2 Things on Tuesday

As a teacher, sometimes there are Things That Happen at School that can kinda set the tone for the entire day. Today was definitely one of those days. It was actually a day where a couple things happened that made it feel more like a Monday instead of a Tuesday--because Mondays are usually the days when things just don't go right. That can't be true just for teachers, right?

Anyhoots, here's how my day began...with a little help from Baby Yoda to say it in pictures.

I was with my first class of the day in the computer lab, since I teach Technology on Tuesdays. My 2nd graders had gotten to work and I was walking around the room as I usually do, to make sure kids are on task and being close by in case they need help. I'd passed one particular student, we'll call him Charles, and he was working. But as I passed again about five minutes later and stopped to check on him, I noticed something come out of his mouth. At first glance, I thought it was simply spit. What can I say? It's elementary school. Spit happens. But as I turned to look more closely, it was not spit. No, it was a puddle...of vomit.

Don't Be an A-Hole

It's been awhile since I've written a Friday Flip Offs post. I like to save them until I have something happen that made me legit want to flip someone off. I think sincerity is important even when flipping someone off. Virtually or otherwise. Well this week, a couple of things happened that definitely warrant a virtual flip off, so here we are. 

I'll preface this by saying that I realize driving can be a pain. We all have lives we're trying to get to [or away from, as the case may be] or things we're just trying to get done. I get that. But the one thing I abso-freaking-lutely do not get is why some drivers have to be a-holes.

Case in point...

On Wednesday, I had just left the Wally World parking lot, turning right onto the main street in our town and heading south. It was going to be dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant for the Hubs & Me, so we were on our way to meet there. I got into the left turn lane and there was an SUV in front of me. I patiently waited the customary annoying length of time for the light to change so that I could turn onto the road that leads to the restaurant. Then we get the green arrow. But the SUV doesn't move. It sits there immobile for what seems an eternity before finally changing from his left turn signal to his right. Ummm...

Not Your Average Wiener

As I was shopping at the grocery store the other day, I happened upon a jar of wieners.

What's that you ask? Did I just say a jar of wieners?

Why, yes, yes I did.

But they aren't just ANY wieners. No, no. They are Germany's #1 brand of "extra crunchy" wieners. [Is there any other kind?] That's right. Packed in brine and selling for the low, low price of $6.29.

Really? I mean, dare I say it...

WTH?!

Maybe it's just me, but I find this rather odd. And I'm not sure what is more disturbing to me: the fact that these wieners are in a jar; or, the fact that they are "extra crunchy" and packed in brine to boot.

Dude. Wieners should not be a jar. Nor should they be crunchy. Like, ever.

And come on now, $6.29? For FIVE crunchy wieners? 

Seriously. No wiener is worth that. None of them. 

But hey, it did make for an interesting trip to the grocery store. And a blog post. That's something.

Flip It - Flip it Good

It's been awhile since I've done any Friday Flip-Offs, so I figure I'm overdue. Please join me in my unnecessary rantics and acts of utter whinery, won't you?

1.  Flip Off, Facebook. Yeah, for being down today. It was a horror-filled few moments, I gotta tell you. I'm not sure how I made it through without a full blown panic attack. But at least I got a bathroom break out of it. It was scary though. For reals.

I do think this is a good opportunity to cast my vote for Channing Tatum to star in FACEBOOK DOWN: THE MOVIE.  Who wants to start the petition?

2.  Flip Off, New GE Dryer. Yeah, for your ability to cease functioning after only two weeks of use. I mean seriously, how does a brand spanking new appliance stop working after just two weeks. WTH is up with that?

It turned out to be a broken belt, and I was fortunate enough to have a repair man available the next day to fix it. But still. 2 weeks old and the belt breaks? Is this the appliance gods' way of telling me I should have bought a Maytag?! Only time will tell.

3.  Flip Off, Pizza Delivery People. Yeah, for keeping me waiting for over a freaking hour for my pizza delivery. In the name of all that is good and Holy--how hard is it to deliver a pizza to a starving, hormonal woman, who only lives 3/4 of a mile from your store? Has the world gone mad? Why am I tormented so?

OK, there's a chance I'm being a bit melodramatic here. But dammit, don't ever come between a woman and her pizza! It did have a happy ending though: I ended up getting the pizza for free because it took so long. And that almost made up for the near starvation of it all.

4.  Flip Off, Centipede. Yeah, the one that I saw out of the corner of my eye scurrying across the living room floor as I was reading book one of the Outlander series the other night. Claire was just about to be transported through a time portal  from 1945 to 18th century Scotland, and you picked that precise moment to appear in my field of vision?

Those over-legged, dastardly creatures are as annoying as they are creepy and fast. Even at my own full speed--which, granted, is not much faster than a jaunt--I couldn't catch that guy after I threw down my iPad and hurled myself in his general direction. He's still in there somewhere. Hiding. And waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt my sojourn into virtual Scotland once again. Bastard.

5.  And finally, Flip Off, DVR. Yeah, for always cutting off the last minute or two of every single show I record, so that I never really know what happens at the end of each episode. I know it's going to cut off every time I watch something. But still, every time...

OK, so I guess that's enough of my self-indulgent complaint-o-rama for today. It's good to purge though, ya know? Do you have any flip-offs for the week? Leave a comment and share them. :)

I Blame the Y Chromosome

Why oh why is it that men don't seem to be able to find anything in the house without help? They'll look for something and look for something, but it's amazingly never to be found. That is, of course, until the woman of the house walks right in and finds it.

I can recall numerous instances of the Hubs and Me involved in this exact type of scenario. He asks me where something is, I tell him where it is, he "looks" for a bit, but he never seems to be able to find it. Then I'll walk right in and find whatever it is in no time. This happens at home on a semi-regular basis, but it also happens when we're at a store looking for something.

I used to think it was just the Hubs--but then I saw other men do it too. Like, a LOT. And one time when my grandson was at the store with us, he couldn't find something that was right in front of him--and the Hubs couldn't find it either.

That's pretty much when I figured it out: It's a man thing. Yep. Absolutely a problem affixed to the male of our species. And I totally blame the Y Chromosome. Clearly it messes up their radar. Or their vision. Or both.

Just the other night the Hubs couldn't find a certain pair of shorts he has. I asked him why he wasn't wearing them and he said he "couldn't find them." It went kind of like this...

Me: Did you look for them? I mean, really LOOK?

Hubs: Yes, I looked. Where could they be?

Me: They can only be in your dresser or on the shelf in your closet--it's one or the other.

Hubs: I looked both of those places.

Me: So what do I get when I walk in there and find them?

Hubs: *shrugs*

Me: *walks to bedroom, checks closet, no shorts. Looks on shelf in closet--bingo, there they are.*

Me: Found 'em.

Hubs: Where were they?!

Me: Right on top of the shelf in your closet, plain as day.

Hubs: I looked there.

Me: Obviously.

And all of this really has me wondering too, could it be the Y Chromosome that also makes men unable to ask for directions when they're lost? Perhaps it's also the reason that men don't seem to notice when the toilet paper roll needs to be changed--or why they can walk past a sink full of dirty dishes or a pile of dirty clothes, seemingly oblivious to the vast amount of household real estate they occupy, even when they are directly in front of it? 

Hmmm. A lot of men can't seem to find a woman's G-Spot either. Coincidence?

 

Yeah, until proven otherwise, I blame the Y Chromosome.

Things I Don't Understand-the Saga Continues

I had originally planned to come on here and rant a bit about something. But then that turned into a couple of somethings. And then I just decided that perhaps my rantics would be better suited to a Things I Don't Understand post. And since I haven't posted in awhile (which has nothing at all to do with laziness, I assure you), I bet you are simply chomping at the bit to read all about my daily confusion, aren't you?

So I don't want to keep you waiting any longer. Off we go with list of many things I do not understand...

Why the pump thingamajig (it's a word, I know it's a word, you can't tell me that it's not a word) in my bath products is never long enough to reach the bottom of the bottle. In the name of all that is good and Holy, why oh freaking why isn't the pump thingamajig long enough to reach the bottom? Do they really want us to have to remove the pump thingamajig every single time we need to get shampoo or conditioner out of the bottom of the bottle and shake it out?! Or maybe they just have not yet heard of quality control. Or maybe, just maybe, they really want us to just get so pissed while we're in the shower that we throw the bottle away and buy a new one? Yeah, that sounds about right. For the same reasons they want us to Lather, Rinse, and Repeat: TO MAKE MONEY. Capitalism, at its finest.

Twist ties on bread bags. What genius decided that it is a good idea to close a bag of bread or buns with a wired tie that you have to repeatedly twist, or untwist as the case may be, to get it open or closed. It's. Not. Fun. Like, at all. And you don't even know what fun is until you go to defrost a bag of buns in the microwave, conveniently forgetting that there is a metal twist tie on said bag of buns. And need I say it? It does not play nicely whilst in the microwave.

And speaking of microwaves, I do not understand why sometimes...

Morning People. Seriously. Just stop.

Why the post office lies. At least sometimes. I found a "Final Notice" in my mailbox the other day, for a registered mail small package. That wouldn't be so surprising if I'd actually ever gotten ANY prior notices before the "Final" one. And I watched the mailman put the notice in my box and then walk away--while I was home. Did he knock at the door? No. So I called the post office and asked how this could be--how could I be getting a "Final Notice" on something when I'd NEVER gotten any prior notices?! Their reply? "You should have gotten two prior notices." And yet, I didn't. Even though I was home every day prior to that, following the notice I'd seen online a week earlier showing that my package was "out for delivery." Hmmm. 

And if I hadn't called the P.O. at 4:45pm--only moments after I'd witnessed the mailman putting the "Final Notice" in my box and walking away without knocking--my package would have been returned to its sender the very next day. Yet the post office continued to repeat that I "should have" gotten two prior notices. Yeah well, I DIDN'T! Nor did I receive any knocks on the door when those two prior notices were supposedly delivered to request my signature. 

Advanced Quantum Mechanics. Just sayin.

Why anyone would have the desire to become a proctologist. Does it pay the most or something?

And finally, why some people are obsessed with Damon Salvatore/Ian Somerhalder.

I mean, some people are really obsessed with this gorgeous man and his hotness and acting abilities. No one I know, course. But there are people. You know. Just people. Typing this. Out there.

Yeah, so, the confusion continues. Carry on.

Obligatory Thankful Post

So it's November, folks. And you know what that means, don'tcha? No, I'm not talking about turkey, or parades, or football, or the award I deserve after I yet again endure 3 days of cleaning, baking, and cooking for a meal that will take all of 15 minutes to consume and that will be enjoyed by everyone but me. 

No, no, I'm talking about gratitude, and the obnoxious onslaught of gratitude posts that appear on Facebook and Twitter and the like as the countdown to Turkey Day continues throughout the month. Everyone is posting what they are grateful or thankful for. Repeatedly. Like, every day. And while that's all well and good, it can get a bit...annoying...to say the least.

People are spreading the virtual love and thanks for their families, their homes, their dogs, their health, their jobs, their kids, and all their many bountiful blessings. And don't get me wrong, I'm thankful for all those things too. But I thought I'd create just one post to share just a few little things that I'm thankful for that are, perhaps, overlooked by the rest of you.

So here goes.

I'm thankful for Fall and Winter--because not only do they mean a break from heat, humidity, and sweat that the warmer months bring, but they also mean that I don't have to shave if I don't want to. You ladies can't pretend like you aren't thankful for that too.

I'm thankful that November is Sweeps Month--because that means some good sh*t is gonna happen on my favorite shows. And The Vampire Diaries is at the top of that list. Ah, who am I kidding? It's the only show I really care about right now. So bring it on, Julie Plec: shirtless Damon, Damon in a towel, or maybe Damon playing Naked Twister. Surprise me. I'm waiting.

I'm thankful for International Delight Iced Coffee--because that stuff is just freaking G-O-O-D. And alternative ways to drink coffee are always something to be thankful for--especially considering there is no Starbucks in my town. I know. The horror.

I'm thankful for Game of Thrones--because Winter is coming. And because it makes me like people I hate and root for the Mother of Dragons and want to answer every question people ask me with, "Not Today!"  And if you don't understand any of that, I highly suggest you watch Game of Thrones. Like right now. Go ahead. I'll wait.

And finally, I'm thankful for turn signals. Or, more precisely, for people who actually bother to USE their turn signals. Because it's just kind of cool to know when the car ahead of me is going to suddenly change lanes or direction. You know, just for sh*ts and giggles. 

So there you have five things I'm thankful for. I'm sure I could come up with more. Lots more really. But I don't want to overdo it.

You can thank me later.

Linking this post up to Mama Kat's

To Sweat, or Not to Sweat

Yes, it's true. I hate to sweat. But being that I'm quite the cow these days, I figured it was high time to get off my cow-sized butt and try to do something about it. I really don't eat that much, as much as the appearance of my cow-sized butt would make you think otherwise, so my diet isn't the real problem.Though I do have a sweet tooth, I am pretty good about not letting it control me.

Really, it's pretty much about the exercise, or lack thereof. Fact is, I despise exercise. And I can't even begin to tell you how much I loathe to sweat. And exercise = sweating. Sweating is gross. And exercising is not even remotely fun. So how else can I feel about either one?

But hey, you know what they say..."suck it up, sunshine and just do it." 

OK, maybe they don't say that exactly, but you get the idea. I need to watch what I eat, and gasp exercise. Even if I hate it. Even if it makes me sweat. Even if I hate the skinny biatches who can eat whatever they want and never workout and still be a size 9, while I have to workout for a month just to lose one freaking pound. I have to do it.

So that's what I'm doing. I'm in week two, which is nothing really to brag about, I guess. But hey, it's something. And it's one small step closer to decreasing my cow-sized butt. I don't expect miracles though. I'll never be a size 9.

And that's OK. I'll be happy to lose some extra pounds, get healthy-ish, and have a little bit of an easier time getting my cow-sized butt up off the floor after playing with my granddaughter. Gotta keep the expectations realistic, don'tcha know.

Hopefully, in a year from now, I'll be able to look back at this post and smile at how far I've come.

Stay tuned. I'm just gonna take it One Calorie At a Time.

Your Call Is Not Important to Us

I'm sure you've had one of those calls...you know, the one you make to some business or some such, and then you get put on hold, which is made worse if you first have to listen to a multitude of computerized prompts to get to the Hold part, and worse still if when you get put on hold you have to listen to some seriously horrendous musack. OK, and yes, I do realize that's probably a run-on sentence. Thank goodness I don't get paid to be 100% grammatically correct. And who am I kidding really, I don't get paid to blog. At least not in money. And how much is chocolate really worth these days?

But I digress...

I am bringing this stuff up about being on hold because of a recent phone call to the IRS. Which arguably could stand for I'm Really Stupid. And why, you ask? Well I'll tell you why. 

First of all, the IRS really does have seriously horrendous musack while you're on hold. I mean, it's worse than bad. It gives bad a, um, bad name. And you really would think that considering all the money the IRS steals from hard working Americans, that they could afford some slightly less annoying musack while we're on hold. Michael Jackson, anyone? Anyone?

Secondly, you can only hear "Your call is important to us...yadda...yadda...yadda..." so many times before you really want to just take the phone and lunge it into your own chest. Repeatedly. 

And thirdly, because I waited on hold for over an hour. Yes, you read that correctly, folks. Sixty. Plus. Minutes. All to find out why the Hubs and I had gotten a notice about an incorrectly applied Employer Tax Deposit. See, I had to call to find out why the payment didn't apply correctly. Nowhere in the notice I got did it explain--anywhere--WHY the payment went awry. 

So finally, after over and hour of waiting, when I finally got through to "Ms. White," if that's even her real name, and I told her about the notice and asked what the problem was, guess what she told me? 

"Your payment arrived late."

Me: 

When is it due? (Honestly, I've been making those payments for years and hadn't even realized it was due on a certain day of the month!).

Her: The 15th. 

Me: But I made the payment on the 12th.

Her: But it didn't post until the 16th.

Me: 

And furthermore, may I just say, WTF?

But I was growing old tired of the phone call at this point, so I stated that I'd be sure to be more prompt with my payments in the future. Ahem.

Before I let dear "Ms. White" go, however, I wanted to get my tax dollars worth and point out something for the sake of tax-paying Americans everywhere. That being, that if the IRS would have simply bothered to put one simple sentence on the payment error notice that they sent me--one that stated that payments are due on the 15th and that my payment was received one day late--then I could have avoided being on hold for OVER A FREAKING HOUR, and I wouldn't have had to bother the dear, dutiful, now-sighing-a-bored-and-patronizing-sigh-in-the-background Ms. White with such a trivial issue in the first place!

Seriously. Would it have been that hard or costly to put one simple little sentence on that notice to explain that? It's not like the IRS paid for that paper notice, or the ink that was printed on it, or the envelope it was mailed in, or the stamp that was affixed to it. I DID. So how difficult could it be to include in such notices the actual reason you are getting them?! Wouldn't that just be a clever idea or what?

In the words of my mother, Ergle.

So really, what I got out of this whole experience is, other than that the IRS stands for I'm Really Stupid, is that when you are on hold--be it for 60 seconds or over 60 minutes--when they tell you that "your call is important to us," they are actually lying. Like, for real.

And also, perhaps more importantly, somewhere in the IRS call center is some lady allegedly named "Ms. White," who is way too easily bored and annoyed

Musical Chairs

OK, so I was sitting on the couch last night, watching TV in my polka dot pajamas. Not that it matters what I was wearing, but I'm trying to paint a picture for ya. It was late, very late, but I'm a night owl so it's just how I roll. When, at exactly 1:48am, I heard a loud noise on the porch, and I was like...

Yes, there was definitely someone, or something, on my porch. And since the Hubs was in bed, naturally I needed to go see for myself what was out there. So I went to the kitchen and opened the front door and then looked outside.

What did I see, you ask? I saw one of the chairs from the table on my porch...sitting out in the middle of the street. So I'm like, WTH?! And I was annoyed, and sort of freaked and wondering if the idiots who put the chair there were still around.

Obviously I couldn't leave the chair in the middle of the road. I needed to go out there, in my polka dot pajamas, at almost 2am, and retrieve the chair. I had to be brave. I had no choice. And after all, if necessary I could always use my special power to scare off any hoodlums or potential serial killers...

So I grabbed a jacket and my shoes and went out and got the chair, and assessed my porch to see if anything else was amiss. There on the table I found a No Trespassing sign, which I knew belonged to The Freak Next Door's house. So apparently my late night bandits had hit up my neighbor's house first, attacking some of his signs--because yeah, that'll teach them--before they decided to come over to my house and play musical chairs. Makes perfect sense.

The Freak Next Door doesn't even live there anymore (small miracle)--his brother does. But The Freak was an idiot and his overdone signage was just one of the many reasons he was long overdue for some karmic retribution--even if he isn't living there and didn't get to see it for himself. But me? What did I do? 

 Oh well, I guess I should just be glad that my chair was unharmed and there was no real damage, and nothing was stolen (for a change). Living in town is starting to annoy me more and more though, and the plans that the Hubs and I have to move to our farm property is becoming a lot more appealing. But until that happens, I'm just gonna have to hang in there and deal with this nonsense as it occurs. 

That being said, if I ever find the idiots who are creeping up on my porch at nearly 2am while I'm in my polka dot pajamas and minding my own TV-watching business, I will only have one thing to say to the police who will inevitably be called to the scene:

Un-American Cheese at Captain D's

Do you ever have one of those moments where you say to yourself, 'now I've seen everything?'

Well, I sure do. And if you'd been out to dinner with The Hubs and Me on a recent excursion to Captain D's, you'd have had one too. Now of course let me preface this all by saying that I'm under no false illusions about the menu fare calling itself "seafood" at Captain D's. Most of it is really only slightly better in quality than frozen dinner seafood at any neighborhood supermarket. But when you're hungry, and you don't want a burger and fries, and you're too cheap to spring for a real meal out and too--ahem--lazy to cook on a Sunday evening, Captain D's looks pretty darn good. So on occasion, the Hubs and I make our way to the ever-so-sea-scaped interior of the local fast seafood eatery and get our grub on.

But on a recent trip, the Hubs asked for a baked potato. This, in and of itself, is nothing new for said Hubs. He loves a baked potato when we dine out. But he also loves it with some shredded cheese on top, and for reasons I'll never quite be able to fathom, he can't quite eat a baked potato without said cheese. So he asked the counter person for some cheese for the spud and neither of us thought much more about it. Until...our food was brought to us and said cheese was nowhere to be seen.

So, the Hubs went back to the counter and asked for said cheese. And upon his return, imagine my horror when I saw this:

Do you see it there? That yellow-orange square of American cheese? On. The. Potato?!

OK, hold on just a tick, people. You can put American cheese on all sorts of things.

Hamburgers.

Sandwiches (grilled or otherwise).

Crackers.

But you cannot, I repeat, NOT, put American cheese on a baked potato. I'm sorry. But no.

That's just wrong. And gross. And un-American.

But dude (sometimes I really just like to say, 'dude'), the Hubs ate it anyway. He totally did. And I totally gagged.

So I guess the moral to this
pointlessstory should be, always specify that you want SHREDDED cheese when you're at Captain D's.

It's the, um, American thing to do.

Creative Advertising for Dummies

OK, I just want to preface this post by saying that I am not a dummy. I'm an educated woman--and I have over $70K in student loan debt to prove it (and will gladly accept donations in my never-ending quest to pay off that debt before I die--though that is far from likely to happen).

Anyhoots, point is, I'm not stupid. But I do have those moments where I just wanna kick myself in my highly educated ass.

Case in point: spent the day shopping in Fort Wayne on Saturday with the Hubs for our 29th anniversary weekend. And as we were driving around, I saw a gas station with gas prices that appeared to be over 20 cents cheaper per gallon than what they were back at home. Gas was $3.69 when I'd looked Friday evening at home. And the price on the sign at the FW gas station appeared to be $3.42 a gallon for Unleaded, and then $3.57 for the mid-grade.

(Notice that I've said 'appeared to be' twice now?)

So it seemed a good idea, since we had less than half a tank of gas, to just go ahead and fill up so we could save over 20 cents a gallon by doing so.

It appeared to be the logical thing to do.

So we stop at that gas station and as the Hubs starts to pump the gas, I run into the store to grab an overpriced beverage. And upon my return, the Hubs sees me and says, "you should read that sign again...carefully." And so I do, and then I see the problem. Can you see it?

See the problem there? The $3.42 price is NOT the price of regular unleaded by itself--no, it is the price if you also buy a Car Wash. Now seriously, that is some creative advertising. But...

Granted, the people of Fort Wayne are probably onto this gas station's tricks, so this kind of creative advertising isn't for the locals; it is for us dummies from out of town, who will drive by and happen to see that $3.42 price at the top and ASSume that is price of unleaded gas, and then be stupid enough to start pumping before we realize our mistake. And interestingly enough, there was another gas station right across the street from this one, with the same exact type of advertising tactic going on. But nowhere else in FW did we see this happening. So clearly, the one gas station did it, and then the guy across the street said, 'dammit, why didn't I think of that?!,' and decided he should start screwing the out-of-towners too!

Seriously? I mean, come on. You can screw with me in a lot of ways and I'll just let it go. But in this day and age, when filling up a gas tank costs about the same as going to the doctor, this kind of screw-the-consumer tactic is just beyond unacceptable. It is...

Consider me schooled though. I learned my lesson and will pay a lot closer attention to gas station price signs from this point forward. But as for you 'creative advertisers...'

Or maybe not so quietly.

Meh

First of all, I think I should get some sort of award for having my shortest blog post title ever! They give awards for stuff like that, don't they? OK, yeah, probably not. But they should. Anyhoots, it's not just coincidence that I should use that title. Heavens no. That, my dear blog readers, is exactly how I feel.

I have a cold, you see. Not a super bad one, mind you. It's the kind of cold that is just bad enough to make me cranky and sleep like crap...but not quite bad enough to give me free reign to be a bitch if I feel like it. Dammit. I don't get those free-reign-to-be-a-bitch cards too often. They're really one of the all too few perks of a truly bad cold, don'tcha know. And let's face it: if you have to be down and out with a really bad cold, you really should get free reign to be a bitch too. Just sayin.

But as I sit here blowing my  nose and trying to breathe out of a single nostril, I am typing and wondering one simple thing. [OK, I'm seldom wondering just one simple thing, but just work with me here, people.] Why is it that when I stand up I can breathe just fine? And yet when I sit down, one nostril is stage 3 plugged (on a scale of 1 to 5 in the nose-plugged category, with 5 meaning my nose might as well not exist for its lack of function), and if I lay down, my nose hits stage 5?

Seriously. I can totally understand why my nose gets fully plugged when I lay down. There's pressure and stuff, right? Makes perfect sense. But why does it start to get plugged when sitting down, but yet also fully upright? That makes no sense at all. And then standing completely up I can breathe just fine. Why? Why? And why? And how does my nose even know the difference between my sitting down or standing up? The only difference there is that my legs are not supporting my body? How the hell does my nose know that and why does it care?!

I know, I know. I'm losing it just a bit. My brain is foggy, truth be told. I tend to get that way when I have a cold. Hey, that rhymed! Do I sound like Dr. Seuss now? Is there an award for that? Well, there should be.

Where was I?

This is my reality, people. An infectious disease has taken over my body and at least part maybe all of my brain function. And I can't even blame it on the drugs, because I'm not taking any. Dammit again. No free-reign-to-be-a-bitch card. No drugs. Oh, the inhumanity of it all. It's just gotten me to the point where I can say only this:

Meh.

Passive Aggressive Much, Tina?

There's a blog I subscribe to called Passive Aggressive Notes. It's so hilarious. They post photos of passive-aggressive notes people have written and posted online. I love reading them. But imagine my
lack ofsurprise when I wrote my own passive-aggressive note to the Hubs recently. I wish I'd taken a photo of it, but it was nearly 2am when I did it (I'm a night owl, in case you didn't know) and taking photos at that hour is not something I aspire to do too often. Go figure.

Anyhoots, the A/C had been on for over a month straight, but it was finally, FINALLY, cooling off outside. But I wanted to be sure it was cool enough for the A/C to actually get turned off and put the fan in the window. So, I headed to the front door to open it and get a feel for the temp outside. Or so I thought. But I couldn't unlock the door. Again. Our front door lock for some reason doesn't like to open in the summer. This, I might add, is something the Hubs knows and could actually fix (not for lack of nagging reminding on my part numerous times), but hasn't yet done. So after several failed attempts to open that damn door, I decided to give up and write the Hubs a note as a pleasant reminder that the lock still needs fixed. And it went a little something like this.

Please fix the lock on the front door so that I can open it, before I either take a hammer to it and fix it myself, OR before I decide to remove the hinges, and then the door, lay the door in the alley, and drive back and forth over it repeatedly with the truck. Love, Me.

Is the lock on that door fixed yet? No. But that's just a little taste of how things go with The Hubs and Me. It could be worse, right? I mean, a little passive-aggression is healthy, no?

ABCs of Baggy Pants

Obviously, there are many Things I Don't Understand. That's a given. But one thing that really gnaws on my nerves is baggy pants on guys. It's so annoying. These guys have what I call the ABCs: Ass Butt Crack Syndrome.

I mean, seriously. WTH?!

Baggy pants do not a fashion statement make. And surely Coco Chanel would agree.

I know I may be old. And I don't exactly keep up with the fashion trends of the day. But I mean, come on, people. What is cool about your exposed underwear? Or worse yet, in some cases, your butt crack? It's NOT cool! It's not, I tell you.  It's weird. It's sloppy. And it's ass-inine.

Let's face the fashion reality that even un-trendy old gals like myself can understand: baggy pants are S-T-U-P-I-D! They don't make you cool. They don't make you hip. And I can prove it.

Exhibit A, Elvis: Cool King (Never wore baggy pants!)

Exhibit B, James Dean: Cool Rebel (Never wore baggy pants!)

Exhibit C, Johnny-You-Wish-You-Were-This-Cool-Depp (Oozes cool even when he's a pirate and doesn't wear baggy pants!)

If that's not proof enough, answer me this, guys. Are you trying to hide something? I mean, back in the day, lots of men used to wear tight pants. And their tight pants, you know, showed stuff. And people thought it was just so tacky to just flash your jewels, so to speak. But at least we knew they had some jewels then. With baggy pants who the hell knows? So are you trying to just disguise the fact that you are, um, short-changed in the jewels department? Because honestly, that's what I think when I see baggy pants on a guy--he has to be hiding his shortcomings.

Newsflash, guys: girls like to see the shape of your ass; they don't want full view of your underwear. And they certainly don't want to walk beside a guy who is so "cool" that he has to hold up his pants while he walks. As if. 

Girls want a guy with SWAG. Not bag or sag. And if you have baggy pants on you cannot have SWAG. E-V-E-R.