Two old women get on an elevator. I call them old...because if you're over 60, you're old. And anybody who tells you different is a big fat fucking liar! Why the big deal about being old anyway? It's not like you're dead. You can still have fun...it's just that what you think is fun and what someone, say 20-30'ish, thinks is fun are probably way, way different.
The old gals checked into the hotel earlier in the day. Not a cheap pay-by-the-hour kind of place, mind you, it was a pretty upscale hotel. And, just to be clear, they've probably never stayed in the pay-by-the-hour kind of hotel in their life.
After dinner, they went back to their room on the third floor. Being old means you're almost always in for the night by 8 o'clock. There are exceptions, but they're few and far between. They finished dinner around 7'ish and decided to call it a night.
Not long after the gals left the hotel restaurant, an old guy walked in. He looked a little scruffy. White hair poked out from underneath a well-worn baseball cap, and a long sleeved denim shirt covered the belly hanging over his Levis. He was alone and even though he looked like a hobo, he wasn't...he'd just finished work for the day. After a quick dinner all he wanted to do was get up to his room on the third floor and go to bed.
Once they got back to their room, the old gals flopped down on their respective beds. Bedspreads down, of course, because since they don't get washed after every guest you know they're filled with other people's cooties. Just for the record, I spent decades laying on bedspreads in hotels until someone pointed out to me the fact that they weren't changed and cleaned like sheets after each guest. It kinda grossed me to think about all the other people's bodily secretions that I've probably laid on throughout the years. But then I decided to look on the bright side and reason that it's helped build my immunity system and is probably one of the reasons that I don't get sick a lot. Though, even after using this Pollyanna outlook, I now turn down the bedspread, because it's just too creepy to think about laying on some stranger's dried bodily secretions. It's one of those "ewwwww" things.
So anyway, the old gals futzed around for a while and decided they should live a little and go down to the hotel bar and have a drink...or two. I mean how often did they get away like this? So back on went the shoes and out the door they went.
In the elevator on the way up to his room, the old guy stood there with a toothpick in his mouth. He felt a rumbling in his belly, a little pressure building...
When the elevator door opened on the third floor and he started to walk out, he looked up and saw the two old gals waiting to get on.
"You should probably wait for the next elevator" said the old guy to the two old gals.
They smiled at him and walked into the elevator...
"Oh my God!" said one of the old gals, and as the doors started to close, trapping them in an elevator of fart stink all the way down to the lobby they heard the old guy laughing.
Yes, this is the man of my dreams in action. I am sooooo thankful that I wasn't with The Husband when he did this...it's the stoopidist thing.
Saturday, October 8, 2016
Monday, August 15, 2016
New Bosses
Everyone who's held a job has had to endure a new boss at one time or another. If you've been alive as long as I have, you see them come and go...sometimes it's good, sometimes not so good.
I work in one of three divisions of a local government agency. When our boss retired, a new guy was promoted to fill the vacant position. But he's not our boss. No, when they decided to promote the new guy, they also decided it would be good to move all three division heads around. So instead of having one guy who doesn't know what he's doing, you now have three guys who don't know what they're doing. Sounds a little like your typical government cluster fuck, doesn't it?
JD is our new boss. Clearly, he feels uncomfortable not knowing what he's doing. Fortunately for him, and, much more importantly, us, he's got a good sense of humor. On the downside, he's a clean freak. This poses a slight problem for our group because we're basically a bunch of pigs. JD's also a Punctuality Nazi...this only poses a problem for The Princess and I. Punctuality is pretty much a foreign word to us. The Princess is young...she can learn to be punctual. Me, I'm an old dog...and I'm not really interested in learning new tricks. It's not that I can't, it's just that I don't wanna.
Our division is in a building separate from the main office where the other divisions are housed. In our departmental universe, our division is Uranus. Pronounced the good old fashioned way...your anus. We like to think of ourselves as The Land of Misfit Toys...the red headed step children, if you will, of our department.
Hell, our department wouldn't even spring for a shred bin for our office for ten, count 'em, ten years. The powers that be wanted us to haul banker boxes filled with secret squirrel material to one of the divisions that had shred bins. They were important enough to get shred bins...we weren't.
In defiance, which sounds way better than "because we were lazy", we stacked boxes of stuff that needed to be shredded everywhere. It's wasn't quite bad enough to make the Hoarders show because we still had passable trails. It's just that none of us felt inclined to wreck our backs hauling boxes. Now that JD is there, doing his Mr. Clean impersonation, he's hell bent on making sure all the old shit gets tossed. He likes to have everything neat and orderly looking...which has absolutely no bearing on how fast or correctly work gets done. Just my opinion...
Every time a new sheriff comes to town they're like dogs hiking their legs, wanting to make their mark. They want to fix things that aren't broken. They want to make things "better". Everything can be running smoothly and then Barney Fife comes in and fucks things up.
Why can't they just leave things alone until they know what they're doing? Then, after they have some small idea in their pea brain of what's going on, fix what needs to be fixed. When they come in and start changing things before that, all they're doing is raising their leg and saying "piss on you" to the employees who, for the last ten years, have been making things work.
These are the same people who, before they became bosses, used to complain about exactly this type of self-important behavior. How is it that once they become "boss" they automatically forget how asinine they used to think this kind of shit was?
There's always going to be room for improvement. It's a government agency for fuck's sake...government agencies aren't usually known for their efficient operations, now are they?
My guess is six months from now, nothing will have changed...with the possible exception of our office being cleaner...it's the stoopidist thing.
I work in one of three divisions of a local government agency. When our boss retired, a new guy was promoted to fill the vacant position. But he's not our boss. No, when they decided to promote the new guy, they also decided it would be good to move all three division heads around. So instead of having one guy who doesn't know what he's doing, you now have three guys who don't know what they're doing. Sounds a little like your typical government cluster fuck, doesn't it?
JD is our new boss. Clearly, he feels uncomfortable not knowing what he's doing. Fortunately for him, and, much more importantly, us, he's got a good sense of humor. On the downside, he's a clean freak. This poses a slight problem for our group because we're basically a bunch of pigs. JD's also a Punctuality Nazi...this only poses a problem for The Princess and I. Punctuality is pretty much a foreign word to us. The Princess is young...she can learn to be punctual. Me, I'm an old dog...and I'm not really interested in learning new tricks. It's not that I can't, it's just that I don't wanna.
Our division is in a building separate from the main office where the other divisions are housed. In our departmental universe, our division is Uranus. Pronounced the good old fashioned way...your anus. We like to think of ourselves as The Land of Misfit Toys...the red headed step children, if you will, of our department.
Hell, our department wouldn't even spring for a shred bin for our office for ten, count 'em, ten years. The powers that be wanted us to haul banker boxes filled with secret squirrel material to one of the divisions that had shred bins. They were important enough to get shred bins...we weren't.
In defiance, which sounds way better than "because we were lazy", we stacked boxes of stuff that needed to be shredded everywhere. It's wasn't quite bad enough to make the Hoarders show because we still had passable trails. It's just that none of us felt inclined to wreck our backs hauling boxes. Now that JD is there, doing his Mr. Clean impersonation, he's hell bent on making sure all the old shit gets tossed. He likes to have everything neat and orderly looking...which has absolutely no bearing on how fast or correctly work gets done. Just my opinion...
I'm sure everyone will adjust...eventually. But it seems to me that it would be much easier for JD to adjust to our way of doing things than the other way around. Doesn't it make more sense for one person to change to accommodate ten people than for ten people to have to change to accommodate one? It never seems to work that way, though, does it?
Why can't they just leave things alone until they know what they're doing? Then, after they have some small idea in their pea brain of what's going on, fix what needs to be fixed. When they come in and start changing things before that, all they're doing is raising their leg and saying "piss on you" to the employees who, for the last ten years, have been making things work.
These are the same people who, before they became bosses, used to complain about exactly this type of self-important behavior. How is it that once they become "boss" they automatically forget how asinine they used to think this kind of shit was?
There's always going to be room for improvement. It's a government agency for fuck's sake...government agencies aren't usually known for their efficient operations, now are they?
My guess is six months from now, nothing will have changed...with the possible exception of our office being cleaner...it's the stoopidist thing.
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
I Have Questions...
I was driving down the road a couple of weeks ago on my way to the feed store to pick up senior horse feed. We were coming back from yet another unnecessary Costco excursion, The Scari One and I, and we were yakking about the whole gender identity thing. You know, boys who feel they're girls, girls who feel they're boys, the bathroom/shower situation at schools. Some of this stuff seems way more complicated than it needs to be.
If you're not personally involved in any kind of gender identity crisis, I can't imagine you'd ever really know how it feels. Even having a loved one with some type of gender dysphoria would only make you more sympathetic to their feelings, but I don't think you'd really "understand" how it felt.
I can totally see middle and high school aged kids using the whole "identifying" thing to their advantage, though. You know it's just a matter of time before there's going to be some kind of news report that high school boys were pretending to be suffering from gender dysphoria just so they could get into the bathrooms and locker rooms of the girls or vice versa.
Is there any solution that's going to make everyone happy? I don't think so. But, I have questions about how the whole gender dysphoria thing actually works...
Say, for instance, you're a man who identifies as a woman but still have male genitalia with no desire to have a sex change. Is that the same as cross-dressing? What's the difference between that and a transvestite? Are men who dress like women all transgender or do some just like feminine clothes? I've shunned dresses all my life in favor of blue jeans. Have I been a transvestite all my life and just didn't know it? Do people even use the word "transvestite" anymore? Do we really need another word for it? Admittedly, my only knowledge of transvestism comes from watching Eddie Izzard who, in my opinion, happens to be a really funny guy.
If a man identifies as a woman but doesn't have a sex change and wants to have sex with men isn't he just a gay transvestite? Are there men who want to be women who end up still wanting women sexually? Do they identify as lesbians before having the gender reassignment? Is Caitlyn Jenner just cross dressing? Is she going to eventually physically become a woman?
I'd been pondering this stuff before we got to the feed store so I decided I was going to ask the feed store guy about Caitlyn. He's a clean-cut young cowboy type so I was curious about what he'd have to say. When I walked in he wasn't there but his helper was. The helper is the complete opposite of the "cowboy" visually. He's a young guy, all tatted up, kinda convict looking, but just a super nice guy and a really hard worker. The old "never judge a book..." comes to mind.
This poor kid, here's some old lady coming in to buy feed for her horses who, out of the blue, asks him what he thinks of the whole Caitlyn Jenner thing. Tattoo Boy kind of hemmed and hawed, not wanting to say anything offensive. I didn't have the heart to try to make him tell me what he thought. We did share a laugh when I said it was too bad Caitlyn didn't become a woman years ago when she could have been a hot chick instead of an old lady. That's actually pretty sad when you think about it...
It's also sad that Tattoo Boy had to be afraid to say what he thought. Everybody these days is afraid to say what they think. WTF? Why should anyone have to be afraid to say whatever they want? There was a news article about college kids who were traumatized because someone wrote a hated politician's name on a sidewalk...in chalk!!! Really???? How much of a big fuckin' sissy do you have to be that seeing a NAME IN CHALK traumatizes you? And what's up with free speech zones on college campuses? Aren't we supposed to have free speech everywhere in the good ol' US of A?
Tell me what happens now, for instance, if a white male decides he's going to identify as a black or Latino woman? Can he be eligible for affirmative action? If you can't identify people by gender or ethnicity how can you have programs like affirmative action? Can this guy now get say, small business loans, scholarships, or grants specific to black or Latino women? Can he decide he wants to identify as a refugee from a foreign country in order to obtain refugee benefits? I mean, if all you have to do is "identify", how do you prevent shit like this?
You know all this stuff is going to happen eventually because there's always someone who's going to try to take advantage of the system.
The whole bathroom thing is kinda bogus. It would seem to me that if you have kids and you're afraid of your kids using the bathroom alone, as a parent you should go with them. Being some kind of different gender identifier doesn't make you a pedophile.
And why is it every time you hear outrage on a news report about the whole bathroom thing it's always someone fearing for the "safety" of their daughter? How come nobody worries about their sons?
Personally, I want privacy if, God forbid, I'm forced to poop in public. I'd prefer bathrooms that are individual...like little closetlets with locking doors and soundproof walls...and great ventilation systems. If all bathrooms were like the one I want there wouldn't be any bathroom gender problem now would there?
I don't really care who uses what bathroom. If you gotta go, you gotta go...although now that I think about it, the bathroom I want would be a perfect place to murder someone...it's the stoopidist thing.
Tell me what happens now, for instance, if a white male decides he's going to identify as a black or Latino woman? Can he be eligible for affirmative action? If you can't identify people by gender or ethnicity how can you have programs like affirmative action? Can this guy now get say, small business loans, scholarships, or grants specific to black or Latino women? Can he decide he wants to identify as a refugee from a foreign country in order to obtain refugee benefits? I mean, if all you have to do is "identify", how do you prevent shit like this?
You know all this stuff is going to happen eventually because there's always someone who's going to try to take advantage of the system.
The whole bathroom thing is kinda bogus. It would seem to me that if you have kids and you're afraid of your kids using the bathroom alone, as a parent you should go with them. Being some kind of different gender identifier doesn't make you a pedophile.
And why is it every time you hear outrage on a news report about the whole bathroom thing it's always someone fearing for the "safety" of their daughter? How come nobody worries about their sons?
Personally, I want privacy if, God forbid, I'm forced to poop in public. I'd prefer bathrooms that are individual...like little closetlets with locking doors and soundproof walls...and great ventilation systems. If all bathrooms were like the one I want there wouldn't be any bathroom gender problem now would there?
I don't really care who uses what bathroom. If you gotta go, you gotta go...although now that I think about it, the bathroom I want would be a perfect place to murder someone...it's the stoopidist thing.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Blog Party...I Hope
I found this blog party on one of the blogs I read, Skinny and Single. If you don't read this blog, you should...and be sure to read her comments...snark-a-licious.
Having only recently come out of the blogging closet, I've never done this before so I'm not sure I'm even doing it right. The whole blog party thing is supposed to introduce new blogs and readers to each other. I've seen other blog parties and link exchange things, but most of them expressly want "family friendly" blogs. I never felt it was okay for me to participate since I tend to drop F-bombs on a regular basis. This particular one didn't say they wanted only "family friendly" shit so I thought I'd give it a whirl!!! I'm sure the whole "family fucking friendly" blurb was probably hidden in the fine print somewhere and I just overlooked it.
So, I hope I did this right. Sometimes, for me, trying to do the right thing turns out to be horribly wrong...it's the stoopidist thing.
Having only recently come out of the blogging closet, I've never done this before so I'm not sure I'm even doing it right. The whole blog party thing is supposed to introduce new blogs and readers to each other. I've seen other blog parties and link exchange things, but most of them expressly want "family friendly" blogs. I never felt it was okay for me to participate since I tend to drop F-bombs on a regular basis. This particular one didn't say they wanted only "family friendly" shit so I thought I'd give it a whirl!!! I'm sure the whole "family fucking friendly" blurb was probably hidden in the fine print somewhere and I just overlooked it.
So, I hope I did this right. Sometimes, for me, trying to do the right thing turns out to be horribly wrong...it's the stoopidist thing.
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First of all If you reblog this post you help me, I help you and you help your readers, so everyone wins..
There are thousands of good blogs out there and think of all of that we are missing just because they are not visible to us. That’s why I want to encourage you to share your blog with me so that I can read and hopefully many of my other readers as well. This is also a good opportunity for you to get some new readers and I believe in helping one another since we all want to spread our message to the world.
Leave your blog page link as a comment and I will definitely read it. Please be patient because I have some hectic days in front of me. I encourage everyone to read one another blogs to get motivation and thereby also motivate one another.
Monday, July 25, 2016
Gravity...It's The Law
When you're young and un-shriveled you never really expect the natural disasters that overwhelm your body in the aging process. The only real reference you have for getting old is your grandma. Grandma's usually the first observable "old" woman who has any impact on your life. Moms don't really count when you're young because they're in your life every day. When you see someone daily you don't notice the subtle changes that occur over time. It's usually not until we move out of our parent's house that we notice any changes in our mom. Sometimes there's a great grandma in the picture who can give you a glimpse of old womanage from the get go...but you still never think of it as something that's going to happen to you.
I never had anyone telling me to stay out of the sun when I was young. Nobody told me to use sunscreen. Hell, we used to mix baby oil and iodine, slather it all over and bake in the sun. The thinking was that the oil caused your skin to burn and the iodine "healed" it. Don't ask me who the brainiac was who came up with this bright idea but everybody did it. Well, everybody slathered the baby oil, but not everybody followed the "insta-heal" iodine trick. You could tell those of us who did by the pre-surgical scrub look staining our skin. We were the same ones who thought we'd be insta-blonde by combing peroxide through our dark hair...turning it into a weird clown-like orange shade.
Another thing nobody bothers to mention, when you're young, is the effect gravity has on the body. The other day I was at work in my office and needed to crack my back. My "technique" involves laying on the floor, knees bent, hands behind my neck, and a roll up into a sort of "crunch" position. It gives a snap, crackle, and pop of relief between my shoulder blades.
Usually, when I crack my back, I have to lay really still for a couple of seconds just to relax. It was the same drill except that this time I felt something on the back of my neck. WTF?? There's a giant Shar Pei worthy fold of skin hanging off the BACK of my neck. Sort of a back of the neck wattle if you will. I think it's really odd that I never noticed this before because I crack my back at least once a day...sometimes more.
So yet another benefit of old womanage, if by benefit you mean visually unpleasant side effect of gravity, is reverse wattleage. I suppose I should have expected this if I'd thought about it logically. I mean, the wattle in the front obviously has to go somewhere so it only stands to reason that gravity would drag it to the lowest point, hence the back of my neck. Kind of like boobage sliding into your armpit when you lay on your back. Same principal...and equally unattractive I'm guessing. I have to guess because I can't actually see the back of the neck saggage.
I would, however, bet a lot of money that it's nowhere near as cute as the saggage on the face of a cute little Shar Pei puppy...it's the stoopidist thing.
I never had anyone telling me to stay out of the sun when I was young. Nobody told me to use sunscreen. Hell, we used to mix baby oil and iodine, slather it all over and bake in the sun. The thinking was that the oil caused your skin to burn and the iodine "healed" it. Don't ask me who the brainiac was who came up with this bright idea but everybody did it. Well, everybody slathered the baby oil, but not everybody followed the "insta-heal" iodine trick. You could tell those of us who did by the pre-surgical scrub look staining our skin. We were the same ones who thought we'd be insta-blonde by combing peroxide through our dark hair...turning it into a weird clown-like orange shade.
Another thing nobody bothers to mention, when you're young, is the effect gravity has on the body. The other day I was at work in my office and needed to crack my back. My "technique" involves laying on the floor, knees bent, hands behind my neck, and a roll up into a sort of "crunch" position. It gives a snap, crackle, and pop of relief between my shoulder blades.
Usually, when I crack my back, I have to lay really still for a couple of seconds just to relax. It was the same drill except that this time I felt something on the back of my neck. WTF?? There's a giant Shar Pei worthy fold of skin hanging off the BACK of my neck. Sort of a back of the neck wattle if you will. I think it's really odd that I never noticed this before because I crack my back at least once a day...sometimes more.
So yet another benefit of old womanage, if by benefit you mean visually unpleasant side effect of gravity, is reverse wattleage. I suppose I should have expected this if I'd thought about it logically. I mean, the wattle in the front obviously has to go somewhere so it only stands to reason that gravity would drag it to the lowest point, hence the back of my neck. Kind of like boobage sliding into your armpit when you lay on your back. Same principal...and equally unattractive I'm guessing. I have to guess because I can't actually see the back of the neck saggage.
I would, however, bet a lot of money that it's nowhere near as cute as the saggage on the face of a cute little Shar Pei puppy...it's the stoopidist thing.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Suzy Snapshot aka/ The Sister In Law
Let me just preface this little rant by saying that I really like my sister in law...almost all of the time..and there will probably be an inordinate amount of F-Bombs dropped in this post...more than usual I mean. I drop F-Bombs all the time so I suppose it really isn't anything new. I don't know why I felt the need to say that.
To begin with...I hate, I mean really hate having my picture taken.
I blame this on my mother who, when I was in first grade, forced a pixie haircut on me and made me wear a dress I hated to have school pictures taken. The worst part was one of my front teeth was missing and when it was my turn in front of the camera, the photographer insisted I smile. I didn't want to smile but my tormentor, the photographer, wouldn't snap the shot until my lips parted showing the gaping hole in the front of my mouth. It ended up looking like I was grimacing in pain. My eyes were all squinted, lips stretched in a straight line...it was horrid. Probably the beginning of what Oprah fondly calls "The Ugly Cry"...which, sadly, is the only kind of cry I know how to do.
I'm pretty sure this incident damaged me psychologically. And since my mom's dead, there's nobody left to contradict anything I might say about the incident. Besides, since it's my memory, albeit not as sharp as it once was, it must be an accurate reflection of the way I saw things then, right? Well, that's my theory anyway.
My SIL loves get together's. She likes to host them...she likes to attend them...she just fucking loves that kind of stuff. I can take it or leave it. Most of the time, I leave it. You know why? Because there's always some fucking asshole with a camera to capture photographicevidence "memories".
When there's a family photo that needs to have everyone involved, I cooperate. I don't like it but, oddly for once, I'm not an asshole about it. I participate...and that's really all anyone can or should expect, isn't it? Well, I think it is.
It's not the "family photo op" that bugs me. Okay, it does bug me a little, but really it's the "Candid Camera" snapshots that the SIL and those of her ilk are after that bug me the most. No matter where the gathering is the SIL is there with her camera. She even took pictures at a family funeral. WTF??Who takes pictures at a funeral? All the grieving family dressed in darkness, looking ever so solemn and mournful...just waiting for the SIL to snap their picture as they wipe tears from their eyes or blow snot out of their nose accidentally streaking it across their cheek leaving a shiny smear to be immortalized in a family "memory". Nobody wants their picture taken with a Rudolph nose and red, puffy salamander eyes.
Never when I'm at one of these gatherings do I throw a fit...I mean, I do in my head...in my head, I've called my SIL every fucking horrible name in the book...and then some. Usually, if I see someone with a camera, I just casually walk the other way or turn my head so I'm not really in the shot.
If I'm cornered deliberately by someone like my SIL sometimes I giveher them a middle finger salute, but that's about the extent of my bad behavior. These photo freaks, once they find out you're unwilling, make it their mission to snap your picture. It seems to become a game to see if they can actually get your picture without you noticing.
Guess what they do then??? They post the pictures on fucking Facebook. Never in my life have I posted anything on Facebook. But who knew I didn't need to? Who needs to post their own pictures when you have family and friends who think it's perfectly fucking acceptable to invade your privacy by posting pictures of you that you've never even seen or didn't even know existed?
I've never used Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, or any of that stuff and admittedly I'm sort of a Luddite. But that's neither her nor there. I've never had a need for any of that stuff. If I did, I'd figure it out...until then, meh.
The simple truth is...even though some refuse to acknowledge this, most people don't care about looking at other people's pictures.,,they do it out of politeness. I'm pretty sure my life isn't that interesting to the rest of humanity or even the small group of people I know in this world that they would welcome being inundated with a never-ending stream chronicling the minutiae of my life.
And here I sit writing about that same minutiae...it's the stoopidist thing.
Pee. Ess. I do see the irony in this.
Pee. Pee. Ess. I really do like my SIL.
Pee. Pee. Pee. Ess. I don't think I was nearly as bad with the F-bombs as I thought I was going to be.
Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Ess. After today I'm going back to the normal P.S. system. It seems kind weird to be typing PeePee all the time.
To begin with...I hate, I mean really hate having my picture taken.
I blame this on my mother who, when I was in first grade, forced a pixie haircut on me and made me wear a dress I hated to have school pictures taken. The worst part was one of my front teeth was missing and when it was my turn in front of the camera, the photographer insisted I smile. I didn't want to smile but my tormentor, the photographer, wouldn't snap the shot until my lips parted showing the gaping hole in the front of my mouth. It ended up looking like I was grimacing in pain. My eyes were all squinted, lips stretched in a straight line...it was horrid. Probably the beginning of what Oprah fondly calls "The Ugly Cry"...which, sadly, is the only kind of cry I know how to do.
I'm pretty sure this incident damaged me psychologically. And since my mom's dead, there's nobody left to contradict anything I might say about the incident. Besides, since it's my memory, albeit not as sharp as it once was, it must be an accurate reflection of the way I saw things then, right? Well, that's my theory anyway.
My SIL loves get together's. She likes to host them...she likes to attend them...she just fucking loves that kind of stuff. I can take it or leave it. Most of the time, I leave it. You know why? Because there's always some fucking asshole with a camera to capture photographic
When there's a family photo that needs to have everyone involved, I cooperate. I don't like it but, oddly for once, I'm not an asshole about it. I participate...and that's really all anyone can or should expect, isn't it? Well, I think it is.
It's not the "family photo op" that bugs me. Okay, it does bug me a little, but really it's the "Candid Camera" snapshots that the SIL and those of her ilk are after that bug me the most. No matter where the gathering is the SIL is there with her camera. She even took pictures at a family funeral. WTF??Who takes pictures at a funeral? All the grieving family dressed in darkness, looking ever so solemn and mournful...just waiting for the SIL to snap their picture as they wipe tears from their eyes or blow snot out of their nose accidentally streaking it across their cheek leaving a shiny smear to be immortalized in a family "memory". Nobody wants their picture taken with a Rudolph nose and red, puffy salamander eyes.
Never when I'm at one of these gatherings do I throw a fit...I mean, I do in my head...in my head, I've called my SIL every fucking horrible name in the book...and then some. Usually, if I see someone with a camera, I just casually walk the other way or turn my head so I'm not really in the shot.
If I'm cornered deliberately by someone like my SIL sometimes I give
Guess what they do then??? They post the pictures on fucking Facebook. Never in my life have I posted anything on Facebook. But who knew I didn't need to? Who needs to post their own pictures when you have family and friends who think it's perfectly fucking acceptable to invade your privacy by posting pictures of you that you've never even seen or didn't even know existed?
I've never used Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, or any of that stuff and admittedly I'm sort of a Luddite. But that's neither her nor there. I've never had a need for any of that stuff. If I did, I'd figure it out...until then, meh.
The simple truth is...even though some refuse to acknowledge this, most people don't care about looking at other people's pictures.,,they do it out of politeness. I'm pretty sure my life isn't that interesting to the rest of humanity or even the small group of people I know in this world that they would welcome being inundated with a never-ending stream chronicling the minutiae of my life.
And here I sit writing about that same minutiae...it's the stoopidist thing.
Pee. Ess. I do see the irony in this.
Pee. Pee. Ess. I really do like my SIL.
Pee. Pee. Pee. Ess. I don't think I was nearly as bad with the F-bombs as I thought I was going to be.
Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Ess. After today I'm going back to the normal P.S. system. It seems kind weird to be typing PeePee all the time.
Sunday, June 26, 2016
My Friday
I actually wrote this on Thursday and, being the self proclaimed Queen of Procrastination, never quite got around to posting it then....
Even though today is Thursday, it's my Friday. Thankfully in my current job I work ten hours a day, four days a week. I have to say it's fabulous having three days off a week. So fabulous in fact, that you'd think I'd have nothing to bitch about, wouldn't you? And you'd be entirely wrong.
Fridays are generally welcome to everyone who is forced, through no fault of their own, to work for a living. Some people like working...or so I've been told. In all my life, I've only met one woman who said she would keep working if she won the lottery. I admit I question her sanity. On the other hand maybe it's just a ruse on her part and she would really only come to work just so she could have the satisfaction of telling her bosses to go fuck off. That would make way more sense to me. I always think I'd like to do something like that but I'm always so afraid of hurting people's feelings that when the time came, I know I'd chicken out. Confrontation is my Kryptonite...and bugs...confrontation and bugs are my Kryptonite.
So sometimes it's called "Casual Friday" but at our barn it's called "Fun Friday" because none of the bosses are at work and everyone can do what they want. There's always lots of snackage and laughing...tons of laughing. I only know this because occasionally I have to work on a "real" Friday and there's a lot of shenanigans going on. Shenanigans I happily participated in.
Since today is "My Friday", I've decided the weekly name is "Fuckwad Friday". Things did not go my way. Admittedly, some of it was my fault. Managing time is not my strong suit. Most of the time I try to tell myself that I work better under pressure. But the simple truth is I procrastinate. Never do a job today that can be put off till tomorrow...that's my motto.
The Husband, man of my dreams, taught me about mottoes...he has many mottoes but his favorite is "A working woman's a happy woman." He tells me this every time I complain about my job. I want to hit him when he says it...really hard...but I don't. 'Cause I really do like him...and there's always the potential elder abuse charges. Just kidding...sort of. I wonder if there would be "elder abuse" charges if the abuser was an elder too? (Note to self...must research this.)
I forgot my first appointment and managed to arrive in the nick of time...only to be stood up. Back to the office where I attempted to look busy while waiting to leave early for the "All Important Hair Appointment" with Crazy D, The Root Doctor. After puttering around until I had about two hours till appointment countdown, I remembered I had another meeting in another town about thirty minutes away...give or take a few minutes depending on traffic. I blame old age AND menopause for my faulty memory. When I was young and unshriveled I had a spectacular memory...I think...I could be wrong.
The downhill spiral started on my drive south to the neighboring town...and included my encounter with Fuckwad #1 driving something similar to this. Only not as new...and slightly more compact.
Admittedly I've never been a fan of this style of car...but doesn't it look like it should be center ring at Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey with clowns pouring out of it? I wonder how many clowns could fit inside? You have to feel for the bottom clown who must be the most non-claustrophobic person on the planet. I would die...or at least think I was going to die if I had to be bottom clown. It's probably how they train junior clowns...the senior clowns get to ride up front and get out first. It's the clown caste system.
Fuckwad #1 is at the top of the Fuckwad Squad for the day simply for being a booberdoober. Not just a regular, every day, old person booberdoober. #1 was a RUDE booberdoober. If I'd had the foresight to whip out my iPhone, I could have had video evidence. But since it's illegal to use the phone while driving it's probably a good thing that I lack foresight. The way my luck was going, CHP would've nailed me for sure.
I started out in the slow lane where far ahead of me was #1 behind a semi...all of us were in the slow lane. When I caught up to #1 & the semi, I signaled and moved into the passing lane to go around both of the slower travelling vehicles. Before I could get around #1 to pass the semi, #1 pulls out in front of me to pass the same semi...no blinker, just a buttinsnky move...and after being in such a big friggin' hurry, #1 just stayed in the passing lane without passing...driving side by side with the semi.
"You asswipe motherfucker" I screamed at the top of my lungs...basically to myself since there wasn't anyone with me, windows were up, A/C was on, and music was blaring. Considering my whole kryptonite/confrontation thing, it's probably better that I scream at myself rather than a complete stranger who may very well have their own road rage issues and ram their car into mine just to ensure their status as king or queen of the road. Honestly, I think my way of handling road rage is way more peaceful than Fuckwad #1 if, by chance, he/she was a road rager of the ramming variety...even if my way is completely childish and immature...plus it does make me feel better at the time.
#1 actually sped up enough for me to get around the semi before the passing lane went away and the road became single lanes. But then, when it went back to a passing lane again #1 jumped in front of me again. This time I was a little more subdued...
"Really? You Fuckwad." I didn't even raise my voice this time. Maybe because #1 was at least doing the speed limit. Even though I wanted to go faster than the legal speed limit, it seems wrong to get mad at people who won't break the law with you...even though you really want them to.
All my hysterics were for nothing...as usual. After a brief encounter with Fuckwad #2 who did the same thing to me as #1 had, for which I'm embarrassingly proud to say my response was only mildly rude..."Are you fucking kidding me?" That's it... and it was said in my regular speaking voice. There may have been a slightly defeated, resigned, why me, whiny tone...but the volume was definitely low.
It's kind of embarrassing to admit that not only did I actually scream these words out loud in my car but I do this on a regular basis. Never in a million years would I call someone the names I call them when I'm safely ensconced in my car out of earshot...no matter how mad they made me. When someone is a buttinsky in front of me at the store, I don't scream and shout calling them horrible names. I put on the benign old lady smile and act like I didn't notice. Which if you think about it means I'm being a doormat. But in order to speak up I'd have to not only acknowledge but overcome the whole confrontation/kryptonite thing.
What is it about being in the car that makes me allow myself become so enraged that I'm compelled to behave like a spoiled three year old throwing a fit? Do I just think I'm invincible because I'm surrounded by a steel barrier? And I'm not alone in this little bit of juvenile behavior. I bet you could find at least one news story a day that started in road rage. Fortunately most of them don't end up in death or dismemberment...well, at least not the dismemberment part. It would be a little difficult to be involved in a spontaneous road rage incident that allowed the time needed for dismemberment...or the proper tools...that would require a little more planning I'd think.
I made it back in time for the "All Important Hair Appointment" in spite off the best efforts of the Fuckwad Squad. So now my roots are no longer a shade of blinding white. No longer do I look like a member of the Skunk Woman Tribe, however as my aforementioned behavior indicates, I'm still a member in good standing of the Assholian Tribe...it's the stooipidist thing.
Even though today is Thursday, it's my Friday. Thankfully in my current job I work ten hours a day, four days a week. I have to say it's fabulous having three days off a week. So fabulous in fact, that you'd think I'd have nothing to bitch about, wouldn't you? And you'd be entirely wrong.
Fridays are generally welcome to everyone who is forced, through no fault of their own, to work for a living. Some people like working...or so I've been told. In all my life, I've only met one woman who said she would keep working if she won the lottery. I admit I question her sanity. On the other hand maybe it's just a ruse on her part and she would really only come to work just so she could have the satisfaction of telling her bosses to go fuck off. That would make way more sense to me. I always think I'd like to do something like that but I'm always so afraid of hurting people's feelings that when the time came, I know I'd chicken out. Confrontation is my Kryptonite...and bugs...confrontation and bugs are my Kryptonite.
So sometimes it's called "Casual Friday" but at our barn it's called "Fun Friday" because none of the bosses are at work and everyone can do what they want. There's always lots of snackage and laughing...tons of laughing. I only know this because occasionally I have to work on a "real" Friday and there's a lot of shenanigans going on. Shenanigans I happily participated in.
Since today is "My Friday", I've decided the weekly name is "Fuckwad Friday". Things did not go my way. Admittedly, some of it was my fault. Managing time is not my strong suit. Most of the time I try to tell myself that I work better under pressure. But the simple truth is I procrastinate. Never do a job today that can be put off till tomorrow...that's my motto.
The Husband, man of my dreams, taught me about mottoes...he has many mottoes but his favorite is "A working woman's a happy woman." He tells me this every time I complain about my job. I want to hit him when he says it...really hard...but I don't. 'Cause I really do like him...and there's always the potential elder abuse charges. Just kidding...sort of. I wonder if there would be "elder abuse" charges if the abuser was an elder too? (Note to self...must research this.)
I forgot my first appointment and managed to arrive in the nick of time...only to be stood up. Back to the office where I attempted to look busy while waiting to leave early for the "All Important Hair Appointment" with Crazy D, The Root Doctor. After puttering around until I had about two hours till appointment countdown, I remembered I had another meeting in another town about thirty minutes away...give or take a few minutes depending on traffic. I blame old age AND menopause for my faulty memory. When I was young and unshriveled I had a spectacular memory...I think...I could be wrong.
The downhill spiral started on my drive south to the neighboring town...and included my encounter with Fuckwad #1 driving something similar to this. Only not as new...and slightly more compact.
Admittedly I've never been a fan of this style of car...but doesn't it look like it should be center ring at Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey with clowns pouring out of it? I wonder how many clowns could fit inside? You have to feel for the bottom clown who must be the most non-claustrophobic person on the planet. I would die...or at least think I was going to die if I had to be bottom clown. It's probably how they train junior clowns...the senior clowns get to ride up front and get out first. It's the clown caste system.
Fuckwad #1 is at the top of the Fuckwad Squad for the day simply for being a booberdoober. Not just a regular, every day, old person booberdoober. #1 was a RUDE booberdoober. If I'd had the foresight to whip out my iPhone, I could have had video evidence. But since it's illegal to use the phone while driving it's probably a good thing that I lack foresight. The way my luck was going, CHP would've nailed me for sure.
I started out in the slow lane where far ahead of me was #1 behind a semi...all of us were in the slow lane. When I caught up to #1 & the semi, I signaled and moved into the passing lane to go around both of the slower travelling vehicles. Before I could get around #1 to pass the semi, #1 pulls out in front of me to pass the same semi...no blinker, just a buttinsnky move...and after being in such a big friggin' hurry, #1 just stayed in the passing lane without passing...driving side by side with the semi.
"You asswipe motherfucker" I screamed at the top of my lungs...basically to myself since there wasn't anyone with me, windows were up, A/C was on, and music was blaring. Considering my whole kryptonite/confrontation thing, it's probably better that I scream at myself rather than a complete stranger who may very well have their own road rage issues and ram their car into mine just to ensure their status as king or queen of the road. Honestly, I think my way of handling road rage is way more peaceful than Fuckwad #1 if, by chance, he/she was a road rager of the ramming variety...even if my way is completely childish and immature...plus it does make me feel better at the time.
#1 actually sped up enough for me to get around the semi before the passing lane went away and the road became single lanes. But then, when it went back to a passing lane again #1 jumped in front of me again. This time I was a little more subdued...
"Really? You Fuckwad." I didn't even raise my voice this time. Maybe because #1 was at least doing the speed limit. Even though I wanted to go faster than the legal speed limit, it seems wrong to get mad at people who won't break the law with you...even though you really want them to.
All my hysterics were for nothing...as usual. After a brief encounter with Fuckwad #2 who did the same thing to me as #1 had, for which I'm embarrassingly proud to say my response was only mildly rude..."Are you fucking kidding me?" That's it... and it was said in my regular speaking voice. There may have been a slightly defeated, resigned, why me, whiny tone...but the volume was definitely low.
It's kind of embarrassing to admit that not only did I actually scream these words out loud in my car but I do this on a regular basis. Never in a million years would I call someone the names I call them when I'm safely ensconced in my car out of earshot...no matter how mad they made me. When someone is a buttinsky in front of me at the store, I don't scream and shout calling them horrible names. I put on the benign old lady smile and act like I didn't notice. Which if you think about it means I'm being a doormat. But in order to speak up I'd have to not only acknowledge but overcome the whole confrontation/kryptonite thing.
What is it about being in the car that makes me allow myself become so enraged that I'm compelled to behave like a spoiled three year old throwing a fit? Do I just think I'm invincible because I'm surrounded by a steel barrier? And I'm not alone in this little bit of juvenile behavior. I bet you could find at least one news story a day that started in road rage. Fortunately most of them don't end up in death or dismemberment...well, at least not the dismemberment part. It would be a little difficult to be involved in a spontaneous road rage incident that allowed the time needed for dismemberment...or the proper tools...that would require a little more planning I'd think.
I made it back in time for the "All Important Hair Appointment" in spite off the best efforts of the Fuckwad Squad. So now my roots are no longer a shade of blinding white. No longer do I look like a member of the Skunk Woman Tribe, however as my aforementioned behavior indicates, I'm still a member in good standing of the Assholian Tribe...it's the stooipidist thing.
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