethig fierce) and went to find the manager to tell him that his employees are running the coffee bar any way they choose. I found him berating some younger employee about how if he doesn't pay attention to detail he will never become a Wal-mart manager like his almighty greatness that stands before him. "You'll never be worthy of wearing a blue vest with a gold star if you keep this attitude up, young man."
I interrupted him by saying, "after i am done with you, he won't even want to be the shit on your shoe. Did you know your Wal-rista are charging anything they want for latte? They charged me $3,000 for this latte because I didn't see some lame ass episode of Sienfels thathad David Hasselhoff delivering pizza."
They both recoiled in horror. Even the young employee who I was sure was going to take my side just to give his manager the "what's up, how you like me now, punk" look.
The manager told me it was store policy. I debated what a silly policy it was. I'd like to add that teh scalding hot latte was searing my hands. I guess a hand protector ring was extra. I'm not sure why i accepted this policy and di not empty the contents of my moletn latte on his head but for some reason I didn't.
I swear. I think I am going nuts.
I know there was way more to the drea than this part but this is the only part I can remember. And for good reason.
I was in Walmart shopping for some things quickly before I came home. For soem reason, Walmart had a hopping (and might I add packed) coffee bar. It was Starbucks-like but with Walmart prices. I scanned the menu and decided on a latte. The line was huge but I waited. I gave my order to the Wal-rista and she whipped it up amazingly fast. This was a dream for the simple fact I didn't have to repeat my order ten times. It came time to pay and I asked the Wal-rist how much I owed. She said, "$1.60." I got out my wallet to pay when she snagged the latte back behind the counter and said it was only $1.60 if I saw the episode of Sienfeld where David Hasselhoff played a pizza delivery guy.
Now, I was fucked for two reasons. One, I was never a regular Sienfeld watcher. I mean, i mwatched it but never tuned in every Thursday night. Two, i am 99% sure David Hasselhoff never played a pizza delivery guy on the show but never having watched every episode, I could not be sure.
I told the Wal-rista that i was not familiar with the episode and asked what the non-Hoff price was. She said, "$3,000."
I argued with her about why this episode was so great that it warranted a "2,998.40" price increase. Apparently, i was the only person in the line that never even heard of it because the whole line was aghast at the fact I let this episode slip by. I was offended for two reasons. One, i am a pop culture queen and if i even heard anybody talking about it, I would have done everything in my power to find it somehow and watch it. Two, christ people, it was just one scene in one show.
I paid $3,000 for my latte (I musthave needed coffe somethig fierce) and went to find the manager to tell him that his employees are running the coffee bar any way they choose. I found him berating some younger employee about how if he doesn't pay attention to detail he will never become a Wal-mart manager like his almighty greatness that stands before him. "You'll never be worthy of wearing a blue vest with a gold star if you keep this attitude up, young man."
I interrupted him by saying, "after i am done with you, he won't even want to be the shit on your shoe. Did you know your Wal-rista are charging anything they want for latte? They charged me $3,000 for this latte because I didn't see some lame ass episode of Sienfels thathad David Hasselhoff delivering pizza."
They both recoiled in horror. Even the young employee who I was sure was going to take my side just to give his manager the "what's up, how you like me now, punk" look.
The manager told me it was store policy. I debated what a silly policy it was. I'd like to add that teh scalding hot latte was searing my hands. I guess a hand protector ring was extra. I'm not sure why i accepted this policy and di not empty the contents of my moletn latte on his head but for some reason I didn't.
I swear. I think I am going nuts.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
It's 3 a.m., do you know where my sanity is?
I like sleep.
Actually, let me amend that. I LOVE sleep. If you asked me to describe my perfect day it would surely start off with me sleeping in as long as I possibly could. Sleep it does the body good.
But here I am. Staring at my computer for what will be the fourth consecutive night of having no more than 4 hours. Tonight, it will be around 90 minutes. And all this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have RAGING cramps and drinking the mass amounts of coffee I need exacerbates the crampage.
Catch 22.
Flow was two days late and she is making me pay. It's not like i didn't have her room all ready for her. She just missed the train.
Among the things keeping me awake tonight other than cramps and my usual amount of bitterness is the phrase, "you're too much?" Can someone tell me what this means and is it a compliment?
I was in court the other day and an attorney who is relatively cool comes in and starts commiserating with the clerk and I about having to "hurry up and wait" in this particular courtroom. She looks down at my foot and asks if that is a tattoo on my toe. I say, "yup" and she laughs and says, "you're too much."
What does that mean and why am I too much because I have a tattoo on my toe? I know it's just a figure of speech but if you think about it, it makes no sense. Is being too much a good thing? Should people be scared? Watch out for her, she's too much. Too much of what?
Too much crazy apparently because any sane person would be sleeping now. I have nothing to really say. No enlightening thoughts, news or otherwise. What I have learned today? There are a ton hymen disorders out there (don't ask). While interesting, this bit of knowledge is virtually useless to me having never had a hymen disorder and not having a hymen for quite some time now.
Why have I taken up a Triscuit addiction and Stew is helping himself to my Red Stripe? And why does he think that I am crazy to think that every place should carry Red Stripe? They looked at me like I was smoking crack when I was at T'Gin last and asked for a Red Stripe. Okay, so it wasn't a Guinness, go ahead and boil me like a freaking potato but don't insult yourself (and me) by offering me a Corona instead because if you're going to turn your nose up at a Jamaican beer don't get all UN on me, Mon. That would be like me saying I want Mexican food and Stew taking me to Taco Bell.
"Not every bar has Red Stripe, Lulu," he says like I'm asking for something so exotic.
Why f-ing not? If almost every bar we go to has Guinness. So I insult Stew's senses and order a Heineken just for spite.
Actually, I am off the sauce. The last time I was out I had 3 pint glasses of Stella and despite the fact I was buzzed after half of glass one I kept swallowing anyway. Stew had to pretty much lead me to the car where he said I quickly became "a mess." I passed out but apparently not before thinking i could have an entire conversation with Stew using a series of gutteral "mmmmms" "nnnnths" and "mhhheemmms" I still can't believe he couldn't understand me. If I have to learn to tell the difference between a witnesses' "uh-uh" and "uh-huh" the least he could do is decode my mumbles and not force me to use words. Anyway, I was hungover so bad the following day that just thinking about it turns me off of drinking despite the fact that I want to.
It's wing night tonight. Salad pizza and wings. Twenty cent wings. Yum. Sad to say the thought will keep me going all day despite the fact I have had no appetite for anything not coated in chocolate for the past three days.
Actually, let me amend that. I LOVE sleep. If you asked me to describe my perfect day it would surely start off with me sleeping in as long as I possibly could. Sleep it does the body good.
But here I am. Staring at my computer for what will be the fourth consecutive night of having no more than 4 hours. Tonight, it will be around 90 minutes. And all this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have RAGING cramps and drinking the mass amounts of coffee I need exacerbates the crampage.
Catch 22.
Flow was two days late and she is making me pay. It's not like i didn't have her room all ready for her. She just missed the train.
Among the things keeping me awake tonight other than cramps and my usual amount of bitterness is the phrase, "you're too much?" Can someone tell me what this means and is it a compliment?
I was in court the other day and an attorney who is relatively cool comes in and starts commiserating with the clerk and I about having to "hurry up and wait" in this particular courtroom. She looks down at my foot and asks if that is a tattoo on my toe. I say, "yup" and she laughs and says, "you're too much."
What does that mean and why am I too much because I have a tattoo on my toe? I know it's just a figure of speech but if you think about it, it makes no sense. Is being too much a good thing? Should people be scared? Watch out for her, she's too much. Too much of what?
Too much crazy apparently because any sane person would be sleeping now. I have nothing to really say. No enlightening thoughts, news or otherwise. What I have learned today? There are a ton hymen disorders out there (don't ask). While interesting, this bit of knowledge is virtually useless to me having never had a hymen disorder and not having a hymen for quite some time now.
Why have I taken up a Triscuit addiction and Stew is helping himself to my Red Stripe? And why does he think that I am crazy to think that every place should carry Red Stripe? They looked at me like I was smoking crack when I was at T'Gin last and asked for a Red Stripe. Okay, so it wasn't a Guinness, go ahead and boil me like a freaking potato but don't insult yourself (and me) by offering me a Corona instead because if you're going to turn your nose up at a Jamaican beer don't get all UN on me, Mon. That would be like me saying I want Mexican food and Stew taking me to Taco Bell.
"Not every bar has Red Stripe, Lulu," he says like I'm asking for something so exotic.
Why f-ing not? If almost every bar we go to has Guinness. So I insult Stew's senses and order a Heineken just for spite.
Actually, I am off the sauce. The last time I was out I had 3 pint glasses of Stella and despite the fact I was buzzed after half of glass one I kept swallowing anyway. Stew had to pretty much lead me to the car where he said I quickly became "a mess." I passed out but apparently not before thinking i could have an entire conversation with Stew using a series of gutteral "mmmmms" "nnnnths" and "mhhheemmms" I still can't believe he couldn't understand me. If I have to learn to tell the difference between a witnesses' "uh-uh" and "uh-huh" the least he could do is decode my mumbles and not force me to use words. Anyway, I was hungover so bad the following day that just thinking about it turns me off of drinking despite the fact that I want to.
It's wing night tonight. Salad pizza and wings. Twenty cent wings. Yum. Sad to say the thought will keep me going all day despite the fact I have had no appetite for anything not coated in chocolate for the past three days.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Will you still love me even after a lap dance?
There is something going on around here and I don't like the smell of it. Don't get me wrong. Stew is usually very attentive and wonderful and thoughtful and sweet to the point where I often feel unworthy. But lately, it has been poured on sticky sweet giving you a sugar rush with the first whiff.
It started on Tuesday night.
"I'm not going to poker tomorrow night."
"Why not?' I asked, "Were they not able to get enough people?"
"No, they were but I want to spend time with my Lulu because I am leaving her this weekend."
"Ummmm. Okay." I said before realizing what an ingrate I was. "Thank you. That is very sweet."
"Oh and where do you want to eat on Friday night?"
"It's only Tuesday. I don't even know what I want for dinner yet tonight." Then the ingrate feeling crept in more. "Brasita's" I suggested.
"Okay," he agreed. "I'll make reservations."
"Oh no wait," I said remembering a place we haven't been to in about a year despite it being the most phenomenal food we've had altho' quite pricey. Why not cash in on the niceness? "How about Columbus Park?"
"Anything you want."
And he was on the phone making reservations for two.
But wait, there's more.
"Okay, I may as well tell you."
"There's more?" I asked growing more skeptical by the second.
"I am going to get us tickets to see Knocked Up too after dinner."
This was a big step because we RARELY see movies I want to see altho' it's hardly like I drag him to chick flicks. Knocked up is by the writers of The 40 year-old Virgin. He acts like I ask him to rent Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or something.
"Cool," I said fully aware of what this was all about but willing to ride it out.
And with that, he quickly jumped online and ordered the tickets. He didn't even want to use our AAA cheapy vouchers or make me wait for the second week to try and use them. This was no hold barred wooing.
Wednesday night after filling my belly with wings and salad pizza we're laying on the couch and he is sucking up a head massage.
"I was going to surprise you . . . . " he starts to say.
Now, keep in mind, Stew often says this and then blames me for spoiling the surprise. Hellooooo .... does that make sense?
"I was going to get you a stuffed baby Shrek so you could sleep with it when I am gone this weekend."
Okay, that was kinda low. I am totally in love with Baby Shrek and now he was holding it over my head yet reminding me I was going to be sleeping alone this weekend while he is off to Atlantic City with his head buried in some stripper's implants partaking in lord knows what else.
"But i couldn't find one like the girl had," he said referring to the little stuffed one I saw some 6 year-old hauling around on Monday afternoon. "The only one I found was like a Cabbage Patch kid with a hard head."
Bitterness starting to fester thinking about titty bars, I stopped massaging and said, "Well, maybe you need to look harder."
So, I helped him look only able to locate stuffed baby Shreks at Build-A-Bear, the enemy of parents everywhere.
"Looks like you're going to the mall tomorrow." And then I danced around giddy with the thought singing, "I'm gonna get a baby Shrek baby Shrek." You'd swear I was less the girl about to be married and more a 5 year-old.
Thursday night, Stew came home defeated. Both Trumbull and Danbury were out of Baby Shreks.
"I feel like the parent who couldn't find the toy my daughter wanted. I feel like a failure."
And rather than offer support and tell him it's okay, I patted his back and said he could order it online which he ended up doing.
All this because he wants to go to Atlantic City with the guys for his bachelor party and he doesn't want me to come unhinged thinking about all the trouble they could get into. And even tho threats were made and wooing was in full effect, I still didn't feel like I could relax about it. So, out came the contract which he said he would not sign but ultimately did.
I, _________ , promise not to do any of the following things during my bachelor party festivities on Saturday, June 2, 2007 and Sunday, June 3, 2007 in Atlantic City, New Jersey or the surrounding areas of New Jersey, Philadelphia, New York and Connecticut.
Breaking of this contract results in the cancellation of my wedding. In the event the wedding is cancelled due to my breaking any of the following rules, _____________ of ______, Stamford, Connecticut is allowed to keep the engagement ring, both wedding bands, my big TV, game systems, games and DVDs so she can pay her parents back what they have spent for the wedding and all articles relating to the wedding. This includes, but is not limited to, invitations, postage, down payments, apparel, and etc.
I, _____ , will not do the following:
- End up in the hospital. Exceptions to the rules are car accidents (as long as I was not driving drunk or a passenger in a car where someone was driving intoxicated), a fire in the hotel/club or restaurant.
- Allow myself to get intoxicated to the point of blacking out.
- Allow my friends to peer pressure me into drinking more than I can handle.
- Get arrested.
- Get in a fight.
- Become injured by my own stupidity. Refer to Mr. Olympus.
- Kiss strippers or strangers in clubs.
- Have any physical contact whatsoever with strangers met in clubs/bars/boardwalk haunts or hotels.
- Gamble more money than I have.
- Take a stripper or stranger home
- Get a stripper’s or stranger’s number
- Touch a stripper’s or stranger’s private parts
- Have sex (oral or otherwise) with a stripper or stranger. This applies to giving and receiving.
- Do body shots off females.
- Go to a filthy massage parlor.
- Meet up with Sweet potato.
- Meet up with Zoobas.
- Not forget to bring Lulu home a magnet.
- Not cast my photo identification or other identification I need on the floors of clubs/hotels and bars.
I, ______, sign this contract in good faith, willingly and fully aware this will hold up in court.
It started on Tuesday night.
"I'm not going to poker tomorrow night."
"Why not?' I asked, "Were they not able to get enough people?"
"No, they were but I want to spend time with my Lulu because I am leaving her this weekend."
"Ummmm. Okay." I said before realizing what an ingrate I was. "Thank you. That is very sweet."
"Oh and where do you want to eat on Friday night?"
"It's only Tuesday. I don't even know what I want for dinner yet tonight." Then the ingrate feeling crept in more. "Brasita's" I suggested.
"Okay," he agreed. "I'll make reservations."
"Oh no wait," I said remembering a place we haven't been to in about a year despite it being the most phenomenal food we've had altho' quite pricey. Why not cash in on the niceness? "How about Columbus Park?"
"Anything you want."
And he was on the phone making reservations for two.
But wait, there's more.
"Okay, I may as well tell you."
"There's more?" I asked growing more skeptical by the second.
"I am going to get us tickets to see Knocked Up too after dinner."
This was a big step because we RARELY see movies I want to see altho' it's hardly like I drag him to chick flicks. Knocked up is by the writers of The 40 year-old Virgin. He acts like I ask him to rent Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or something.
"Cool," I said fully aware of what this was all about but willing to ride it out.
And with that, he quickly jumped online and ordered the tickets. He didn't even want to use our AAA cheapy vouchers or make me wait for the second week to try and use them. This was no hold barred wooing.
Wednesday night after filling my belly with wings and salad pizza we're laying on the couch and he is sucking up a head massage.
"I was going to surprise you . . . . " he starts to say.
Now, keep in mind, Stew often says this and then blames me for spoiling the surprise. Hellooooo .... does that make sense?
"I was going to get you a stuffed baby Shrek so you could sleep with it when I am gone this weekend."
Okay, that was kinda low. I am totally in love with Baby Shrek and now he was holding it over my head yet reminding me I was going to be sleeping alone this weekend while he is off to Atlantic City with his head buried in some stripper's implants partaking in lord knows what else.
"But i couldn't find one like the girl had," he said referring to the little stuffed one I saw some 6 year-old hauling around on Monday afternoon. "The only one I found was like a Cabbage Patch kid with a hard head."
Bitterness starting to fester thinking about titty bars, I stopped massaging and said, "Well, maybe you need to look harder."
So, I helped him look only able to locate stuffed baby Shreks at Build-A-Bear, the enemy of parents everywhere.
"Looks like you're going to the mall tomorrow." And then I danced around giddy with the thought singing, "I'm gonna get a baby Shrek baby Shrek." You'd swear I was less the girl about to be married and more a 5 year-old.
Thursday night, Stew came home defeated. Both Trumbull and Danbury were out of Baby Shreks.
"I feel like the parent who couldn't find the toy my daughter wanted. I feel like a failure."
And rather than offer support and tell him it's okay, I patted his back and said he could order it online which he ended up doing.
All this because he wants to go to Atlantic City with the guys for his bachelor party and he doesn't want me to come unhinged thinking about all the trouble they could get into. And even tho threats were made and wooing was in full effect, I still didn't feel like I could relax about it. So, out came the contract which he said he would not sign but ultimately did.
I, _________ , promise not to do any of the following things during my bachelor party festivities on Saturday, June 2, 2007 and Sunday, June 3, 2007 in Atlantic City, New Jersey or the surrounding areas of New Jersey, Philadelphia, New York and Connecticut.
Breaking of this contract results in the cancellation of my wedding. In the event the wedding is cancelled due to my breaking any of the following rules, _____________ of ______, Stamford, Connecticut is allowed to keep the engagement ring, both wedding bands, my big TV, game systems, games and DVDs so she can pay her parents back what they have spent for the wedding and all articles relating to the wedding. This includes, but is not limited to, invitations, postage, down payments, apparel, and etc.
I, _____ , will not do the following:
- End up in the hospital. Exceptions to the rules are car accidents (as long as I was not driving drunk or a passenger in a car where someone was driving intoxicated), a fire in the hotel/club or restaurant.
- Allow myself to get intoxicated to the point of blacking out.
- Allow my friends to peer pressure me into drinking more than I can handle.
- Get arrested.
- Get in a fight.
- Become injured by my own stupidity. Refer to Mr. Olympus.
- Kiss strippers or strangers in clubs.
- Have any physical contact whatsoever with strangers met in clubs/bars/boardwalk haunts or hotels.
- Gamble more money than I have.
- Take a stripper or stranger home
- Get a stripper’s or stranger’s number
- Touch a stripper’s or stranger’s private parts
- Have sex (oral or otherwise) with a stripper or stranger. This applies to giving and receiving.
- Do body shots off females.
- Go to a filthy massage parlor.
- Meet up with Sweet potato.
- Meet up with Zoobas.
- Not forget to bring Lulu home a magnet.
- Not cast my photo identification or other identification I need on the floors of clubs/hotels and bars.
I, ______, sign this contract in good faith, willingly and fully aware this will hold up in court.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Dear Sirs, you suck.
So, Dunkin HQ actually wrote me back. They wrote to say that they appreciated my letter but they were returning it to me. However, I would like to note it has not been returned. For starters, I emailed it.
But regardless. They assured me that they "have entire departments whose job it is to come up with fresh and exciting concepts, products, flavors, programs, advertising, etc. We also receive many unsolicited suggestions from our friends outside the company . . . Most of the time, the suggestions are things our teams have already thought of and may be working on."
Ummmm..... they seriously should be working on this as a cup of properly made iced coffee could make or break someone's day.
"Therefore to prevent any possible misunderstanding, we are returning your original letter to you. we cannot accept or review unsolicited ideas including: patented or unpatented, trademarked or un-trademarked ideas, copyright protected materials, advertising slogans, marketing programs, promotional programs, patent applications, trademark applications, copyright applications, product suggestions, prototypes or models."
Now, you and I both know they will end up using my idea. Within a few months you can bet your bippy you will be seeing a sign in a Dunking advertising that their flavors are sugar free. And, within a year, you will no doubt see new cups with mysterious lines so the workers know how much milk/cream and ice go into an iced coffee. Honestly, I am fine with that as long as it means that anywhere I go, I am guaranteed a properly, well-made cup of iced coffee.
I would like to add that they did include a $5 booklet of Dunkin bucks. Personally, I thought they could have spared something more, maybe $10 or $15 but it was almost enough for stew and I to each get a large iced coffee. I still had to kick in $0.38 out of my own pocket.
So, that got me thinking, I should write more letters, sending more unsolicited ideas and get more free stuff. No sooner should I get this idea than a coupon for a free medium ice cream from Coldstone Creamery comes for me in the mail.
Coldstone is my enemy. For two reasons.
1.) I am not much of an ice cream fan.
2.) I think their ice cream is way overpriced.
3.) They never have enough help.
4.) They ruined my Valentine's Day.
You see, Stew likes their ice cream and last Valentine's Day I took advantage of this promotion they had for $2 off a Valentine's Day cake for two. The coupon said nothing about having to pick it up on Valentine's Day just that it was only good while supplies lasted. So, I went there the day before Valentine's Day and that was when I was informed I had to wait until Valentine's Day. The kid behind the counter was young and I was feeling particularly cute that day so I pretended to be way more bummed than I really was and gave him the sob story that V-day was our anniversary and we had 6 p.m. dinner reservations and I got out at 5:30 and had to hightail it to the restaurant with no time to come back for the cake. So, the kid went into the backroom, got me a cake (which was actually two small chocolate cakes with chocolate hearts in the center and could not have looked more like two boobs) and rang me up.
So, this past Valentine's day, I thought i would re-create the magic and stew was all excited. there was no coupon offer this year so I had to wing it. I figured being an ice cream shop they would have tiny pre-made cakes like they USUALLY do. It was a Monday and I was early but I figured I had time to order it. While waiting on line (because they only had one person mashing up ice cream for a long line) I was commiserating with a lady who was pissed off they had no Birthday cakes for her daughter's birthday. However, she couldn't bitch too much because what shitty mom waits until the last minute to get her daughter's cake.
I asked the girl behind the counter if they had any tiny cakes in the back. She said no and I would have to order one that would be ready no earlier than Wednesday after 5:30. So, i placed an order and left. Wednesday came, the night of the HUGE ice storm. I got out of work early because they forced us to leave the building. Stew came home early too and we risked life and limb to get to Coldstone around 5:30 and the place was closed.
I'm understanding and I am sure they closed early because they were worried about their employees and I am cool with that. But damn, they could have at least called and said they were closing early and if i wanted the cake for that night I had to come get it before they closed at X time. So, I wrote a letter to the headquarters. A few days later I got calls from the store manager and owner telling me to come and get my cake free of charge. I called to arrange a pick up and the cake was not there. I wasn't going to really push the issue. It was just principle. A few days later a coupon came and now I just got another one.
Stew is on me to write XM radio because he wants to know why Opie and Anthony got suspended for Bush jokes. I mean, isn't the point of satellite radio paying to hear radio that is not being censored? But, I say pick your own battles.
I have coffee wars to win and free ice cream to get.
But regardless. They assured me that they "have entire departments whose job it is to come up with fresh and exciting concepts, products, flavors, programs, advertising, etc. We also receive many unsolicited suggestions from our friends outside the company . . . Most of the time, the suggestions are things our teams have already thought of and may be working on."
Ummmm..... they seriously should be working on this as a cup of properly made iced coffee could make or break someone's day.
"Therefore to prevent any possible misunderstanding, we are returning your original letter to you. we cannot accept or review unsolicited ideas including: patented or unpatented, trademarked or un-trademarked ideas, copyright protected materials, advertising slogans, marketing programs, promotional programs, patent applications, trademark applications, copyright applications, product suggestions, prototypes or models."
Now, you and I both know they will end up using my idea. Within a few months you can bet your bippy you will be seeing a sign in a Dunking advertising that their flavors are sugar free. And, within a year, you will no doubt see new cups with mysterious lines so the workers know how much milk/cream and ice go into an iced coffee. Honestly, I am fine with that as long as it means that anywhere I go, I am guaranteed a properly, well-made cup of iced coffee.
I would like to add that they did include a $5 booklet of Dunkin bucks. Personally, I thought they could have spared something more, maybe $10 or $15 but it was almost enough for stew and I to each get a large iced coffee. I still had to kick in $0.38 out of my own pocket.
So, that got me thinking, I should write more letters, sending more unsolicited ideas and get more free stuff. No sooner should I get this idea than a coupon for a free medium ice cream from Coldstone Creamery comes for me in the mail.
Coldstone is my enemy. For two reasons.
1.) I am not much of an ice cream fan.
2.) I think their ice cream is way overpriced.
3.) They never have enough help.
4.) They ruined my Valentine's Day.
You see, Stew likes their ice cream and last Valentine's Day I took advantage of this promotion they had for $2 off a Valentine's Day cake for two. The coupon said nothing about having to pick it up on Valentine's Day just that it was only good while supplies lasted. So, I went there the day before Valentine's Day and that was when I was informed I had to wait until Valentine's Day. The kid behind the counter was young and I was feeling particularly cute that day so I pretended to be way more bummed than I really was and gave him the sob story that V-day was our anniversary and we had 6 p.m. dinner reservations and I got out at 5:30 and had to hightail it to the restaurant with no time to come back for the cake. So, the kid went into the backroom, got me a cake (which was actually two small chocolate cakes with chocolate hearts in the center and could not have looked more like two boobs) and rang me up.
So, this past Valentine's day, I thought i would re-create the magic and stew was all excited. there was no coupon offer this year so I had to wing it. I figured being an ice cream shop they would have tiny pre-made cakes like they USUALLY do. It was a Monday and I was early but I figured I had time to order it. While waiting on line (because they only had one person mashing up ice cream for a long line) I was commiserating with a lady who was pissed off they had no Birthday cakes for her daughter's birthday. However, she couldn't bitch too much because what shitty mom waits until the last minute to get her daughter's cake.
I asked the girl behind the counter if they had any tiny cakes in the back. She said no and I would have to order one that would be ready no earlier than Wednesday after 5:30. So, i placed an order and left. Wednesday came, the night of the HUGE ice storm. I got out of work early because they forced us to leave the building. Stew came home early too and we risked life and limb to get to Coldstone around 5:30 and the place was closed.
I'm understanding and I am sure they closed early because they were worried about their employees and I am cool with that. But damn, they could have at least called and said they were closing early and if i wanted the cake for that night I had to come get it before they closed at X time. So, I wrote a letter to the headquarters. A few days later I got calls from the store manager and owner telling me to come and get my cake free of charge. I called to arrange a pick up and the cake was not there. I wasn't going to really push the issue. It was just principle. A few days later a coupon came and now I just got another one.
Stew is on me to write XM radio because he wants to know why Opie and Anthony got suspended for Bush jokes. I mean, isn't the point of satellite radio paying to hear radio that is not being censored? But, I say pick your own battles.
I have coffee wars to win and free ice cream to get.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Wake up and smell the coffee
After having the scariest ice coffee ever. Seriously, i broke two straws trying to get through all the ice I decided to write Dunkin Donuts and revolutionize their business.
To the wonderful people at Dunkin who keep me caffeinated all day,
You make the best coffee. Hands down. Starbucks are chumps with their overpriced lattes and calorie filled drinks. When it comes to choosing between green and pink and orange, I always choose Dunkin.
On my last Dunkin visit, I was able to enlighten some customers to some wisdom that is not common knowledge. However, I know from writing you in the past, that all your delicious flavor shots are sugar free. For some reason, that fact is advertised only on your site and not in the shops. When I filled these customers in on that bit of INVALUABLE information they were elated and quickly added shots to their drinks. Their only question was how come you don’t say that in the store? A lot of your employees may not be aware of this or customers may not believe them but if it were posted somewhere, they could not dispute that.
My only guess for why it’s not posted in the store is that you may be apprehensive about people thinking it has an aftertaste or has some cancer-causing additive in it. Believe me, if fake sweeteners really caused cancer I would be dead. If you are going to offer “healthier” drinks like lite lattes and such then go ahead and tell your customers that the syrup they crave contains no sugar.
Another thought for you is to bring all your workers up to code on making a consistent cup of coffee. Sometimes, I’ll ask for a coffee with milk or cream and they put so much cream in that it tastes like I am drinking straight up cream. Or, I will ask for an iced coffee and get a few chips of ice that melt quickly or an iceberg in my cup so big I can’t get the straw in without it getting obstructed and crushed the like Titanic. This resulted in about 4 sips of coffee fitting into a medium cup but enough ice for at least two and a half drinks. I rarely find a happy medium.
So, here is my idea and it is completely free. However, feel free to hook me up with a loaded gift card should you like my idea and use it. On your cups, you should have lines that tell your employees how much ice to add, how much milk/cream or sugar. Or, you can just have a standard 4 squirts for a medium, 6 for a large and then add one if the customer prefers it lighter.
You pride yourself on “authentic” iced coffee so why not make it consistently perfect? I depend on Dunkin to deliver a great tasting cup o’ Joe and more often than not that is what I get but the times when I get something different like 4 sips of coffee and a ton of ice or a mouth full of cream I’m disappointed. I know the Dunkins I can depend on in each town in New England. Sad but true.
I hope that you read this letter. I know it’s long but it comes from a very dedicated customer who wants the world to appreciate all that Dunkin has to offer.
Sincerely,
Dr. Horder
To the wonderful people at Dunkin who keep me caffeinated all day,
You make the best coffee. Hands down. Starbucks are chumps with their overpriced lattes and calorie filled drinks. When it comes to choosing between green and pink and orange, I always choose Dunkin.
On my last Dunkin visit, I was able to enlighten some customers to some wisdom that is not common knowledge. However, I know from writing you in the past, that all your delicious flavor shots are sugar free. For some reason, that fact is advertised only on your site and not in the shops. When I filled these customers in on that bit of INVALUABLE information they were elated and quickly added shots to their drinks. Their only question was how come you don’t say that in the store? A lot of your employees may not be aware of this or customers may not believe them but if it were posted somewhere, they could not dispute that.
My only guess for why it’s not posted in the store is that you may be apprehensive about people thinking it has an aftertaste or has some cancer-causing additive in it. Believe me, if fake sweeteners really caused cancer I would be dead. If you are going to offer “healthier” drinks like lite lattes and such then go ahead and tell your customers that the syrup they crave contains no sugar.
Another thought for you is to bring all your workers up to code on making a consistent cup of coffee. Sometimes, I’ll ask for a coffee with milk or cream and they put so much cream in that it tastes like I am drinking straight up cream. Or, I will ask for an iced coffee and get a few chips of ice that melt quickly or an iceberg in my cup so big I can’t get the straw in without it getting obstructed and crushed the like Titanic. This resulted in about 4 sips of coffee fitting into a medium cup but enough ice for at least two and a half drinks. I rarely find a happy medium.
So, here is my idea and it is completely free. However, feel free to hook me up with a loaded gift card should you like my idea and use it. On your cups, you should have lines that tell your employees how much ice to add, how much milk/cream or sugar. Or, you can just have a standard 4 squirts for a medium, 6 for a large and then add one if the customer prefers it lighter.
You pride yourself on “authentic” iced coffee so why not make it consistently perfect? I depend on Dunkin to deliver a great tasting cup o’ Joe and more often than not that is what I get but the times when I get something different like 4 sips of coffee and a ton of ice or a mouth full of cream I’m disappointed. I know the Dunkins I can depend on in each town in New England. Sad but true.
I hope that you read this letter. I know it’s long but it comes from a very dedicated customer who wants the world to appreciate all that Dunkin has to offer.
Sincerely,
Dr. Horder
Saturday, May 12, 2007
I'm changing lives one iced coffee at a time
So, I gave up my weekly indulgence of a sugar free cinnamon dulce latte after boredom drove me to the nutrition section of Starbucks' Web site. Even with skim milk I was taking in half of my daily allotment of carbs. Frankly I'd rather eat those carbs in the form of pizza than drink them. Granted, i can swap to cream instead of skim milk but then I would be piling on the fat 25+ grams vs 0. So, I am back to my trusty standby summer drink - a large toasted almond iced coffee with cream and three Splenda.
Anyone who knows me knows that I was absolutely devastated when Dunkin Donuts announced they were no longer brewing french vanilla and hazelnut flavored coffees. Instead they announced all their great new syrups. Knowing how much sugar those syrups pack per tablespoon, I was banished to a life of plain tasting coffee. I figured they had to come out with sugar-free syrups eventually but that day never seemed to come. It got to the point where I was buying an assortment of sugar free syrups and adding them to my coffee when I got home. But, more often that not, I grabbed my coffee on the go so the syrups were going to waste. I had enough of society's contradiction that they want to make us healthy by offering healthy things but screw us in the end by finding some way to add sugar to it. I took matters into my own hands and wrote Dunkin Donuts headquarters. It took a few days but I finally got an answer and that answer made me the happiest little coffee lover alive. Every single one of their tasty flavors was sugar free. Not just like lame ass Starbucks who only offers caramel, vanilla and hazelnut but EVERY SINGLE ONE. And endless possibility of flavorful concoctions
I told everyone I knew (which basically consisted of about 5 people) who would actually care enough and not think I am totally insane that I took my concern all the way to Dunkin headquarters. Come on, I could not risk throwing myself into some sugar coma because the guy behind the counter would say "yes" to anything because that's just about all the English he knows. If you read my old blog you are well aware of the insane conversations I've had with Dunkin employees including the one who asked me if Stew's attitude changed towards me after we had sex. Not to mention all the times I asked for iced coffee and ended up with a hot one on the counter in front of me. And just last week I said "no sugar" three times only to take a sip of my coffee and get a straw full of sugar granules. It took everything in me to take that bit of heaven in a cup back and demand one sans sugar.
So, I really can't blame anyone for what happened yesterday.
After dropping off my clothes at the tailors, I stopped by Dunkin to get my congratulatory-you-survived-another-week Friday iced coffee. I walked in on mayhem in progress. Two ladies were engaged in a full-blown argument with the two employees (who I happen to know and like despite their prying questions). One customer with a condescending Aussie accent was interrogating an employee on why they don't offer sugar free syrups. His only defense was "no ma'am, no sugar free syrups." I took one look at her extremely dark looking iced latte and knew I could save the day because that was about to taste like a bitter turd if I didn't.
"Actually," I said, sounding like my 9-year-old nephew who starts off any fact he's about to correct you on, "They are all sugar free."
Aussie whipped around and glared at me. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, 100% sure."
The other lady in line turned around to join the inquisition, 'how do you know?"
I stood proud. I don't care who in that Dunkin was about to think I was a freak for taking my question to the top banana. I was about to let my freak flag fly high in orange and pink.
"I wrote headquarters and asked and they said that all their syrups are sugar free."
BOOOOYAAAA MATEY!!!!
"Even the chocolate?" She asked.
"Even the chocolate," I said and then I corrected myself because I remembered the time in Florida when I asked for chocolate and they put Nestle chocolate syrup in it and I had to differentiate calling it syrup and referred to it as a "flavor shot."
"Why don't they advertise that?' she asked and the other lady backed her up by tapping a sign listing all the flavors and saying, "this should say sugar free."
I had no answer. I think it is insanely retarded that they don't mention it in the store, only on the Web site that the flavors are sugar free. My guess is maybe they think that most people who want the flavors don't want to know it is sugar free because they'll think it is made with artificial sweeteners and has an aftertaste and causes cancer.
Let me tell you something about that artificial sweetener causing cancer thing.
M Y T H.
If it were the case my ass would be long dead by now. In my 33 years I can count on one hand how many times I drank regular soda and juices that were not Crystal Light. I'd be a goner.
"Well," Aussie said facing the employee, "I will have two shots of vanilla in this because this concerned customer cared enough to write headquarters and find out the truth so now you know and you can tell all your customers."
I liked it. Concerned customer . . . finding out the truth. I felt like Michael Moore.
'You've opened up a whole new world for me," said the other lady.
Cool, they should have a parade in my honor and throw sprinkles and gift cards at me. I'm opening up whole new worlds for people. Wait until I tell stew.
"That information is invaluable," Aussie said. "Invaluable."
Shit yeah. Suddenly my being crazy served a purpose. I changed lives and opened up new worlds.
Anyone who knows me knows that I was absolutely devastated when Dunkin Donuts announced they were no longer brewing french vanilla and hazelnut flavored coffees. Instead they announced all their great new syrups. Knowing how much sugar those syrups pack per tablespoon, I was banished to a life of plain tasting coffee. I figured they had to come out with sugar-free syrups eventually but that day never seemed to come. It got to the point where I was buying an assortment of sugar free syrups and adding them to my coffee when I got home. But, more often that not, I grabbed my coffee on the go so the syrups were going to waste. I had enough of society's contradiction that they want to make us healthy by offering healthy things but screw us in the end by finding some way to add sugar to it. I took matters into my own hands and wrote Dunkin Donuts headquarters. It took a few days but I finally got an answer and that answer made me the happiest little coffee lover alive. Every single one of their tasty flavors was sugar free. Not just like lame ass Starbucks who only offers caramel, vanilla and hazelnut but EVERY SINGLE ONE. And endless possibility of flavorful concoctions
I told everyone I knew (which basically consisted of about 5 people) who would actually care enough and not think I am totally insane that I took my concern all the way to Dunkin headquarters. Come on, I could not risk throwing myself into some sugar coma because the guy behind the counter would say "yes" to anything because that's just about all the English he knows. If you read my old blog you are well aware of the insane conversations I've had with Dunkin employees including the one who asked me if Stew's attitude changed towards me after we had sex. Not to mention all the times I asked for iced coffee and ended up with a hot one on the counter in front of me. And just last week I said "no sugar" three times only to take a sip of my coffee and get a straw full of sugar granules. It took everything in me to take that bit of heaven in a cup back and demand one sans sugar.
So, I really can't blame anyone for what happened yesterday.
After dropping off my clothes at the tailors, I stopped by Dunkin to get my congratulatory-you-survived-another-week Friday iced coffee. I walked in on mayhem in progress. Two ladies were engaged in a full-blown argument with the two employees (who I happen to know and like despite their prying questions). One customer with a condescending Aussie accent was interrogating an employee on why they don't offer sugar free syrups. His only defense was "no ma'am, no sugar free syrups." I took one look at her extremely dark looking iced latte and knew I could save the day because that was about to taste like a bitter turd if I didn't.
"Actually," I said, sounding like my 9-year-old nephew who starts off any fact he's about to correct you on, "They are all sugar free."
Aussie whipped around and glared at me. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, 100% sure."
The other lady in line turned around to join the inquisition, 'how do you know?"
I stood proud. I don't care who in that Dunkin was about to think I was a freak for taking my question to the top banana. I was about to let my freak flag fly high in orange and pink.
"I wrote headquarters and asked and they said that all their syrups are sugar free."
BOOOOYAAAA MATEY!!!!
"Even the chocolate?" She asked.
"Even the chocolate," I said and then I corrected myself because I remembered the time in Florida when I asked for chocolate and they put Nestle chocolate syrup in it and I had to differentiate calling it syrup and referred to it as a "flavor shot."
"Why don't they advertise that?' she asked and the other lady backed her up by tapping a sign listing all the flavors and saying, "this should say sugar free."
I had no answer. I think it is insanely retarded that they don't mention it in the store, only on the Web site that the flavors are sugar free. My guess is maybe they think that most people who want the flavors don't want to know it is sugar free because they'll think it is made with artificial sweeteners and has an aftertaste and causes cancer.
Let me tell you something about that artificial sweetener causing cancer thing.
M Y T H.
If it were the case my ass would be long dead by now. In my 33 years I can count on one hand how many times I drank regular soda and juices that were not Crystal Light. I'd be a goner.
"Well," Aussie said facing the employee, "I will have two shots of vanilla in this because this concerned customer cared enough to write headquarters and find out the truth so now you know and you can tell all your customers."
I liked it. Concerned customer . . . finding out the truth. I felt like Michael Moore.
'You've opened up a whole new world for me," said the other lady.
Cool, they should have a parade in my honor and throw sprinkles and gift cards at me. I'm opening up whole new worlds for people. Wait until I tell stew.
"That information is invaluable," Aussie said. "Invaluable."
Shit yeah. Suddenly my being crazy served a purpose. I changed lives and opened up new worlds.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
License to Ill
I think Stew is getting a bit worried. See, he hasn't been hearing many good things about marriage from his unhappily married co-workers. While Stew admits to getting excited about he wedding, I think a fear is growing in the pit of his stomach. As the weddings of his friends near they express some frustration for their future spouses and tell stew to heed their warnings. "Lisa will get crazy right before the wedding. Brace yourself and just roll with it."
Truth be told, I may get a little wonky before the wedding but there is a slight chance I may not. I hated this wedding business from Day 1 so all my craziness reared its ugly head early on. I was hoping if Stew saw the craziness early on, he would rethink wanting a wedding before we dropped too many non-refundable deposits.
Apparently, I was not crazy enough which is shocking because I was pretty damn crazy.
A lot of it came from being overwhelmed and not knowing where to start. So, after I resigned myself not to winning the war I waged, I bucked up and broke it down. The plan was to tackle everything I could early enough and map out the rest. It frightened me how organized I was and what a drill sergeant I became about deadlines but Stew knew it was either drill sergeant or crazy and he liked the idea of drill sergeant much better. However, I dragged Stew along with me to every meeting, every registry selection. If he wanted this wedding, he had to be tortured just like me. This included, but was not limited to, watching endless videos of DJs, a lot of rhythmless crackers dancing to Bon Jovi, meetings with a florist who tried to take us for $2300 for an archway and the constant barrage of "what about this invitation/bridesmaids dress/color/song/favor?" questions which I demanded answers to. Not to mention any of the flack we had to take from our respective parents about the location and the decision to have a JP instead of a priest.
When I say uphill battle, I mean in an ice storm while it's raining grease.
Every time he looks a little stressed or beaten, I silently snicker to myself and asked him, "Aren't you glad you wanted a wedding? Don't you wish you listened to me about eloping? Isn't this so much fun?" Of course he would say this is what he wants but he said it through gritted teeth leading me to believe otherwise. Then I will not-so-gently remind him that for the next couple of months his time and attention belongs to me so don't go making any plans. I know this is mean but I'm not going down alone.
All that BS crap you see for weddings with a phrase that alludes to two hearts beating as one is no joke because as a couple you either killed your partner or you're around them so much you are now a single-celled amoeba.
Truth be told, I may get a little wonky before the wedding but there is a slight chance I may not. I hated this wedding business from Day 1 so all my craziness reared its ugly head early on. I was hoping if Stew saw the craziness early on, he would rethink wanting a wedding before we dropped too many non-refundable deposits.
Apparently, I was not crazy enough which is shocking because I was pretty damn crazy.
A lot of it came from being overwhelmed and not knowing where to start. So, after I resigned myself not to winning the war I waged, I bucked up and broke it down. The plan was to tackle everything I could early enough and map out the rest. It frightened me how organized I was and what a drill sergeant I became about deadlines but Stew knew it was either drill sergeant or crazy and he liked the idea of drill sergeant much better. However, I dragged Stew along with me to every meeting, every registry selection. If he wanted this wedding, he had to be tortured just like me. This included, but was not limited to, watching endless videos of DJs, a lot of rhythmless crackers dancing to Bon Jovi, meetings with a florist who tried to take us for $2300 for an archway and the constant barrage of "what about this invitation/bridesmaids dress/color/song/favor?" questions which I demanded answers to. Not to mention any of the flack we had to take from our respective parents about the location and the decision to have a JP instead of a priest.
When I say uphill battle, I mean in an ice storm while it's raining grease.
Every time he looks a little stressed or beaten, I silently snicker to myself and asked him, "Aren't you glad you wanted a wedding? Don't you wish you listened to me about eloping? Isn't this so much fun?" Of course he would say this is what he wants but he said it through gritted teeth leading me to believe otherwise. Then I will not-so-gently remind him that for the next couple of months his time and attention belongs to me so don't go making any plans. I know this is mean but I'm not going down alone.
All that BS crap you see for weddings with a phrase that alludes to two hearts beating as one is no joke because as a couple you either killed your partner or you're around them so much you are now a single-celled amoeba.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
My left foot . . . . both of them
I should write a book. I know I've said that before about online dating (and I still think I should and i eventually will if i ever learn to like typing again) but now I should write a book about weddings. The side you don't see. The side they don't want you to know about. The side that requires me to put aside my hormones and put on high heels. The side that not only forces you to lose your mind but hands you your once sane (albeit slightly) mind to you on a silver Tiffany platter and then quickly rips it away when you reach out to reclaim it.
It's not even the crap you think will do you in. It's the crap you didn't even think about when you said "yes" after you were blinded by a shiny ring. It's the invitations. Double envelope or single? French flap or regular? Thermography or engraved? Lined or unlined? When the hell the postage rate is going to go up (incidentally 5 days prior to our planned mailing date). It's the flowers. What's in season? Would you like an $1800 archway that we're going to zap you a $500 delivery/pick-up fee for? Do you know what color your bridesmaids dresses are? No, why not? You only have a year to figure this out. It's the bridesmaids dresses. Don't even start me on that. It's the music song list. What music do you want to walk in to? What music do you want your bridal party to walk in to? (stew did not like my idea of having them walk in to "The Dope Show") Your wedding song. The song you'll dance with your mom/dad to? Songs to play during dinner? How will your wedding party stand? What order will they come in to the reception? It's the hor de' voures. You don't want anything too messy but you want something they can eat with their hands. Who has food allergies? Who needs a kosher meal? Who needs one that's gluten-free?
Most of that stuff we managed to work past. We pretty much told our florist where she could put her archway. Actually, I think we said something to the fact like, "We have the ocean as a backdrop, why do I need a $2300 archway to stand under for 20 minutes?" I asked our wedding coordinator to allow us a fourth vegetarian option. As for anyone with food allergies, well if you don't note that on the card when you send it back, that's your doggybag of hives you're bringing home.
One thing we didn't give much thought to was our first dance. I mean, we had the song picked out. And our photographer was kind enough to set our engagement photo DVD to our wedding song so we could get a good feel for how it would translate to the cuteness that's us. The bottom line is Stew and I are cute in person but not so cute pictures. Oh well. Good thing one of her expensive selling points was she has photoshop skillz that pay the billz.
But back to the dancing.
I dance.
Stew does not.
I grew up the pudgy kid wearing a tutu shuttled around to ballet, tap and jazz classes. Stew was too busy starting fires in the woods of Monroe and planning his next Dungeon & Dragons campaign. In the two years Stew and I have been dating, we only danced together once and we were both drunk and it was thug rap so it hardly required skill. My mom was pushing for a routine and I had Dirty Dancing Time of your Life flashbacks and and screamed no. Nobody puts baby in the corner. I was not concerned with my dancing skills as much as I was with Stew's. Let's face it. I love the boy but he could be a bit stiff in situations that require any attention be on him. After polling some people we knew, we decided to take dancing lessons.
Now, I don't know if you ever looked into dancing lessons but they are expensive. And when you're planning a wedding and you drop a grand on invitations, $300 to have someone address them doesn't seem like much in the grand scheme of things but $750 for someone to teach you a few dance moves is outrageous for the brief moments you will actually be on the dance floor seems like a giant waste of money.
We went for a $15 private lesson. We bought a CD with our wedding song on it and the song Stew is going to dance with his mom to. We also had one of my picks for the father/daughter dance. We were looking for something simple. However, "simple" was not in the vocabulary of a lithe and flexible Euro-trash instructor. And I would have called her European but she was sporting a case of cold-sore herpes that neither stew or I could take our eyes off of. We wanted to do something romantic. She made us do the rumba. I guess that could be considered romantic but when your partner is staring straight ahead like a programmed robot counting steps in his head and you're trying hard not to go limp in his arms with laughter, you look like you're both competing for the gold . . . . in the special Olympics.
Obviously my request for simple was lost in translation. The last thing I wanted to think about as I glided onto the dance floor with my new husband and people were taking our pictures was counting steps and following leads. Sure enough, that is what she had us doing to the point where I was falling over my own two feet and Stew looked like he'd fall to pieces if he broke his concentration for a second. Oh no, this will not work.
The clincher came when she heard the song stew wanted to dance with his mom and said that it was a swing song. Um, nothing about Green Day is swing, lady. NOTHING. True, the song is neither slow or fast but swing ----- no. When she puckered that cold-sore ridden mouth and said "swing" I saw Stew's face go death-white.
"We'll work on that later," she said trying to ease the blow. And that is when I knew she was going to suggest the 10 lesson package.
I'm onto you Euro-herps!
My favorite part was her lack of remembering that I could hear everything was saying (altho' it was muddled with that accent). She kept telling Stew, "This dance is all about you. She is just jewelery. The entire wedding is about her but this dance is about you."
Then, she would turn to me and say, "This dance is about you and your dress and your beauty and grace. It's about every bead on your dress, your shoes. It's also about your ring so make sure you are always holding your hand this way." And then she spent every step bending my hand in unnatural positions so that my ring was never hidden.
After our hard work out, we went for Sushi and started thinking hard about what we signed up for. By the time we went to bed, we decided the lessons were not for us and Stew was going to call the next morning and get his money back. We hoped we were making the right decision to sway our way through it.
On Easter, we gave my family a quick demonstration of what she wanted us to do and they laughed so hard I knew we made the right call.
It's not even the crap you think will do you in. It's the crap you didn't even think about when you said "yes" after you were blinded by a shiny ring. It's the invitations. Double envelope or single? French flap or regular? Thermography or engraved? Lined or unlined? When the hell the postage rate is going to go up (incidentally 5 days prior to our planned mailing date). It's the flowers. What's in season? Would you like an $1800 archway that we're going to zap you a $500 delivery/pick-up fee for? Do you know what color your bridesmaids dresses are? No, why not? You only have a year to figure this out. It's the bridesmaids dresses. Don't even start me on that. It's the music song list. What music do you want to walk in to? What music do you want your bridal party to walk in to? (stew did not like my idea of having them walk in to "The Dope Show") Your wedding song. The song you'll dance with your mom/dad to? Songs to play during dinner? How will your wedding party stand? What order will they come in to the reception? It's the hor de' voures. You don't want anything too messy but you want something they can eat with their hands. Who has food allergies? Who needs a kosher meal? Who needs one that's gluten-free?
Most of that stuff we managed to work past. We pretty much told our florist where she could put her archway. Actually, I think we said something to the fact like, "We have the ocean as a backdrop, why do I need a $2300 archway to stand under for 20 minutes?" I asked our wedding coordinator to allow us a fourth vegetarian option. As for anyone with food allergies, well if you don't note that on the card when you send it back, that's your doggybag of hives you're bringing home.
One thing we didn't give much thought to was our first dance. I mean, we had the song picked out. And our photographer was kind enough to set our engagement photo DVD to our wedding song so we could get a good feel for how it would translate to the cuteness that's us. The bottom line is Stew and I are cute in person but not so cute pictures. Oh well. Good thing one of her expensive selling points was she has photoshop skillz that pay the billz.
But back to the dancing.
I dance.
Stew does not.
I grew up the pudgy kid wearing a tutu shuttled around to ballet, tap and jazz classes. Stew was too busy starting fires in the woods of Monroe and planning his next Dungeon & Dragons campaign. In the two years Stew and I have been dating, we only danced together once and we were both drunk and it was thug rap so it hardly required skill. My mom was pushing for a routine and I had Dirty Dancing Time of your Life flashbacks and and screamed no. Nobody puts baby in the corner. I was not concerned with my dancing skills as much as I was with Stew's. Let's face it. I love the boy but he could be a bit stiff in situations that require any attention be on him. After polling some people we knew, we decided to take dancing lessons.
Now, I don't know if you ever looked into dancing lessons but they are expensive. And when you're planning a wedding and you drop a grand on invitations, $300 to have someone address them doesn't seem like much in the grand scheme of things but $750 for someone to teach you a few dance moves is outrageous for the brief moments you will actually be on the dance floor seems like a giant waste of money.
We went for a $15 private lesson. We bought a CD with our wedding song on it and the song Stew is going to dance with his mom to. We also had one of my picks for the father/daughter dance. We were looking for something simple. However, "simple" was not in the vocabulary of a lithe and flexible Euro-trash instructor. And I would have called her European but she was sporting a case of cold-sore herpes that neither stew or I could take our eyes off of. We wanted to do something romantic. She made us do the rumba. I guess that could be considered romantic but when your partner is staring straight ahead like a programmed robot counting steps in his head and you're trying hard not to go limp in his arms with laughter, you look like you're both competing for the gold . . . . in the special Olympics.
Obviously my request for simple was lost in translation. The last thing I wanted to think about as I glided onto the dance floor with my new husband and people were taking our pictures was counting steps and following leads. Sure enough, that is what she had us doing to the point where I was falling over my own two feet and Stew looked like he'd fall to pieces if he broke his concentration for a second. Oh no, this will not work.
The clincher came when she heard the song stew wanted to dance with his mom and said that it was a swing song. Um, nothing about Green Day is swing, lady. NOTHING. True, the song is neither slow or fast but swing ----- no. When she puckered that cold-sore ridden mouth and said "swing" I saw Stew's face go death-white.
"We'll work on that later," she said trying to ease the blow. And that is when I knew she was going to suggest the 10 lesson package.
I'm onto you Euro-herps!
My favorite part was her lack of remembering that I could hear everything was saying (altho' it was muddled with that accent). She kept telling Stew, "This dance is all about you. She is just jewelery. The entire wedding is about her but this dance is about you."
Then, she would turn to me and say, "This dance is about you and your dress and your beauty and grace. It's about every bead on your dress, your shoes. It's also about your ring so make sure you are always holding your hand this way." And then she spent every step bending my hand in unnatural positions so that my ring was never hidden.
After our hard work out, we went for Sushi and started thinking hard about what we signed up for. By the time we went to bed, we decided the lessons were not for us and Stew was going to call the next morning and get his money back. We hoped we were making the right decision to sway our way through it.
On Easter, we gave my family a quick demonstration of what she wanted us to do and they laughed so hard I knew we made the right call.
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