Category Archives: Annoyances
Hah! You thought you were going to ruin my day. But, guess what? My day was already ruined before we drove to Home Depot for our monthly argument about what-color -paint-we-should-paint-the-walls-this-week. And you know what else? Brown was not one of our options, any way. And it was only 104 degrees in the parking lot, so we hadn’t reached the predicted temperature of 135 degrees yet, so your little package had not attained its maximum stink level yet when I almost stepped on it.
Hey, I’ve been there before. You’re trying to live your life, and your baby keeps interfering. That walk from the parking lot to a garbage can is just 15 yards too long. You’re running late, and you’ve got to tile your kitchen before Hoarding, Buried Alive airs because your husband already has the DVR set for Dog, the Bounty Hunter. Something’s gotta give, and it looks like Proper Disposal of a Poopy Diaper is the winner.
That’s unfair, I know. You probably had a really good reason for leaving that diaper in the 13th parking space from the front door, row 6. You’re probably a police officer who found a crying baby sitting in her car seat in the middle of the parking lot, and you knew right away when you picked her up that she needed her diaper changed, and you changed the diaper, and then got a call on your radio that you needed to respond to a 422 or something RIGHT AWAY, and you had no choice, but to abandon that diaper right there and then.
At least you took the baby.
So, don’t you worry about me. I’m fine. It takes a lot more than a randomly placed poopy diaper to derail me. I’m good. Not bitter at all. Not sitting here obsessing about the type of people who leave poopy diapers in parking lots and other random public areas. Not sitting here trying to type something interesting and all I can think about is a poopy diaper. Not judgmental. Not trying to figure out what kind of image I can include with this post that won’t gross out my readers.
This is going to be a Yelling Post. It is that time of the month, and I am sorry if that is T.M.I. but I feel that I should give you fair warning.
First of all, I would like to yell at the veteran bloggers out there who either A.) did not warn me that there is some kind of summer slump that completely decimates your number of readers, or 2.) did not tell me that the quality of my writing has plummeted so deeply that I am shedding fans faster than Wonderbutt can pee all over my new furniture.
Secondly, I am yelling at Apple. Or Adobe. Or all technology companies. To Flash or not to Flash. I don’t care. But come up with a friggin’ consensus. Because of your shenanigans, I have to bring my 10 million pound laptop to my conference in Cambridge next week.
Which leads to me airline companies. It’s not all of you. Just the one that I happen to be flying tomorrow that charges for people to check one bag. I would say your name, but you will have my life and, more importantly, my luggage in your hands tomorrow. You took away my meals. You took away my free wings and my tour of the cockpit. And now you want me to pay to check one suitcase!!!!!!! Which I would not have to bring if I did not have to bring my laptop. Because I was planning to bring my super lite iPad.
My laptop not only weighs 10 million pounds, but it is antiquated. Plus, I dropped it a couple of years ago, and the back button has never been the same. But, now I have to bring the laptop because my conference at Harvard requires access to “Flash-enabled” websites. Which means my brilliant idea of taking one personal item and a carry-on is out the window. Because I HATE dragging a Bunch of Stuff with me when I have to change planes – and a 10 million pound laptop plus a full carry-on falls within my definition of a Bunch of Stuff.
So, now I must check a bag. And pay $25 for that checked bag. Going and coming. And they will probably lose it. And then I will be stuck at Harvard with an antique laptop and no clean underwear. And everyone at Harvard will laugh at me. Because of the horribly old laptop. They won’t know about the underwear. I hope.
As you may know, mattresses and I have a somewhat turbulent relationship. Lately, it seems as though we have mattresses coming out of our ears. Which is an interesting mental image when you think about it…
Conversation between Cap’n Firepants and me as we are driving along the highway:
Me: What are we going to do with the 40 year old mattresses that we just picked up from your mom’s apartment?
Cap’n Firepants: I don’t know. I think when we order the new mattresses that they will pick up the old ones.
Me: From our garage?
Cap’n Firepants: What the –
He swerves to avoid a box spring mattress that is lying in the middle of Highway 281, with its guts, including wooden boards, strewn all over the highway.
Cap’n Firepants: Someone is going to get really screwed up by that.
Me: I think I figured out what we can do with those mattresses.
Cap’n Firepants is trying to kill me. And he is quite devious about it. He acts like he loves me and wants the best for me. But he is really plotting my demise.
After finally getting our mildew mattress exchanged for a mattress of better quality and NO MILDEW smell, my husband began to implement his Plot to Kill His Wife Slowly By Making Her Brain Implode.
“The new mattress doesn’t smell.”
“Yeah, isn’t it great?”
“But it feels like the old mattress. Not the mildew one. The other one.”
Oh God. The mattress that had a cave-in. The one that was destroying his back so badly that he started sleeping in the other room so he could walk each day without looking like the Hunchback of San Antonio.
“But how can this be? You tested it in the store. It’s supposed to be just like the first model – but better! It even feels firmer to me than the last one.”
“Not to me.”
“Are you insane? IT IS FINE! IT’S BETTER! IT DOESN’T SMELL!”
“It’s not better to me.”
I am reporting him for spousal abuse.
To put it mildly, this summer is not living up to my expectations. So far, I have: not been invited to a funeral to which I should have been invited, been invited to a funeral to which I probably should not have been invited, and alienated my mother-in-law to the point that she is probably wishing she could attend my funeral very soon.
In the meantime, I am fighting a lonely battle against the combined strength of conspicuous consumption and the ridiculous reluctance to relinquish rather redundant refuse. I have nightmares that our world is one giant landfill and that everyone but me has developed the gills necessary to peacefully swim through the detritus.
To top it all off, Mayor Bloomberg wants to ban Big Gulps.
Granted, I don’t live in New York City. And I don’t drink sugary sodas. But, I liked Mayor Bloomberg until he went off the reservation with this one. And, now I’m beginning to question my own judgement. Which is a big ole slippery slope – with a bunch of jagged rocks – down which I do not want to slide on my tender butt.
So, basically, this has been an unpredictable, uncontrollable summer. And not in any kind of a good way.
If it didn’t mean having to get up early in the morning, I would declare myself ready to return to work. At least, in my classroom, my students let me pretend that I have some control. And, as we have already established, they do not question my judgement – because they assume I have none.
On the good side, our new furniture has made it over a month without being chewed up by Wonderbutt. And Dimples and I are reading a super awesome book together that hopefully won’t have any embarrassingly racy sections that I will have to read out loud. (I will tell you the name of the book once we finish and I can give you a full review.) And, I’ve written 4 very short chapters of my own novel, which will not feature Wonderbutt or Dimples or Mayor Bloomberg. Or my mother-in-law. At least not in any recognizable form.
But I might throw in some Big Gulps just to be ornery.
So, the Clampetts moved next door last month.
Within the space of a week, we went from neighbors with 2 meek little girls and an occasional infiltration of our yard by their canine escape experts to a family of 4 kids, all 8 and under, who have absolutely no understanding of the phrase “noise ordinance”.
In addition to the increased commotion emanating from the adjacent house at all hours of day and night, Cap’n Firepants and I started to become suspicious of not-so-legal activities when we began spotting random cars with different license plates parked at the house every day of the week. This fact, coupled with the likelihood of being able to support 4 kids, a stay-at-home wife, and a frequent stay-at-home husband, while still affording the home next door (which had been way out of our price range, and included a pool) made everything crystal meth clear to me.
“They must be drug dealers,” I announced to Cap’n Firepants with the absolute certainty that comes from years of experience with unusual neighbors – including The Catastrophically Crazy Cat Lady and the Unscrupulous Paint Ball Pinheads.
After several weeks of suspicion, I finally decided to put on my deerstalker cap and matching sensible flip-flops, and do some investigating.
I took a casual drive by their truck to find the company name emblazoned on the side.
Then I Googled it. After looking through a page or two, I found a name that I then looked up on a social network. Then I cross-checked it with deed records, and five minutes after my official investigation had commenced, declared to Cap’n Firepants that “I am the best Googler in the World” – and that we (okay, I) had probably jumped to some wrong conclusions.
“He’s the head of an oil company,” I said.
“O.K.”, the Cap’n responded, completely unimpressed with my lightning internet detective skills.
So, I guess, since the husband is in the oil business, that I wasn’t completely off when I stamped them with “The Clampett” moniker.
However, I am willing to admit that I might have some sitcom blood in me, too. Mix a bit of intolerance in with a whole bunch of nosiness, and what kind of neighbor am I?