Whistling Annoys Me.

I hate a lot of shit. I get it–I’m one negative bitch. But damn it all to hell if I didn’t hate one thing with an incredible passion.

That thing is whistling.

Sweet mother of Christ, people. I absolutely guarantee you that NO ONE wants to hear your rousing version of “Way Down Upon the Suwannee River,” or the theme song to the Marine Corps. I love the Marines. Most Americans love the Marines. But you don’t need to remind us of their anthem.

Most whistlers are old. As in, over the age of 60. Sorry, but if you’re 60, to me, you’re old. I’ve accepted that high schoolers think I’m old, so deal with it.

So old whistlers always find the need to whistle anywhere–and I mean ANYWHERE. The produce section of the supermarket. The airplane. Restaurants. You pretty rarely find a young person whistling anything. Maybe it’s a lost art; dear God, I hope that’s true.

What’s even worse is when people aren’t whistling a song AT ALL, but just a series of notes that don’t amount to a melody. Oh. My. God. Seriously knock it off. People are thinking about how to murder you and get away with it. Trust me.

I think my disgust for whistling came from my father. You see, my father is an avid whistler. I love my Dad, so obviously the loathing doesn’t apply to him necessarily. But his whistling makes me want to dig out my eardrums with a rusty grapefruit spoon. Drives me absolutely batshit insane.

So, not only does my Dad whistle, but he enjoys–and no, I can’t make this shit up–LISTENING TO PROFESSIONAL WHISTLERS. Yes, there are professional whistlers. Who have RECORDED THEMSELVES WHISTLING.

I remember, vividly, as a child in the 1980s/early 90s, driving up to the White Mountains on a regular basis with my parents. They love it up there and we’d vacation a lot in the region. Anyway, my father would play tapes in the car on the way up.

What cassettes did he pop into the player? Roger fucking Whittaker.

For those who do not know who Roger Whittaker is, he is an old fart musician/singer/whistler. Yep–he whistles his songs. My father had/has every fucking cassette that Roger Whittaker ever released. And he’d play them. The fucker would primarily whistle old Irish folk songs like “Danny Boy”. But he’d also whistle other shit, too. Most of them were just songs that old people like, a la “Greensleeves” or “My Darling Clementine.”

And my father would happily play this shit for two and a half hours while I was in the back seat, wondering where the best place would be for me to unfasten my seatbelt, open the car door, and roll out and hopefully down the side of whatever mountain the station wagon was climbing at the time.

Old people: next time you get the urge to whistle “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” resist it. I know you’re old and you can do whatever you want, but have some consideration and just stop it. We get it: you’re creative and musically talented. But keep it up, and someday I may not be able to resist the urge to choke you.

Bad spas annoy me.

Preface: I consider myself a reasonably creative person. But I feel it necessary to state that I did not exaggerate or make up any portion of the following story.

So I had quite the experience today; special thanks to Couptopia for this.

Couptopia is basically a lesser known version of Groupon, for those who are not familiar.

Anyway, back in November, Couptopia published one of their specials. The special was for a 60 minute facial at a salon/spa in Manchester. The price was $20.

As one who appreciates good deals, and anything spa-like, I purchased said special. I was not familiar with the spa, but figured it couldn’t be that bad. It’s not like this is in a Bangledesh slum; it’s Manchester. And I’ve never really had a bad facial, so why not give it a try?

Well, today was my appointment to redeem the certificate. I was instantly hesitant pulling into the parking lot. The spa was in a small strip mall sandwiched between a uniform store and a seedy-looking Mexican restaurant.

I open the door to the salon and read signs instructing clients to head over the the reception desk. I walk down a long, dimly-lit hallway, to be greeted by a 6’5 cross-dresser/transsexual wearing tall black boots, jeggings, a ruffly skirt over said jeggings and a pink shirt that revealed a sizable portion of his hairy midriff. He also wore terribly-applied make-up (over minor facial stubble, mind you) and a blonde wig.

Now, listen. I understand what you may be thinking about me. I’m sure you’re thinking that I am intolerant. I assure you that I am not. I may joke a lot about how much I hate people, but I hate people equally. The few people I don’t hate are of a vast assortment of races, religions, sexual preferences, financial backgrounds, etc. I feel the need to be clear here.

But I have never seen anything like this in real life. It was truly the worst cross-dressing attempt I have ever seen. Ever. It was as if a tall version of my couldn’t-be-more-manly husband lost a bet and had to dress like a girl for Halloween.

Now, you know when you see something unusual/shocking/unordinary and you need a few seconds for your brain to process it? Well, that happened here. As (s)he proceeded greet me and ask me (in a very manly voice, by the way) if he could help me. I feel absolutely beyond terrible for doing this, but my brain needed those few seconds to…you know…PROCESS WHAT I WAS SEEING.

So, I stood there. And stared. It was for at least 15-20 seconds. I know it was rude. But I truly had no other choice in the matter. It wasn’t a voluntary reaction.

After I came to my senses, I replied that yes, (s)he could indeed help me, as I have a facial scheduled with Cris. He asked me to take a seat and told me she would be out in a few minutes. As I perused through an old copy of People, (s)he (I’m not writing that to be rude, I don’t know how to refer to transgender/cross-dressers and this is the best way I know to do it), began to touch up said make-up and then walked over to his/her client to check her hair as the color was processing.

Cris then comes out and asks me to follow her. She leads me to a really, really, really dark room and tells me to undress to my “comfort level” and that she will be right back.

She knocks on the door not even 30 seconds later and asks if I’m ready. Apparently I am Superman in a telephone booth.

I feel the need to explain how a facial works. If you’re anything like my husband, who has never enjoyed a facial, you are unfamiliar with the process. Long-short of it, it’s a somewhat “delicate” procedure. It’s meant to be relaxing, soothing, calming. It involves slow, circular, two-finger motions when masks are applied to the face, usually a face/neck/shoulders/arms/hands massage lasting around 10-15 minutes, soothing music. You get the picture.

Mind out of the gutter, gentlemen.

The facial process also generally involves a minor procedure called extraction, where the esthetician uses a tool to extract all of the dirt out of your pores. This eliminates the majority of any blackheads on your face.

Anyway, she proceeds to take the entirety of her two hands, cover them in mask gunk, and literally slaps it onto my face. There was nothing relaxing, soothing and/or calming about it. She does this with every new mask/layer. It was sheer chaos–I actually can’t think of a better term for it. It was as if she was Jackson Pollock, violently tossing paint onto a canvas.

That canvas happened to be my face.

In the middle of one of her “applications,” I began to chuckle. And then laugh. Hard. Because I just KNEW I HAD to be on “Candid Camera.” I mean, there was just no fucking way this was real. She started chuckling a little, too–just because I was laughing–and proceeded to ask me why I was laughing so hard. I just told her that a friend had told me a funny story earlier today and it just popped into my head again.

She then proceeds to give me a pathetic neck massage that lasted no more than a minute and a half. Cris then slathered another mask onto my face and said she had a waxing to do on another client and that she would be back in 20 or 25 minutes.

Wait. WHAT?

Masks don’t generally need to lay on your face during a facial for that long. It’s 5-7 minutes, tops.

So she leaves the room and, no lie, I hop off the table and start looking around the room for a video camera. There was a couple of closets in the room so I also had a feeling Monty Hall or some other old game show host would jump out of it and I’d get a thousand dollars for being such a good sport and putting up with this ridiculousness.

She comes back after 20 minutes or so (probably after waxing some old lady’s bikini region) and takes my mask off, asks me how I feel, and tells me we are done.

Now, normally, I am a bitch. If I REALLY don’t like a service or a product I received, I will generally politely say something. But this was just pure entertainment, and it was already paid for, so I handed her a small tip and went on my merry way. I get into my car, only to realize she didn’t even take off all of the mask. Some of it was still sticking to my face.

Yes, this really happened to me today.

And this is why I blog. Because this type of shit happens to me on a regular basis, and everyone else needs to know about it.

 

 

Being Life’s Bitch Annoys Me.

So, my husband’s school district was about the only one in the country who had school today, on President’s Day. The superintendent freaked out when we had that huge snowstorm in October and cancelled the holiday for the district. Turns out that our city hasn’t even had a delay since then, and it’s nearly March. Go figure.

Anyway, my beloved thought it would be nice to take the kids on a field trip since it kinda sucked that they had to go to school today. He asked me to come along to chaperone. I thought it would be interesting, and what the hell else do I have to do anyway? So I agreed.

Well, there was this kid there. Let’s call him Strauss. Anyone who knows this kid will get the fake name. Anyway, this kid is pretty evil and began to cause a scene. So my hubby finally removed him from the presentation/tour because he was too much of a distraction. He asked me to babysit him while he sat in a chair in the hallway. Fine, whatever. That’s what I’m there for. Anyway, this kid started complaining about how “he didn’t do anything” and he caused some slight damage to the wall by picking at a paint chip and making it worse. It wasn’t THAT bad, but I slightly ripped him a new asshole for it. I asked him how he would like it if I took his property and damaged it. I proposed that I take the nice-looking hoodie he was wearing and grab the scissors and cut it apart. He just muttered some nonsense under his breath and stopped picking at the wall.

When the kids came out from the tour, some girl asked him if he was liking sitting in the hall with me, to which he rolled his eyes toward me and mouthed “Bitch.” under his breath. I just thought it was funny, honestly. But it got me thinking. I was tempted to give him a little speech along these lines:

“Listen, you little shit. I AM a bitch. I know it; you know it. And you’d better get used to dealing with bitches. Because you’re going to be dealing with bitches FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

“Think about this for a minute, asshole. No matter where you go, you’re going to have to deal with bitches. I REPEAT: NO MATTER WHERE YOU GO.

“Someday, perhaps, you may work at a job. And your boss is going to own your ass. You won’t be able to eat without your boss. You won’t be able to put a roof over your head without your boss. Even if your boss is nice, HE/SHE WILL STILL OWN YOUR ASS. And if you’re unemployed and are fortunate enough to get unemployment/state assistance, life is pretty much going to still suck for you. Yeah, welfare recipients get free stuff. But they generally aren’t eating high on the fucking hog and driving around in new Mercedes. They eat shit for food and basically live in toilets.

“Maybe someday you’ll get married. Scratch that: you’ll most likely just get some random chick pregnant in the next year or two. Either way, that chick is going to own your ass. Because that chick is going to make you pay a shit-ton of money in child support. And if she doesn’t get it out of you directly, she’ll probably get a court to do it for you. So my advice would be to wrap that shit up. But since I doubt you won’t, the bitch thing applies.

“So she would be yet another bitch to you, and the court would be one, too. Because that court is going to own half your paycheck for the next 18 years, dipshit.

“Let’s say, in the off chance you are actually successful, that you don’t want to work for a boss. You want to own your own business. Perhaps you’re a good car mechanic or an artist or you can cook like Chef Boy-ar-fucking-dee and want to open a restaurant (I laugh at the thought of this happening, by the way, because you are obviously just a fuck up and a half). Guess who’s ALSO going to own part of your business? The U.S. Government. They just LOVE to tax small business owners up the proverbial ass. Did you know that the Internal Revenue Service used to be called the “Fuck-You-Up-The-Ass Service?” True ‘dat.

“And let’s say none of this happens and you end up in prison. Because let’s be honest: with the way your life is going at a mere 14 years old, that’s most likely where you’ll end up. Some dude named Bubba is going to completely own your puny, pale ass. LITERALLY. And he will ACTUALLY call you “his bitch.” Hopefully the prison vending machines keep a ready stock of K-Y.

“So, if you think life is sooooooo bad right now because Mrs. H is giving you hell for chipping some paint off a wall, get used to it. Because LIFE IS GOING TO BE A CONTINUOUS BITCH TO YOU. Just like it is to EVERYONE ELSE. And it’s even bitchier than I am. I know–quite a concept for such a dumbass to comprehend, but it’s true.

“So eat a big bowl of shut the hell up, learn some element of respectfulness to others and life is going to be so much easier on you. Because, at least according to what I’ve learned in my nearly 30 years on this planet, Life/Karma can generally either be a relatively happy slave owner of your ass, or She can make your life pure Hell. Either way, She owns you. Better to learn of this at your tender young age now than when you’re lying in a gutter somewhere dying because some drug dealer beat the ever-living bejeezus out of you.

Oh, and you’re welcome for giving you this little lecture now, shithead. Now, go sit in the hallway.”

But I kept my mouth shut, which was really, really tough. Because frankly, I wanted to drill sergeant this punk.

In all fairness, I haven’t slept worth a shit in a few days, so I’m kinda grumpy. But this kid deserved my wrath. Trust me. Because if I spoke to an adult in the way this kid did, my ass would have been beaten within an inch of my life by my ACTUAL drill-sergeant/boxer father.

And rightfully so.

Norovirus Annoys Me.

I am writing this article knowing the possibility it could be my last before my untimely death. Please pardon any spelling or grammatical errors as I wait for my saintly husband to come home from work and bring me to the hospital to get an IV and hopefully some demerol.

I hate needles with a passion. Most people aren’t really a fan of them, but I loathe them. I actually have to take a large dose of valium before getting injections just so I’m calm enough. And yes, I realize I am almost 30 years old. Stop laughing.

But as I lay in my bed, right now, holed off in my dark bedroom, I’m caring less and less about those needles because I just want relief from this horrid, satanic illness.

Unless you’ve ever had norovirus, you have no fucking idea what I’m talking about. Most people have had the “stomach flu.” I’ve had the stomach flu before many times. Well, norovirus is no ordinary stomach flu. Lucifer himself actually created this illness. Picture the stomach flu multiplied by 1,000. Once you have that in your head, smash yourself in the face a few times with a hammer and then go eat a pork roast that’s been hanging out in 100 degree weather. THAT’S norovirus.

So, here I am, sweaty, shivering, achy as all Hell, and…ummm….finding myself having to “relieve myself” from both ends. EVERY 5-10 MINUTES. No, I’m not exaggerating whatsoever. I woke up today around 3 am and haven’t stopped since–it’s now 2:30 pm–with the exception of about 45 minutes where I was able to drift off to sleep.

I have Gatorade which I’m not able to keep down at all. I’ve managed to keep down at least some ginger ale. No food whatsoever. The thought of it is just awful.

I NEED to go to the hospital, which is literally about a minute down the street; however, while I can bring a barf bucket, I’m worried I will actually shit myself on the way there. So, I’m apprehensive, to say the least. Because I blatantly refuse to shit myself in public.

So…that was my day! Hope yours was better!

 

 

Hoarders Annoy Me.

Okay, I should rephrase that.

Hoarders don’t annoy me per se. They are just…icky. What annoys me more are the friends and family members who allow these obviously mentally ill people to live without psychiatric assistance.

Just to clarify, I’m not referring to those who have houses that are slightly cluttered or a little dusty. While I consider myself to be a decent housekeeper, I’m certainly not perfect. I hate dusting and I probably don’t vacuum as often as I should. And I fully realize that most people don’t enjoy housekeeping as much as I generally do.

But watch one of those hoarding shows and you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. ICKY.

I watch these as constant motivation to keep my home presentable. I may only live in a little condo, but there’s no reason for it to be gross.

These hoarders are downright disgusting. I understand that it’s a mental illness–at least to a degree. But come ON–if you really think it’s acceptable to shit in diapers because your toilet doesn’t work, and then to throw those used diapers in a massive pile on your living room floor, you probably should be in a padded room in a state-run mental institution. Not in your own “home.” You are obviously not fit to take care of yourself.

And yet, on these television programs, they send in these cleaning crews, clean the whole place up in two days, and just “give” the house back to these people who fucked it up in the first place.

WHAT? SERIOUSLY?

Nearly all of the “stars” of these shows are undoubtedly extremely mentally unstable. I feel terrible for them. I know people with severe mental illness and it truly is so sad. But I mean, really–sane people do not keep dead cats in their freezer, nor do they accumulate three feet of human diapers on the floor, name the hundreds of rats inhabiting their home, and eat canned goods from the 1950s. Also, sane people do not complain or protest when someone tries to come into their home and clean out the dead cats, bio-hazardous diapers, rats and expired food. Sane people would be grateful for that. These individuals obviously need a considerable amount of counseling and medication. They are not fit to live in the normalcy of a civilized society.

And yet I marvel every single time these people promise to change. Right. Because avidly protesting when people are volunteering to exterminate the millions of roaches living in your home obviously indicates someone capable of change.

For the life of me, I have no idea why I watch these shows. I really don’t. The only explanation I can give is that it’s like watching a train wreck and a plane crash all at once–it’s a morbid curiosity. How is it POSSIBLE for people like this to even exist?

Nine times out of ten, these houses need to be bulldozed. Naturally, the inhabitants won’t allow this, so the structures tend to remain standing in very, very uninhabitable conditions.

What I think bothers me the most are those mothers and fathers who have children living with them. A neighbor or family member will manage to alert child protective services of the conditions of the home and a surprise inspection is conducted. The parents are told that they must drastically clean the home within a specific amount of time or their children will be sent to a foster home. Knowing this, these mothers and fathers STILL struggle to throw things away. And these are generally not NICE things they are protesting–just a bunch of pure crap.

So, let me get this straight: you’d rather keep broken vases, cracked coffee mugs, mountains of clothing, and a million other unusable items then KEEP YOUR FUCKING KIDS?!?

I’m sorry, but the fact that they are even remotely struggling with this decision is a damn good indicator that those children should be taken away and placed into more stable and safe homes. I don’t have children and probably won’t be having them, but if I did, I wouldn’t even have to think twice before giving up my crappy stuff to keep my children.

I get it. These people are sick. But it doesn’t mean they should be on their own or taking care of children. It means the state (or some other recognized authority) needs to step in and make sure they are given the proper mental care until their conditions are under control. Period.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go clean my kitchen. It doesn’t really need cleaning, but I just feel the need to do it anyway. I make no apologies; I’ll take my OCD mental illness any day over the alternative.

Canker Sores Annoy Me.

Holy shit. My mouth feels as if it’s eating itself.

Anyone who gets canker sores knows what I mean. These bastards suck so incredibly bad.

For those who don’t know what they are, canker sores are basically mouth ulcers. Open sores. INSIDE YOUR FUCKING MOUTH. Like, where you EAT and DRINK and put other things into.

Sometimes, I find myself wondering, “Is there really a higher power?” Because if there is, he must be one sick puppy to have invented things like cancer, tornadoes, AIDS, earthquakes, and canker sores.

I know, I know…canker sores do not compare to the devastating effects of the other listed shitty things. And yes, I suppose I’d rather have canker sores than be diagnosed with some horrendous, fatal illness.

But c’mon–they still suck.

There is no cure for them. There is no real relief for them, either. They are apparently hereditary to some degree. But neither my mother nor my father had them, and they don’t remember anyone else in the family having them, either. Yet, I get them pretty much constantly.

Yes, you read that right..gaping sores…in my mouth…CONSTANTLY.

Yet another reason why I must be adopted.

Anything even remotely acidic feels like you gargled with gasoline and tried to eat a fucking blow torch.  And when you get “only” one, it’s at least somewhat tolerable. But I oftentimes get two or more. AT THE SAME FUCKING TIME. And if that’s the case, you can bet your sweet ass that I have them on opposite sides of my mouth so that chewing anything at all is pretty much an impossible task. You’d think my fat ass would lose some weight from lack of eating during these times, but no–I find a way to make it work and my fat ass remains…well…fat.

And then, because I’m paranoid, I always think that THIS time, it HAS to be oral cancer. This is what freak jobs like me worry about. Canker sores being cancer. You haven’t died from them yet, moron. You’d think I’d learn.

I’ve looked up all these stupid-ass so-called “cures.” Apparently something called alum powder is supposed to do the trick. You get a canker sore, you dip a q-tip in some water and then in the alum, and put it on the little shit. According to internet sources, it hurts so bad for about 30 seconds that you’re about ready to blow your brains out, but once that subsides, it supposedly puts some sort of barrier on the canker sore. The problem is that my dumb ass just deals with the canker sore and never orders any alum and you can’t find it anywhere but the internet it seems.

Then there’s that ambesol stuff.  That stuff tastes like ass that hasn’t been washed for a few months. And then it numbs your mouth. Thanks, but I’d like to feel my mouth once in a while, just not the fucking canker sore. I JUST WANT TO EAT MY BREAKFAST. AND TASTE IT. AND NOT DROOL IT OUT. WHAT. THE. FUCK.

And then there’s enlarged taste buds, otherwise known as tongue canker sores. Which I also have. Right now. With the two canker sores also in my mouth. On the opposite sides. And yes, it feels as if I’m swishing around a hive of angry hornets.

So yes, I’m a tad bit ornery right now, even more so than usual.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to order some alum now from Amazon and hope that I don’t blow my brains out the next time I have a freakish mouth ulcer.

For the record, the picture below is a canker sore, for those lucky bastards who never get them. That is not my mouth, however. I’m prettier than that and so is my mouth, cankers and all. That is an image I stole off of the internet. If anyone tries to sue me for stealing this photo, well…I hope you actually do swish around a hive of angry hornets.

People who believe that the end of the World is coming this December Annoy Me.

Are you people serious?

If you’re basing this assumption on how the Mayan calendar stopped, this theory has since been disproven. If you don’t believe me, look it up.

And even if you DID believe the end of the world was going to happen when the Mayan calendar stopped, why the hell would you believe the Mayans anyway? What made them some leading authority on knowing when the end of the world would occur?

It’s a known fact that the Mayans liked to toke it up quite a bit with different forms of hallucinogenic drugs. Nothing wrong with that, I must say. Good for them. But most people don’t exactly make their best decisions while they’re trippin’. I remember I was high as balls when I had my Lasik eye surgery. They brought me in and laid me down on the table and put a whole bunch of shit on my eyeballs and I didn’t give a rat’s ass. Apparently the doctor was a bit late and the nurses kept questioning why he wasn’t there yet. I said he was probably taking a shit and to make sure he washed his hands before he touched my eyeballs. I explained I didn’t want to go blind from some bacterial infection caused by a doctor’s shit.

It is quite unlikely I would have said this if I hadn’t been high on Valium. Side note: valium is a wonderful drug. They shot a laser in my eye and I didn’t give a damn. In fact, I laughed as they were doing it. The doctor had to tell me to shut up. That’s a good product right there.

Anyway, I digress. My point is that they were probably just too busy getting high on shrooms and awesome Mexican weed and they forgot to update their calendars for a few weeks. When someone sobered up enough to realize it, it was obviously too late to check the moons and high tides of the past few weeks so they just said, “Eh, fuck it. Let’s just make a NEW calendar and we’ll forget this piece of shit.”

Now, when the invaders came in and killed off most of the Mayans, they didn’t know how to read their language. So they found something that looked like a calendar and said, “This shit looks cool. Let’s take this back to our people.” Well, their people just did some shitty interpretation of the calendar and figured out that it said the end of the world would be on December 21, 2012. But they were all like, “Who gives a shit? That’s hundreds of years away from now. We got nothin’ to worry about. Eat, drink and be merry, bitches!”

Turns out, it probably wasn’t a calendar after all. I think it was some sort of early Craps table or Monopoly game or some shit.

Now, even if you don’t believe my theory, and the end of days happens to come on 12/21/12 after all, what the HELL are you going to do about it? You going to go fly up into outer space and bomb the shit out of the asteroid that’s going to hit the planet? You going to go talk to that crazy bastard Ahmadinejad in Iran and say, “Oh please, sir–don’t make any nuclear weapons. You’ll kill us all on 12/21/12!”?

Seriously–knock it off. You’re scaring people who would normally be at least somewhat reasonable and sane. I watch shows about idiots who preserve hundreds of jars of strawberry jam and ham hocks and spend millions of dollars building apocalypse-proof homes inside of mountains. Whatcha gonna eat with the ham hocks run out, moron? You’re just prolonging your life for a couple of years while the rest of us die in a fiery blaze of glory immediately. Sounds like a good time living in a goddamned mountain eating jam by the spoonful while society burns around you.

So hit up the confessional on December 20 so that the big guy upstairs forgives you if anything does happen, and then chill out. Live it up a little and smoke a bowl, drink a pint and eat some prime rib. Maybe go skydiving. Whatever tickles your pickle.

And then when your dumb ass wakes up on the 22nd, you’re going to feel like a complete idiot for thinking this shit was gonna happen in the first place. And if you don’t, and the world actually DOES come to an end, well…who cares? You’ll be burnt to death lying in some massive crater and my blog is the last thing you’ll be thinking about.

Eat, drink and be merry, bitches.