OK, I was shaving in the shower, as I am prone to do when my leg hair begins to scuff the living room furniture. And I used my trusty Personal Touch razor, the same one I’ve been using for the last 26 years, natch. Just as an FYI, that’s as old as my marriage, and I often wonder which will last longer: the razor or the Hubs. But anyhoots, the blades on the razor are new…well, new enough to do the job, but not so new that I should have to worry about nicking a vein or something in the process.

So imagine my profanity-ridden astonishment when I’m finishing the first leg, only to look down and see blood running down my leg. Now I must point out that I am extremely nearsighted, and I am too cheap and afraid well adjusted to be bothered with contact lenses, so I wear glasses, which obviously I must remove before taking a shower. So to say that I can see blood running down my leg, you have to realize that it is very…red…blood I’m seeing; not a  blurry pinkish hue that could easily be written off as soap residue. We’re talking real blood here, people. And I hate blood, especially  my own, and especially in my nice, clean shower!

Surprisingly though, I feel no pain past the initial nick. You know the pain I’m talking about, ladies…that acid-like burn you can only get when you nick yourself while shaving. The one that makes you want to scream bloody murder even when plain water pours across the slit that is so tiny it would likely require a magnifying glass to see it.  The one that makes childbirth seem like a walk in the park in comparison.  Yeah, didn’t have that.  Had lots of blood, but pain? Not so much. So I decided to just continue on and get finished, since there was an In Touch magazine on the couch with my name on it.

And then. It happens. Again.

And this time, there is pain. So any cuss words I missed during the first nicking I made sure I hit this time. I think I may have invented a few new ones too. And I’m thinking to myself, what just happened here? How did I just manage to nick myself not once, but twice? And while I pondered this pointless but still nagging question through the blinding, unbelievable, burning and exaggerated pain, it hits me.

My razor is EVIL.

What other explanation can there be for the deliberate and localized attack on my well-lathered lower extremities? Clearly that razor is evil, or at the very least it was momentarily possessed by some sadistic spirit with an axe to grind against large, naked, nearsighted grandmas who shave in the shower.

Or, um, maybe I was just in a hurry.

You decide.

OK, so here is what I discovered is a pet peeve of mine, and that irked me so much I had to go all bloggy about it:

Glue Tubes Suck!

I can’t be the only one who has encountered this problem. You buy a tube of expensive glue and use it for a special project. You put it away when you’re finished, to use at a later date. But when said later date arrives and you try to use the tube of expensive glue, you can’t, because it’s clogged. WTH?!

The offending glue tube in my case is E-6000.

This stuff is billed as “industrial strength adhesive;” it’s also something that many crafters use because it is supposed to work so darn well…which is why I bought it. At $4 for a tube. This is despite the fact that it states clearly on the package that it contains chemicals that are known to cause cancer in the state of California. Well, hey, lucky me, I don’t live in California! So I should be safe enough, no?

Ahem.

And yeah, it is a good, strong glue. Looks all pretty in the package, too does it not? The marketing team has done an excellent job on its packaging too. We know that it’s Flexible, Waterproof, Non-flammable, and Photo Safe, and all of these things are very important to wanton craft addicts like myself. But what it should also say on the tube is this:

Will clog after first use, rendering the tube unusable,
and the consumer pissed off and $4 poorer!

And then it should also have a picture of how the tube will look after you’ve spent half an hour trying to unclog it, causing it to become all wrinkly and misshapen, and so cracked at the sides that the glue begins to ooze out of it all over your hands and your craft project, so that you have to wrap it with masking tape to get it to stop.

And don’tcha find it funny how the top of the tube says, Amazing?! Yeah, it’s amazing, all right. Amazing that I spent $4 on it. Amazing that it clogged after the first use. Amazing that I actually devoted a half an hour of my life trying to get it unclogged. Amazing that wrapping it with lightweight masking tape actually stopped this industrial strength, cancer-causing-to-Californians adhesive from oozing completely out of the tube and creating a sticky puddle on my work space. And equally amazing that I just spent another half an hour of my life creating this blog post about it.

Yep. That’s pretty amazing.

I should have known.

Back on our wedding day, June 23, 1984, the Hubs and I received some wonderful wedding gifts. They ranged from the practical (crock pot, tea kettle,  mixing bowls, wok) to the elegant (crystal stemware, silver photo frame) to the just makes you wonder (stuffed teddy bear) categories.  It was quite the haul show of generosity from our loved ones.

However,  the running joke that day (outside of the fact that our organist never showed up, leaving me to walk down the aisle while guests hummed the Bridal March), was the fact that we received not one, not two, but three coffee pots. And why is that funny, you ask? Because neither John nor I really drank coffee at that time. We were happy to get one, since we have plenty of family members that drink coffee. And what happy little house frau doesn’t want to be able to offer her guests a good ole cuppa joe, eh? So even though it was rather funny to get 3 coffee pots, we made the best of it: we kept one, and exchanged the other two for other things we still needed.

So fast forward quite a few years. The lone coffee pot I kept stayed in my kitchen cupboard, only to be pulled out when we had family over. So really, it was still a good coffee maker, even after 17 years or so. But then I started drinking coffee, and eventually John did too, and over time that old coffee pot got slower and slower, despite regular cleanings and proper maintenance. So even though it worked (very s-l-o-w-l-y), I decided to get a new coffee pot.  I saved my old coffee pot, just as a stand-by, for many years, before finally selling it a garage sale.

And that, my friends, was the dawn of the Coffee Pot Curse.

It seems that as soon as I got rid of my 20+ year old wedding-gift-keeper-stand-by coffee pot, and got the first brand spanking shiny new coffee pot, it just didn’t take long before it died and went to crap appliance heaven (also known as the county landfill).

Apparently, that old coffee pot cursed me on its way out the door, after I so coldly and brazenly disposed of it like, well,  an old wedding gift. It was pissed. And as a result, I was doomed to suffer the coffee pot curse, which meant having to repeatedly buy coffee pots, only to watch them die before my very eyes. Seriously, it’s like they’re all in this together. Are they really  just dying? Or are they actually killing themselves in some grand gesture to stand in solidarity with the coffee pot I so callously disposed of years ago? Hmmm.

So earlier this week, my latest coffee pot, which is less than a year old, decided to join its fallen comrades and bit the dust. And naturally, just to mock me, I’m sure, it did so before I could even make the morning coffee! So I put the dead appliance in the garbage at the curb (it was trash pickup day, after all), and put the glass carafe in the recycle bin (it was the decidedly green thing to do) before I left for the morning.

The Hubs and I went up to Wally World later than evening to pick out a new coffee pot. I wasn’t going to go another morning without my coffee–curse or no curse. And as if the latest kamikaze coffee pot death wasn’t bad enough, I got an extra little surprise went I reached the coffee pot aisle and saw the following notice taped in front of the same model as my dead coffee pot:

Safety Recall:

Hazard: The coffee maker can overheat, posing fire and burn hazards to consumers.

Incidents/Injuries: Walmart has received 83 reports of overheating, smoking, melting, burning and fire, including three reports of minor burn injuries to consumer’s hands, feet and torso. Reports of property damage include a significant kitchen fire and damage to countertops, cabinets and a wall.

And then naturally, there is also a notice that consumers are to return their coffee pots to Wal Mart for a full refund of the purchase price. Yipee! I can get a full refund for my dead coffee pot…I can use that money to buy my shiny new coffee pot…I can…I can thank the damned coffee pot curse for allowing me to throw my dead coffee pot in the trash that morning, which the trash collectors have already taken away, along with any chance of me getting a full refund of the purchase price.

Yep. It’s a official, that stupid curse is real and no one can convince me otherwise.

And I should have known.

So it’s Friday, and you know what that means for the Hubs and me: Date Night (aka dinner and the grocery store). It’s a nearly 26 year ritual.

{We’re nothing if not predictable consistent.}

The restaurant choices around town are not that exciting, which is proven by the fact that most of our residents consider the local Applebee’s to be fine dining. Ahem. So when we want something different, we usually hit the Asian Buffet. How can you lose with all you can eat Fried Rice, Tacos, and Crab Legs, all in one place?! Now that is exciting! But hey, it doesn’t stop there. Nosiree. We had all sorts of excitement this evening at the Asian Buffet.

First up, and never a surprise at any restaurant in this town, it was COLD in there.  Why are restaurants always so damn cold? In the winter, I literally have to eat with my coat on for the entire meal. And this time of year, I simply want to eat with my coat on for the entire meal. What gives anyway? Doesn’t this defeat the purpose of serving supposedly hot food to customers? It ain’t gonna stay hot for long when it feels like it’s 60 degrees in there, people! And if their plan is that making me cold will somehow make me want to spend more money, well, their plan fails miserably on every single dining excursion. Being cold makes me want to leave, and nothing more. So, note to restaurant owners: turn the A/C down, folks, and with the money you save, maybe you can finally afford some real Sweet-n-Low, instead of that pathetic pink impostor you think people don’t notice is a crappy cheap substitute for the real deal.

Next, we were unfortunate enough to be seated right behind a family with one of “those” children. You know the ones I mean, right? The ones who are constantly standing up in the booth, turned around to look at you, and making all sorts of noise. But we can’t really blame the munchkin-sized terrorists children for their behavior, now can we? When they’re bouncing up and down in the booth, dropping food over the edge, or repeatedly asking, “what is her name, what is her name, what is her name?” it’s not really their fault, is it?

I’m thinking, I’m thinking…

OK, no, it’s the parents’ fault. Because they are the ones in charge of their child’s behavior, no? So what does this far-cry-from-mother-of-the-year-parent do?  She tells the kid in some sickly, sugary sweet tone, “Kyle, sit down…time to turn around and sit down.” She must have said that 4 times in under 5 minutes, with the same conviction I’d use if I was trying to get my grandson to eat some broccoli (no really, honey, it’s good, try it, you’ll love it!). And I guarantee you what the child actually heard is, “Kyle, you can sit down if you want, but I’m not gonna do anything if you don’t, because I really don’t care, so please continue to harass the couple behind you while I finish my egg roll.”

WTH?

I’m just gonna say it, and you can lambaste me if you want to: Some people should NOT procreate. Send in the flaming arrows. Go ahead. I’m ready.

OK, and I also need to talk about the wait staff at the Asian Buffet. I seriously think they have Ninja training or something, because they move in so swiftly, from seemingly out of nowhere, and then they are gone just as quickly. No sooner have you eaten the last crumb of food from your plate than they are sweeping in to take said dirty plate away. Tonight, the Hubs had just put his last bite of food in his mouth and his fork was still in hand and in a downward motion, when our waitress swooped in and grabbed the plate just as the fork touched down. And then she was out of sight. Ninja skills. Seriously.

Finally, after enduring the cold, and the noisy display of bad parenting seated behind us, we finished our meal and awaited our parting gifts: the fortune cookies. I mean really, who doesn’t love fortune cookies? OK well, we don’t, but we do love opening our fortunes. When the ninja waitress returned with our cookies, there was just one slight problem though. We each got a fortune cookie package, but one looked like this:

For real…it was totally empty! I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking that is some sort of karmic message or something. Hmmm, so either our future is empty…or maybe it’s just our bank account. We don’t exactly need Confucius to tell us that, now do we?

The Hubs did get a replacement fortune cookie, and his fortune was (as is often the case, in my experience) not a fortune at all. I mean, isn’t it supposed to tell you something about the future?  But they never really seem to do that. His fortune was just a blatant rip off of the Golden Rule…do unto others, etc etc. That is not a fortune, if you ask me. That’s just common sense. And a lesson learned…from good parenting.

But anyhoots…I got a fortune too. And at least mine was funny.

(Click to Enlarge)

You are the crispy noodle in the vegetarian salad of life.

And guess what? I totally agree. I don’t wanna toot my own horn or anything, but I  AM the crispy noodle in the vegetarian salad of life.

(And I’m Tinalicious too.) *wink*

Take care all, and Happy Mother’s Day to all the other crispy noodles in the world.

The Hubs and I decided to take a trip to the Big City yesterday–also known as Fort Wayne, Indiana. {OK, now, it’s not like we live in the sticks or anything, but our town is small compared to FW. } I needed some stuff from the Big Box Mothership–also known as Sam’s Club.  So we decided to make a day of it, hit a few stores, grab some grub, and just enjoy a day out of the house. And boy, was it ever the adventure!

I’ll say right off, I’m not one that gets into shopping all that much. About the only place I enjoy shopping at is Hobby Lobby or Michaels…and I can spend a couple of hours in either of those places rather easily, losing all track of time. And they were both on the itinerary for the day. But even then it still tests the limits of my physical and psychological endurance when I’m there, especially when I encounter the kind of goobs–also known as morons who shop–I did yesterday.

First up: the Texting While Shopping Goob.

In this day and age, where we do almost everything at the touch of some sort of keypad, these goobs are becoming more and more commonplace. But I don’t get it. Why must one text while shopping? Geez, I thought people who actually talked on a cellphone while shopping were annoying goobs, but these texters are downright maddening! Especially considering that they do so at the absolute peril of everyone else in the entire store. The guy I saw yesterday was walking and texting at the same time, and his eyes never left that phone as made his way down the aisles, texting at warp speed. And when I last saw him, he was heading down the Aisle of Glass–also known as the center of Hobby Lobby, where a butt load of breakable glass, and not so must have decor items are displayed, and he was totally oblivious to the shatterable shelves that surrounded him on all sides. Earth to Goob: you break it, you bought it have any kind of meaning to ya, fella?

Next we have the Shopping Cart Aisle Blocking Goob.

We have all been a victim of this goob at least once: you’re walking down the aisle, looking for the beer low-cal salad dressing, and all of a sudden you’re stuck at a 2-way shopping cart road block. And why? Because some people can’t fathom that someone else may also want to come down that same aisle, at the precise moment they park their cart to one side, and walk to get something on the other side of the aisle, which is also being blocked by someone else! Now, I know there is no Etiquette Guide to Shopping Cart Maneuvers for Dummies, but dammit, there ought to be! And to make matters worse, my powers of invisibility always kick in when I’m stuck at a shopping cart road block. What else could explain the fact that I stand there…waiting…and waiting…and no one seems to see me trying to get through? I mean, do they think I’m just there to watch them debate over  which can of tomato sauce has the prettiest label?  Sheesh. The Hubs always tells me, “just say excuse me and they’ll move.” But I don’t think I should have to…I’m not a small gal, and I’m not difficult to spot, even from a distance. They have to be able to see me.  But just you wait. One of these times I’m just gonna FART as loud as I can when I’m stuck at one of those shopping cart road blocks. Yeah, I bet somebody will notice me then.

And last, but certainly not least, we have the Thongs Are Wrong Shopping Goob.

There are a lot of things I want to see when I’m shopping for groceries. Sale prices. Buy One Get One Free specials. Checkout lines with no waiting. But one thing I absolutely do NOT want to see is the butt crack business of some skinny biatch wearing her favorite striped thong as she bends down to get something, all the while pretending to be totally unaware of the fact that her thonged ass is on display for the entire shopping world to see. Don’t freaking tell me you don’t know what’s happening either,  goob, because feigning ignorance catapults you from goob to idiot status in the time it takes me to gag at the view. You know! And it begs the question: what are you really shopping for? Sugar? Sugar Daddy? A man-whore with a thong fetish? Show some class. Put on your big girl panties and go shopping like a lady. And then maybe, when some obsessed texting guy knocks over a fruit cup sample right behind you, you won’t have to pick pineapple and grapes out of your butt crack.

So that was my Saturday, folks. A day in the big city. A nice meal in the afternoon. And adventures in shopping—also known as shopping with goobs.

Why is it that as soon as you finish spending over an hour shoveling your sidewalks, driveway and patio areas, it starts snowing again…and even harder than it did before? And you know darn well that if you had waited to do the shoveling, it wouldn’t have snowed again at all. What is that about?

I hate washing my car because doing it myself is a giant pain (so I don’t) and going through the car wash is so, you know, strenuous…or at least expensive. So I don’t do it often. But when I do, you can bet your bottom dollar–or mine, more like–that it will rain within a half an hour. There are 365 days in a year, and I probably get my car washed on 3 of those days. You’d think that the odds would be a little bit more in my favor. Come on, Mother Nature, show some pity!

Why can I go the whole day sometimes without the phone ringing, but then as soon as I sit down to eat dinner, that damn phone will ring. And who is it? A telemarketer, of course. You know what, Mr. Too-Lame-To-Get-A-Real-Job-So-You-Harass-Folks-On-The-Phone-Instead? Interrupting my dinner, which I have so carefully and almost lovingly prepared for the Hubs and myself, and pissing me off in the process, is not really the best way to get a potential commission.  Here’s an idea: how’s about you give me your phone number, and I’ll call you back when you’re at home eating? Better yet, how about I wait until you are nestled in your comfy bed, sleeping off the remnants of the crappy karma that your job generates on a daily basis, and then I call you, eh? A-hole.

How come people have to put music players on their websites? Do they really think I enjoy surfing, landing on their site, and then having the c-r-a-p scared out of me by their music as it comes blaring out of my speakers? Just because they like the music, does not mean that everyone else will.  And I personally do not like the sticky goo that now covers my monitor, caused by the too-numerous-to-count times that I have been jerked out of my seat at loud website music, resulting in the uncontrollable projectile spitting out of my  favorite beverage. {OK, there’s not really goo on my monitor, but there could be. And my point is still valid regardless. } Here’s a tip to all the annoying website music lovers out there. You can listen to music without making us listen to music. You don’t have to hijack our speakers and bombard us with your favorite ditties (did I just say, ditties?!).  Just turn on your stereo or ipod, or flop a CD into your computer.  Turn it up. Go crazy. But leave the rest of us to listen to our own music, if and when we choose to. Our PC monitors  will thank you.

And one more for the road…not only does this one baffle me, it seriously makes me question the future of humanity. (All right, I might be exaggerating, just a little.) One of my husband’s business bills came the other day; it’s for a credit card on which he purchases materials for customer jobs. Nothing amiss, just a typical bill, or so I thought…until a few days later, another something arrived in the mail from that company. Inside were the coupons that were mistakenly left out of the invoice mailing, along with a letter explaining that they’d apparently neglected to include their regular coupons with their monthly invoice.  So let me see if I have got this straight. They generated and printed a letter, stuck it in an envelope, along with the missing coupons, and affixed postage and sent it on to us with their sincerest apologizes for this incredible oversight on their behalf.  Apparently the crappy economy isn’t affecting those idiots at all. How much did it cost, I wonder, for them to send out this missing coupon mailing to who knows how many people? Guess I see now where our credit card interest is going. Sheesh.

Here’s to you, Murphy, or your evil twin, as the case may be.

Germs are flying, floating, and crawling everywhere this time of year. If we’re not trying to prevent them, we’re either trying to battle them with every manner of pharmacological warfare at our disposal, or we’re on the ever so prolonged road to recovery.

I admit it: I have issues with germs. But my personal pet peeves about germs and bacteria have less to do with the little bugs themselves, and more to do with people’s ignorance about how to prevent the spread of their nasty germs to the rest of us innocent bystanders. It never ceases to amaze me how people wantonly infect perfectly healthy friends and strangers alike, simply because they are too stupid or too apathetic to prevent it.

Here’s a perfect example. The Hubs and I went to our favorite Chinese Buffet this evening for dinner. I’ll admit, I tend to avoid buffets this time of year for the very reasons noted above. I mean, if you really stop and think about the number of germs that are lingering on the buffet utensils alone, it would be enough to make you stay home. (Or, at least, it should be.)

Just picture if you will the person who was down with a nasty, gut-wrenching two-day stomach virus–who couldn’t even keep down a glass of water up until 8 hours ago–cruising through the buffet tables in front of you, touching every single utensil as he fills his plate. Do you really want to load up your plate using those same utensils? Is the all-you-can-eat fried rice really that important to you?!  And will you still think so when it’s coming back up tomorrow? I think not. (BTW, this is precisely why I travel with anti-bacterial sanitizer, and I use it liberally when I eat at buffet places; it may not be fool-proof, but it’s better than nothing.)

And then there’s the lady I observed at the buffet this evening. She had a full plate in her left hand, and was getting another plate to fill. She looked at the 6 stacks of plates. She took her right hand and rubbed it around the surface of the plate on the first stack. But she doesn’t take that. No, she repeats this plate-rubbing on the top plate of the next stack. She did this three times, until she finally found a plate that was acceptable. WTH?! Not only do I wonder if she was sick yesterday (I guess the people who ended up taking the plates she touched will find out soon enough), but I am willing to bet that this twit is also a habitual  double-dipper at parties. Chips and Dip, anyone? Sheesh.

The simple truth is that probably half of the people who get sick each year, if not more, could avoid the illness all together with just an ounce (hell, even an iota!) of prevention on the part of the folks who go around carelessly infecting the rest of us.  So here are a few tips on how to keep your germs to yourself. And if you already know these things, perhaps you should share this blog post with those who live in the land of infectious ignorance and bacterial bliss.

1. Wash your hands. Seriously. Germs can’t swim, so drown the little suckers. It’s the one form of murder that is totally acceptable, and even encouraged. Use soap, warm water, and do it for 20, count ‘em, 20 seconds! You should be washing for the amount of time it would take you to sing the entire “Happy Birthday” song. Go ahead and sing. Get your groove on. No one’s listening.
2. Cough and sneeze into your elbow. Yes, I said your ELBOW. If you use your hand, you’re gonna touch something, and probably before you wash your hands. And I don’t want it to be my hand that you’re touching, or my coffee mug, or my door handle! But if you do use your hand, see #1.
3. If you are sick, STAY HOME. Clearly you did not wash your hands enough and you got somebody else’s bug, so stay home and keep your germs to yourself.  And I prescribe some chicken soup, and one complete viewing of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. That ought to make you feel better in no time.
4. If your kids are sick, then keep them home too.  Do you want the next epidemic in your child’s school on your shoulders?! Of course not. And while they’re home, this would be a good time to practice hand-washing and the proper form of  coughing and sneezing.
5. Don’t touch your face. This is an important one, and all too often overlooked. Germs get into your system in one of three ways: your eyes, or your nose, or your mouth. If you touch a germ-ridden surface, and then, say, rub your eyes, or scratch your nose, or (ew) lick your finger…what’s going to happen? Anyone, anyone, Bueller?  Yeah, I think you get the idea.

While I do accept the fact that I cannot prevent all illnesses, it sure as hell won’t be for lack of trying.  That doesn’t make me a germ-o-phobe, as much as some people might like to think. Frankly, if that were true, I wouldn’t even leave my house. I’m simply cautious, for one very simple reason: I DON’T LIKE BEING SICK! Do you? I didn’t think so. So I arm myself with my arsenal of preventive wisdom, and a little hand sanitizer, and I greet the world each day saying…

Welcome to the Germ Factory.

First, he nearly nicked me with his cart, because apparently, my wide frame was outside his range of peripheral vision and he couldn’t see me, being all of 16 inches away from him. No apologies from the goob once he realized his faux pas either. Typical.

Then, a few aisles down, I see a shopping cart sitting unattended in the middle of the typically-too-narrow grocery store aisle. It was positioned cockeyed in the center, so that there was no room for anyone to maneuver past it. And just as I’m wondering to whom the aisle-blocking barrier belonged, I look up to see Mr. Goob, standing ten feet away, perusing the chips and dip selections. He was completely oblivious to the fact that three people had to change course to bypass his basket blockade; either that or he thinks he owns the store and can park his cart wherever he pleases. Either way though, he’s still a goob for having left it there in the first place.

I finished grabbing my goodies for the taco dinner I had planned for this evening, and headed for the “express” lane, which we all know has about as much validity as “fast food” does at the drive-through. But anyhoots, I get in line, look up, and guess who’s ahead of me? Uh-huh: good ole Goob. Does he bother to place the plastic bar behind his order to separate it from mine? No. But what he does do is become fascinated with the credit card swiping machine, and the fact that it is on a base that can spin all the way around. He looks befuddled as the cashier (stifling a chuckle herself) explains to him that it swivels so that she can see it, to assist customers if need be. Sheesh. It’s not rocket science, fella. Neither is the fact that he has to sign the machine for his pending credit card purchase, which seems to really confuse him. But he manages to close the deal and be on his merry goob way.

Finally, thinking I am free of the whole goob experience, I get checked out and head to my car…but not before the goob manages to speed past me in his circa 2002 Pontiac Grand Prix in the parking lot, and a little too close for comfort in doing so.

Reasonable Facsimile of the Goob's Car

What is WITH this goob anyway?! Pedestrians have the right of way, last time I checked, and he in no way made any effort to yield to the pedestrian (me, of course) in his path. And thus, that annoying idiot went from goob to A-hole, in my book, in one swift shot!

He turned down the same row as my vehicle was parked in, just as I was unlocking the driver’s side door. I glanced at my car, a 2007 Pontiac Grand Prix, and then back at his, and I had to laugh. All I could think was, yeah, Goob, this is what a REAL Grand Prix looks like. Immature, I do confess. But hell, what else have you got when your opponent is a grocery store goob? If nothing else, I left there knowing that my Grand Prix could kick his Grand Prix’s ass. And that he would always, forever more, be a goob.

My Grand Prix

Now I’ve gotta cook some tacos!

The TV Show, Operation Repo. Are we so hard up for new reality TV shows (because obviously, there aren’t enough of them already on the air) that we need to watch a show about cars getting repossessed?! It’s the same show every time, only the faces change: weird repo folk go to repossess some cars; car owners who haven’t made their payments get pissed off; car gets repo’d anyway. Uh-huh, yeah, that’s must see TV.

Why men can go around with their shirts off and that’s legal, but if women do it, they’d get arrested. Now let my clarify by saying, I don’t want women to be able to run around topless (though I’m sure most men would like that). But I don’t understand the sexist law that allows men to do so with no fear of consequences. Most men should not be topless anyway–it’s just not attractive, nor is it necessary! Is it really so unbearably hot that they can’t tolerate a sleeveless shirt like we women can? Puhleaze. Put on a freaking tank top and get over it already.

When it became acceptable to go out in public…in pajamas. Every time I turn around anymore, I see folks at the grocery store, at the video store, at the mall, you name it, wearing every manner of slumber attire. What is the deal here? Is it so much work to just throw on sweats and a t-shirt, if nothing else? Or do they think that we’re too stupid to see that they’re actually in their PJ’s? Or maybe, just maybe, they think they’re starting a hot new fashion trend? OK, unless you’re 4 years old, it ain’t cute, people. And it’s the exact opposite of a fashion statement. Act like a grown up and get dressed.

Weight loss infomercials in the wee hours of the morning. I was up at like 4am recently, and I was amazed at how many infomercials were on focusing on weight loss. They were on a disproportionately large number of channels. Infomercials about diets, exercise machines, pills, you name it. So my question is this: do they really think that fat people have nothing else to do at 4am? Or perhaps they think that fat folks crawl out of bed at that hour, to grab an early snack and maybe watch TV at the same time? Or do they just think that fat people only watch TV in the wee hours of the morning? I just can’t figure that out.

Email hoaxes that never die. I swear, it never ceases to amaze me how many times the same email hoaxes keep circling the planet over and over and over again, and how it’s possible that anyone has the nerve to forward them to all their friends, let alone believe what’s in them. You know the ones that tell you…your deodorant will cause cancer; your cell phone number is getting released to telemarketers; the Neiman Marcus cookie recipe; the guarantee of hundreds of dollars for forwarding a stupid email to ten of your closest friends. I’ve gotten these emails at least a hundred times each, along with almost every other stupid email hoax that’s ever seen the light of day. And why? Because some poor sap out there is forwarding the same email that ten of his closest gullible friends did, and their friends did, and so on, and so on, and so on. WAKE UP, WORLD! 99.9% of the crap you read about in an email is just that, crap! And the only reason it keeps resurfacing (some of it for over a decade!) is because you send it to all your friends instead of doing the only thing that should ever be done with it: DELETE IT!

OK, so there are my random things I don’t understand for today. And now there is a cup of coffee with my name on it and some real work to be done…after I delete a bunch of bogus emails.

OK, so I’m being a tad bit melodramatic. It’s just a cold, right? It could be worse; it’s not like I have the Swine Flu or something. But man, what is it with colds? Shouldn’t there be a bodily limit on how many colds one has to endure in their lifetime? If there were such a limit, surely I’d have met mine long ago, after catching most of my daughter’s colds, my husband’s colds, and the colds of many a sneezing/germ-spreading student when I was a teacher for a decade! I’ve had more than my fair share of colds in my forty-two years, if I do say so myself. Sniffle.

Think about it: doctors say that there are over 100 viruses that cause the common cold (which, just FYI, is why it’s not possible to cure a cold…because it would be impossible/impractical to diagnose which virus a person is infected with at any given time); they also say that the average person gets up to 4 colds per year. So with that bit of enlightened medical insight, shouldn’t I have had every single cold virus possible by the age of 30…at the latest?! Yeah well, so much for statistics. They should revise that to say that the oh-so-lucky-few-and-far-between get 4 colds per year…the rest of us get screwed. Cough.

And what is it with cold medicines anyway? Why can’t they make one that actually works? My left nostril is so plugged that I’m getting a migraine trying to breathe through it, and there is no decongestant that works for me. Yet it says, right on every decongestant box I’ve ever read: temporarily relieves nasal congestion due to the common cold. Do they really expect us to believe that it worked on the lab rats, but it’s not gonna work on us? Or is it just one big pharmaceutical lie…something those drug-makers sit around laughing about at our snot-nosed expense? Sniffle.

But puh-lease don’t tell me to breathe through my mouth. There is nothing worse than the duty breath and chapped lips that result from breathing through your mouth. Like it’s not bad enough that I’m sneezing every five seconds, blowing my nose enough times to single-handedly keep Kleenex in business for the next 40 years, and snoring loud enough to wake the dead (and The Hubs!). Yeah, I really want to have breath that smells like poo and cracked lips to boot! I think not. Hack.

I just want to breathe, people. Is that asking so much? I’ll tolerate the lethargy and nose-blowing, and the occasional coughing. I’ll even put up with the incessant sniffling. But just let me breathe–through both nostrils! Seriously.

A-choo.