Highway to Hell

Dear Old People and Other non-Workers,

Consider this request both advice and fair warning. Stay out of your vehicle and off the road during the morning and afternoon rush hour. You don’t know how to drive and there is nowhere you need to be that’s more important than where the rest of us are going. 

In exchange, those of us who actually have a job will gladly give you the road between the hours of 9AM and 3:30PM. That’s over six hours of wide open lanes for you to putt down the road doing 35 miles per hour in a 50 mph zone, or sit nonchalantly through a green light because little Suzy wants to show you her latest crayon drawing from the backseat.

[sidebar: “stay at home mom”? NOT A FUCKING JOB! It’s a privilege so stop whining about the “fact” that you have no time to yourself. The rest of us are doing your “job” at the end of a 10 hour workday and frankly, we’re tired of listening to you complain… about anything!]

Now, should you people find yourselves unexpectedly on the road post- agreement; here are a few simple Rush Hour Rules to which you’d be well-counseled to follow:

1.     Stay out of the left lane. Period.

2.     If the posted speed limit is 50mph, assume that the Rush Hour Regulars will be doing 65mph. You’re not a regular. You’re not special. Shut up. Your choices are: go faster or pull over at the next Starbuck’s for your morning $6 non-fat, decaf latte. The rest of us have a life that you do not want to make us any later for, lest we just give up and follow you. And we don’t drink decaf.

3.     You do not know the traffic patterns, and this my friend, is the key to Rush Hour success. The regulars know which lane to be in on which stretch of road. We know that the number 4 bus that just turned into the lane ahead, is fixin’ to move to the left, so the smart money is to skirt it on the right. Jamming the rest of us up with your ignorance exposes your gross lack of necessary experience… and that makes us mad.

4.     A horn blast – regardless of length – is less insult and more warning; a reminder that my vehicle will in fact eat yours if you don’t start paying more attention to your driving and less to whatever else is going on in there.

5.     See that long skinny pedal on the right? ACCELERATOR! It’s what makes the car go fast. Do you understand fast? If not, refer to number 2 above.

6.     Are you the self-righteous ass who stoically insists on maintaining the speed limit or below no matter what; flipping the bird every time someone flys angrily past? Take a moment and wonder at that, then mull this: You – YOU – are going to be the direct cause of an accident. YOU are an unexpected hindrance who will kill or be killed. Get out of the way.

7.     When finding oneself behind or beside a bus, it is ones duty and moral obligation to take whatever steps necessary to get in front of said bus – be it school or metro – thus allowing ample room for others to navigate around it as well. Don’t be the dick who won’t speed up to go around. Maybe you’re perfectly happy stopping at every driveway and bus stop, but the rest of us are going to ambush you for keeping us trapped.

Here’s a little reminder to ruminate over while disrupting rush hour: we work for a paycheck of our very own. The bigger the vehicle the better the chance the driver is fully insured. Full coverage always translates into, “I’m not afraid of your angry words, finger flip, or need to unnecessarily slam your brakes because you think I’m following too closely.  Not. Even. A. Little.”

In fact, I would suggest you remember that I’m behind you. Eventually, you will have to stop; and a stop means time… and time means I can come give your window a little tap so that we may discuss the error of your ill-mannered behavior.

With my civic duty now complete, and knowing that you’ve read the Rules of Rush Hour so are duly informed, please sign the dotted line… before someone pushes you over it.

Reality… The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

My girlfriend C-Rich is a classically-trained singer whose talents are apparently only on display with her church choir.

Hey!

I heard the chortling. I don’t judge her on her religious beliefs and I’m sure she’s not judging something about me – so get off my nuts about my churchy friend. I’m embracing diversity.

Anyway, *glares at readers* the instant message excerpt below got me thinking…

Peace 9:39 am
    We can no longer friends due to your anti-coffee-ness. I'm sorry. It's not me. It's you.

 C-Rich 9:40 am
    It’s just a phase.

 Peace 9:40 am
    Most of my life is a phase I'm still looking to outgrow

 C-Rich 9:42 am
    I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I finally accept that I'm an adult

 Peace 9:43 am
Right?!?!?!?
I mean, you and I, we grew up thinking we'd be one thing; and now we're another. It's very disconcerting

 C-Rich 9:44 am
    Yeah.
    I did not dream of being a Business Analyst slash Project Manager

 Peace 9:44 am
That, my-friend-who-is-no-longer-my-friend, is something I COMPLETELY understand. I still get a little freaked out when I try to draw the line from there to here. And, because it’s always super-productive *eyeroll,* I "what if" the crap out of every decision that led me to this incredibly uncomfortable chair.
That's both a metaphor and a truth. I need a different chair.

 C-Rich 9:47 am
    You're going to forget the coffee thing because everything else we share is magical.

 Peace 9:47 am
    It is. I’m not.

… about how the direction of our lives changes, and wondering why, once we realize we’re completely off-track, we become like rubber-neckers at a car wreck. We absolutely slow down to look at the grisly mess, but only stop to do something when we have both the time and no choice.

Have you ever tried to draw the line from where you were headed to where you are? Don’t. It's depressing. And sometimes unseemly.

But, having done it...

I took a seat in Dr. Pinot Grigio’s office to reflect on what I discovered so that I could appropriately place blame, because, you know, that’s way easier than admitting that you fucked up your dream using your own primo decision-making skills. Anyway, by the end of my two bottle session I’d managed to uneasily identify the forks that took me “elsewhere,” and sadly they seem to have two common denominators: impulsivity… and me.

SHINY OBJECT!!!

Here’s the rub. At the time, I’m sure every decision seemed like a perfectly sensible one. After all, who makes life-altering proclamations and path deviations just all willy-nilly?

*slowly raises hand*

I suspect this is how I ended up with a house in the middle of nowhere that will never be out of the remodeling stage, and four dogs.

Admittedly, I should probably be grateful things didn’t go completely sideways, given the circumstances. Though it is, by no stretch of anyone’s imagination, the career I dreamed of, at least I can go to work in jeans without combing my hair to have Nerf gun fights, neurotically IM crazy crap with C-Rich, and collect a paycheck enough to sustain my chronic need for mani/pedis and even more shoes.

Still… if I should find a Genie in a bottle…

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

I'm a Big City Girl.

A Concrete Jungle Cat.

I actually appreciated living next door to someone for a year, three years, five years, and never knowing the their name, and vice versa. I prefer not to be noticed unless I decide to be. I value my privacy and prefer to completely ignore people in order to preserve theirs. It’s not a bad attitude – I consider it a public service. Do unto others and all that…

Fast forward to present day, living in a place where everyone knows your name...

When I first moved here, I had no intention of staying more than 12 months – tops. It was just a pit stop I had to make en route to getting where I was going. With that in mind I remember thinking, “how bad could it be, really?” I figured if I had to be here, I’d let myself get caught up in the Americana of it all.

The small town I landed in is the kind of Mayberry where you throw your car keys on your dashboard because you never lock the door to your house. A place where they have a parade for any old reason and the entire town shows up to watch the mediocre marching band play their way down Main Street while majorettes chase their dropped batons; where the street is lined with little – albeit expensive – shops, and you can’t get a traffic ticket without your neighbor popping over the hedges to comment on it within moments… assuming you have a neighbor.

I was charmed!

For a while.

I soon realized that supermarket shopping here is a full make-up undertaking because there are a significant number of residents, like myself, whose sole Sunday goal is to get in and out before church adjourns and the masses flood in with their hungry, miserable children. These are my people. We stop to chat, inquire about each other’s lives, and promise we’ll get together soon because that’s the polite thing to say. It’s not untrue – but it is somewhat unlikely. Truth is, we’re on a mission: get this chore checked off the list and resume our day our way.

Sunday, 9:38 a.m.

I slide into the first parking space I see and barrel into the market. It’s getting late, I have a long list, and soon the little monsters I want to stuff into a freezer will be exiting early mass and arrive to disrupt my inner peace.

Shit! I forgot my eco-responsible shopping sacks. Do I go back? I should. I hate hauling in those plastic bags, and it’s just 6 minutes each way….

No. Too much room for error and personal contact if I’m any later getting through the aisles ahead. Freeing a basket from the stall, I stop just inside the sliding door to root around my pocketbook for my list and coupons. Aaaaaaand of course there’s some woman rubbing antibacterial wipes over her handle struggling with her kid because the stupid seat is broken. *heavy sigh*

“Excuse me. Hi. Here. Take mine.” We swap baskets and I head for dairy (no, I don’t know why I always start there) certain that The Universe is going to let me off the hook for any further interaction, given my good deed.

Moments later I’m standing in front of 30 feet worth of yogurt, 20 of which is now the Greek variety which I hate, looking for vanilla. Plain vanilla. Looking turns into searching. Searching turns into sighing. In a voice lowered enough that I hope it won’t be heard by anyone but my target, thus tipping off some acquaintance that I’m there, I ask the kid stocking the yogurt, “Excuse me. Are there any small containers of just regular full fat yogurt to be had?”

I do not exaggerate when I say that heads of shoppers within earshot whipped around so fast, I actually felt the loose tendrils from my hastily executed ponytail lift off the back of my neck. And then...

The kid laughed.

Out loud.

I blinked.

I blinked again.

“I.. uh… there’s…”

I blinked at him once more knowing that my placidly inquisitive fake smile had gone from “quick question” to sarcastic “oh, it's like that?”

“YOPLAIT!” he nearly shouted.  “Up there.”

I looked to the top shelf where he pointed, looked down at my Chuck T’s, then looked back at him, eyebrows raised. As he scrambled to retrieve the 4 ounce containers he asked, “how many do you want?”

“All of them. They’re for my dogs.”

Somewhere behind me a disparaging snort and crass remark was issued in my direction. I had to wonder what he/she/it would think about the fact that my next stop was for an over-priced organic chicken that would soon become dog food. I would’ve asked, but I wasn’t trying to make new friends this morning.

Instead, I walked away smiling. Today the supermarket felt a little bit like home.

Something Unexpected from Me

A post for animals owners. Race ahead to your StumbleUpon button if you're not.

Anyone who's known me for more than a minute knows there are two things in this world that make me happiest: cooking, and a sale! So in rifling through the supermarket circular that starts tomorrow I discovered that the majority of my “normal” purchases are scheduled for discount. Fantastic!

Sadly, the pantry and fridge are bare today… so… how to bridge the gap?

Can I live on popcorn and dry Rice Chex? Check!

Is there enough coffee? Check!

Totally thought I was in the clear until I reached for the puppy treats. Four dogs, two treats, and it was only 8AM. Cripes…

Then it occurred to me why the hell I had four jars of baby food in my pantry! I’d read a recipe on the online for homemade dog treats that used baby food. Clearly after purchasing said supplies, I decided it was entirely too much effort. Today however, the idea of marketing this afternoon AND tomorrow morning seemed like a challenge I was not up for – ever – unless they started selling wine in the market and it was sample weekend.

I found the recipe on the online again. Don’t bother. It’s everywhere and, if you follow the much-publicized directions, the outcome is disastrous. Here’s my revised version, just in case you find yourself in a treat emergency before the state transition to wine in the market.

4 oz baby food

1 cup regular flour

1 cup rolled oats (think this through if your dog scratches for no apparent reason, in which case, use 2 cups of flour – but NOT whole wheat!)

Preheat your oven to 350.

Put the wet food in the bowl first. This is actually really important I would discover. Add the flour/oats a bit at a time mixing really, really well. In the end, we’re looking for cookie dough consistency. Remember though, the more flour, the less flavor.

LIGHTLY flour a cutting board and a rolling pin, then turn out your dough. Roll to about a quarter inch. I suppose if you’re fancy you could use cookie cutters for shapes, but frankly, if I had that kind of time, I’d go do Mr. Man’s laundry. I used a pizza cutter and, since my dogs are small, made half-inch by half-inch bits.

Put the bits on parchment paper atop a cookie sheet. Bake for 25 minutes. If you got all “look at me!” with your shapes, or the treats are bigger, I imagine you’ll need about 30-35 minutes. Keep an eye on them either way.

Pull them out and let them cool. Stuff a few into a brown paper wine bag (What? That’s the only kind I had.) and the rest into freezer bags – which, do I need to tell you, go into the freezer?

The taste test across four flavors ranked thusly:

Banana

Carrot

Turkey and gravy

Beef

Civic duty for today: Check!

Matchmaker, Matchmaker....

“Christian Mingle.com. Find God’s match for you!”

So THAT’S how your god is spending his time. I was wondering, what with all the public horror going on recently – and now I know. He’s monitoring computer-based algorithms and setting up dinner dates.

Whew! What a relief. I thought he wasn’t doing ANYTHING!

My god (if I had one), People. Isn’t anyone else wholly offended by this? I’m agnostic and even I find it utterly repellent that someone is sucking money out of others (who are already forced to tithe 10% of their income) for an online dating service that boasts that their god is at the helm of every match.

*whistles theme to Gilligan’s Island*

Oh, holy crap!!!

"Suggested" tithe contribution = Membership fee

Pay for hook-ups = Membership services

Your God! It is the oldest profession in the world!

Random Thoughts V (as in the Fifth Time I've Done Random Thoughts)

I'm listening an "ex-beau" sub for Dennis Miller on his radio program this morning.
*blink*
*blink*
THAT'S sufficiently random - so here are a few other random thoughts.

Why do people create a storm, then cry when it rains?
Apparently winter has gone on entirely too long because, if the streets are telling the story (and they are!), there's nothing left to do indoors except pass gossip. Aside from the fact I'm exhausted from hearing all of it, I'm seriously reconsidering who I let into my life anymore. I mean, if someone will say "that" about family or their BFF, imagine what they're saying about you!

Today's PSA
It's never a good idea to corner someone meaner than you.

Read twice, type once
It's baffling - and yes, aggravating - how important it has become to some people to be "seen" on that devil device called FaceBook, that they don't bother to completely read through even the initial the post they're responding to.

"Say again?"
There's a phrase I utterly despise. If you didn't hear me, how about going old school with "I beg your pardon?" or "excuse me?" If you haven't been forced to hear "say again" then perhaps you live somewhere other than the East Coast.
Lucky you...

"Excuse me?"
I do wish people would listen as much as they talk. I have a girlfriend who literally doesn't register anything that isn't about her in some way. It's important to note that there is a very real expectation on her part that everyone remember everything about her and her life - such as it is. At this point, she's obviously just another one of my bad habits.

Odd. Five thoughts and I seem to have run out. Or at least thoughts I'd care to share. That is all, boys and girls. You may now return to your pre-weekend preparations.

I'll be betting "five" on everything...

Shoe Whore

Generally speaking, I do not speak to fashion. Not because it doesn’t interest me, it definitely does! The fabrics, the colors, the statement you get to make with every piece. I gravitate toward those gorgeous classics (think Chanel and hats and gloves), while remembering to stay true to my inner hippie. Clearly this demonstrates that  I possess few constraints or prejudices where fashion is concerned - as long as all the "bits and pieces" are appropriately covered or camouflaged. Still, I leave the topic of fashion alone for the same reason I don't pump my own gas: there are trained professionals for that.

However! With Spring quickly approaching (somewhere!) and limbs on the verge of exposure, it's time to whip out that straight forward, no bullshit delivery of bad news in a fashion area where few can measure to my own expertise.

Brace yourselves.

Ladies – and okay, gentlemen –  your walk is stealing the sexy from your shoes.

Let's start with one very simple, very basic fact: 3+ inches, and platforms, are not for everyone. Unless you're a Southern Girl forced through Charm School where the promenade in high heels is mastered at a very young age, you need to assess the way you walk before you buy. Oh I know, you think your walk is sexy or alluring. But it's not. And showing all that cleavage isn't going to make up for it.

So. What kind of walker are you?

Do you teeter along in a pair of platforms like you're walking on a tightrope?
Do you march along like a stiff-legged soldier, in an attempt not slide into an ass-busting situation? Are you an... oh let's call it "athletic" walker? If not, you still know who I'm talking about (*snicker*). She's apparently never seen a beauty pageant of any kind - even drag! Otherwise she would know that no matter how expensive the footwear, clomping along with her ankles 12" apart makes her look like a linebacker.

There's the "stick up your ass" trotter whose steps are so minuscule I can't help but wonder if she needs to pee, or she really does have an aspirin between her knees. We have the "leaner" who pitches dangerously forward, defying gravity with every step; the "Big Girl" who stuffs her size 8 feet into a size 7 for... well, I don't know why anyone would do that; and finally, the "I think I'm sexy" sashayer who swings her ass so hard both left and right while taking freakishly long yet bent-kneed strides, I'm left feeling both sorry and afraid for her future spine.

Since quite obviously so many women - and okay, men - have absolutely no idea how to dress their feet, for your convenience I've provided the following Shoe Rules. Feel free to print and post on your closet door... 

1. If they aren’t 100% comfortable in the store, they will not “break in.”
2. If the soles are slippery, stop clutching your way across the room and take a scissors to the bottoms in a criss-cross pattern.
3. If you generally live in flip-flops, it's time to accept that you don’t actually possess any fashion sense. Oh, I know you think you do… I also know that you don’t. Find yourself a friend who'll tell you the truth about yourself - if you can take it. You should not be left to your own devices in the shoe department.
4. If you’ve left high school, yet purchased a “cocktail” dress in the “prom” section of a department store, don’t try to match your shoes to it. Return the dress. You know why.
5. If you can’t actually run a full city block in the shoes, you need to believe me when I tell you that you can't walk half a block in them either. I don’t care how amazing you think they look on your feet, it’s always more “mommy’s closet” than “hot mama.”
6. If you're under 5'4" you seriously need to reconsider your collection of flats. They make your legs look short and ass look big - especially when you wear them with skinny jeans.

It's hard to believe that I would need to expand on item 3 above, but recently, I witnessed a perfectly lovely girl in a perfectly lovely cocktail dress intentionally pair it with those horrendous pieces of $0.99 rubber: There is nothing - I repeat, nothing - sexy about flip-flops. Never, ever has the man existed who looked at a woman (or another man, for that matter) and said, "ooooh, yeah! I'd like those flip-flops wrapped around my neck!" Sure, I own a single pair I carry when I go for pedicure, but even those aren't flat! And they have sequins - the answer to all things hideous. Flip-flops are not fashionable. They speak to the same sentiment made about sweatpants by everyone from Karl Lagerfeld to Jerry Seinfield.

"Sweatpants [flip-flops] are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life so you bought some sweatpants [flip-flops]." ~ Karl Lagerfeld

"You know the message you're sending out to the world with these sweatpants [flip-flops]? You're telling the world, 'I give up. I can't compete in normal society. I'm miserable, so I might as well be comfortable." ~ Jerry, Pilot Episode of Seinfeld

And that, Dear Readers, is all I care to say about that...

Glide ladies! Glide!