Tag Archives: cell phone

Don’t be a Dick

Yep.

That sums it up.

Number one rule in life:  Don’t be a dick.

How difficult is that?

Apparently, it would be easier to count the grains of sand in an ant hill. Even counting the grains in a fire ant hill would be easier I’m thinking.

Shoot, taking a gallon of ocean water, waiting for it to evaporate and then counting any sea salt grains would be easier….than trying not to be a dick in to day’s world.

Being a dick, it seems, is second nature for nearly everyone.  Whew, now isn’t that a relief.  Except for those of us who aren’t a dick, then we’re annoyed as hell with you.

The problem it seems, stems from a singular mentality:

It’s all about me.  Me. Me. Me. Me.  It’s all about me.  Got it?  M.E.

Seriously.

Take driving for example.

It doesn’t matter if you are going 3 blocks to the grocery store or 15 miles to work or 100 miles for vacation.  Go the speed limit, go over the speed limit or drive in the far right lane of a 4 lane highway ….  it still doesn’t matter.  There are Dicks to be found.

Everyone has one thing on their mind – themselves.

Some days driving home after work,  it’s the driver game of Survivor.  It’s all about ME.  No, no, no…..really.  By all means.  Please.  Go ahead.  I was at the four way stop before you, but please, don’t wait your turn.  I’m sorry, yes, go ahead and run the red light.  Yes, you should definitely honk your horn as soon as the light turns green because the four cars in front of you obviously can’t get through the light fast enough.  I love it when you cut me off to turn left….From. The. Right. Hand. Lane.   If you could tailgate me, that would really make my day.   Since all of the traffic is doing 12 mph, you trying to climb my fender just makes so much more satisfying.  I like being able to see my bumperstickers in your grill.

All this before I even get out of the city!

Society has created a demand for instant gratification.  Everything NOW.  Impatience is rampant.  Common courtesy  has gone the way of common sense – right out the window.

Go to the grocery store and people will run you over with their cart.  Think they’re going to share the aisle with you?  Not a snowball’s chance in hell.  It’s all about me and I own this aisle, go get your own aisle, bitch.  Forever gone are the excuse me and pardon me moments that used to follow the moment you shoved aside someone to reach the ketchup on the top shelf.

If you come across a shopping carriage blocking the aisle, you have a decision to make.  Do you move it?  Do you wait impatiently?  Moving it causes the owner of said cart immediately to glare at you as if you were attempting to make off with her carriage full of Double Stuffed Oreos, iceberg lettuce, bananas, single-ply butt wipe, Rocky Road ice cream and Captain Crunch cereal.  If you stand there impatiently waiting, chances are she will continue to ponder for eternity which brand of ranch salad dressing to purchase….Hidden Valley or Grocery De-lite.

I’m not asking to see your license and registration.  I’m asking you to share the space and move the hell over.  Oh but wait, it’s all about Me.  That’s right.

In produce, people can’t wait for you to get out of their way so they can get their pick of the oranges, apples, grapes and bananas.  There are only so many times someone can swish open their plastic bag ….I get the hint, but you can wait your turn.  It’s called patience.   Give me 30 seconds, I will be out of your way.  However you never see them at the pineapple, starfruit, coconut, plantains, dragon fruit and kiwis….all those exotic and sassy fruits.  Instead, they’re busy thumping watermelons and squeezing cantaloupes.  I’m thinking I may take up the exotics next time….I could be on to something here.

Walking down the city sidewalk.  It’s the Wild Wild West.  Too busy on the idiot box, which used to be the TV and now are the damn cell phones.  People can’t get off them.  It’s as addictive as crack.  In the next 50 years, babies will probably be born with necks already bent to watch the idiot box perfectly in their hands.  Put it down and pay attention people.  But no. Nobody is paying attention to the world around them, regardless of the phone or not.  It’s all about them.  It’s the Me Bubble.

Side Note: My observation about the cell phone.  People are too damn busy taking photos  about the moment they’re in, so they can have a “look at me moment” to put on social media.  They’re missing being in the moment.

 

Living in the world of NOW,  patience level is nonexistent. Patience has gone the way of drive-in movies, tv dinners in tinfoil trays with the yummy apples for dessert, riding bikes without helmets, metallic wallpaper patterns, roller skates & roller rinks and Tupperware parties.

It doesn’t matter if you work in an office, school, medical center, factory, scientific institute, art and design establishment, recycling center or transportation industry.

There are days at work, when you think to yourself….

  • I’m going to have to lock myself in the bathroom and beat my head against the wall before I  loose my mind.
  • If I wander away, would anyone notice?
  • How much longer until 5:00PM?
  • Did I really sign up for this?
  • Who the hell are these people? They’re crazy!
  • Other duties as assigned?  Are you fucking kidding me?

I’m right…..I know.

It’s funny cause most of us are in the same boat.  Ask anyone.

We should all be living our dream, but chances are we’re grinding it out trying to get to our dreams.  In the meanwhile, we’re all trying to run each other down on the highways. Or run each other over in the grocery aisles.  Better yet, trying to knock one another out at work on various levels.

We live in a singular world.  It’s all about me.  I have to be first.  First in line.  First through the door.  First through the light.  First with the photo.  First to park.  Look at me.  Look at me go.  Get out of my way.  It’s all about me.  Me.  Me.  Me.  Me. Grocery, shopping mall, book store, coffee shop, hair salon, gas station, highway, etc.

Well, hair salons are different.  There, you are being sized up.  Women come in looking like they have just been rolled out of the bushes by some raccoon when they show up…hair is every which way, sweat pants and oversized shirts.  Or the yoga pants and they’re obviously not doing any yoga.  That’s a whole other blog.  What’s with the stretch pants?  Don’t get me started….

Fast forward a few hours, by the time ladies are ready to leave the salon,  they depart acting like they are in a Pantene shampoo commercial.  Every other woman waiting her turn to see her stylist is sizing her up as she leaves….seriously.  Better do the hair flip and make it look good. Or what’s the shampoo commercial where the woman washes her hair in the airplane bathroom and acts like she had an orgasmic experience? (Of course, on several airlines now she’d probably be charged a fee for that and then arrested.  Or she might be asked to do a show, who the hell knows anymore.)

The other place you don’t see people trying to run you over with the piss-headed idiot syndrome is the liquor store.  Honest.  Next time you go in, look at how polite everyone is to each other.  They know.  They get it.  You are just grinding away the daily work life.  The liquor store is almost like a therapy session.

“What you need?”

“We have a sale – two for one.”

“Have a good one.”

Is there any doubt why some states have liquor warehouses?

I think not.

 

 

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When Modern Tech Goes to Shit

 

brokenNo. No. No.

It’s me.  Not you.

After today, this is what I’m thinking.

It has
to be me – nearly every electrical thing I’ve touched this week has gone to shit.    Think I’m kidding, let me tell you.

CASE ONE:  The iPad.

I love my iPad.

Love it.

I don’t even know all the things it can do and I love it.

Although, I admit it, at first, I didn’t want to buy into it.  I didn’t want it for squat.  I had multiple bookcases filled with books.  This was my main reason for buying an iPad, along with Word abilities, the Net and eMail.

Yatta, yatta.  Yeah, whatever.  However, the main reason:

BOOKS.

I love to read.

You mean to tell me, I can carry 100 books with me?  In my bag?  O. M. G.

The catch for me was this….one of my favorite jobs was working at a Barnes & Noble throughout college.

B O O K S

I love the smell.  The feel.  The weight.  Holding books in my hand.  Turning the pages, smelling the ink, the crisp new pages yet to be seen by anyone’s eyes – these are some of the things that make my heart sing.  Virgin pages, never folded, free of marks.  I can spend  hours in a book store just wandering the aisles, all the volumes I’ve yet to read, topics unheard of….just waiting for me to pick them up.

Why did I need a stinking iPad?  I NEED the physical characteristics of the books, like a crack addict needs their multiple daily hits.  Like a car overhauling junkie needs their rebuild.

I caved.

I bought the first iPad.  Thus my junkie life of the iPad began.

However, before I continue this story, walk with me a moment, as we sometimes do….

Pour yourself a Jameson, Cockburn’s or wine of choice and let’s saunter together down the familiar roadway that is our twisted memory – filled with decrepit has beens and once glorified Jettson carton treasures of could have been.

Cue the dream music played by simulated harp.

Do you remember…..granted, depending on your age, you may or may not remember any of this.  If that’s the case, then just move on to your next blog and call it a good read.

Modern technology, for all the wonderful things it brings into our lives, annoys the shit out of me when it craps out and becomes useless.  Previously we had to actually demonstrate patience on a daily basis.  Not any more.  Today it’s all about instant gratification.  This in and of itself explain why NOBODY in Miami has any patience.

  • I remember going to the bank and the teller would have to type on my savings passport any deposit or withdrawal I made.
  • Our telephone was attached to the wall and the receiver had a rope that attached it to the button box that we used to actually push to the numbers.  Not to mention rotary dials!
  • Phone numbers started with letters.  KE5-5689
  • Toll booth plazas that actually took money.
  • TVs that were so large they sat on the floor and were their own piece of furniture.
  • Getting up to change the channel on the TV.
  • Ditto machines.
  • Thermal fax machines – and trying to uncurl your paper to read the fax.
  • 8-tracks
  • Beta players
  • Buying singles on 45 records and needing the special plastic part for the middle in order to play on your record player.
  • Coin operated pay phones.
  • Polaroid Cameras – true instant gratification snaps!
  • TYPEWRITERS!  I swear, I took the very last typewriter class.  BEST class I ever took.
  • Electric razors.  Although there’s something to be said about lathering up a man.

See what I’m saying, there’s no process any more – it’s all the instant process.  Hurry up and get it done is the mentality today.  There’s something to be said about taking your time, going through a process.  Like making home baked items whether it’s pasta, bread or lasagna ….. the time says something.

My iPad crapped out with a GIANT dead zone across the screen.  It made all types of things difficult.  Words With Friends became impossible as I couldn’t drag and drop my word tiles.  GRRRRRRRRR…..

Worse yet…as I sat in the hair stylist chair, ready for my ordeal, I settled into the chair, opened my iBook only to be horrified:

The iPad  selected, on it’s own, what book I should read.  Which I closed.  I opened the one I wanted.  It then continued to highlight, cut and paste various paragraphs….shut down the book, open another, highlight, cut & paste.

W T F!

It got so bad, I had to turn it off.

Long story, made an appointment with the Genius Apple folks – the something something  yatta thing is dead and I need a new iPad.  1/3 of my touch screen was dead, causing it to select things at random.  It was ridiculous. So here we go.   I expected it.  It was an old machine.

Get home and begin the upload of my download.  (I should have had kids, or I really need to make friends with 12 year olds who can fix the electrical shit.)

27 hours later…..my new iPad is still “uploading the back up.”

NOTHING  HAS   CHANGED.

Okay, I’m now officially on withdrawl.  And I’ve jumped off the high diving board, which in real life, scares the crap out of me.  (Remind me later to tell you how I did this with a bunch of soon to be Marines.)

I come out to the living room to bitch.  The Mister tells me….”you have a bookcase full of books.”

Oh, okay.

DON’T

EVEN

START

THAT

WITH

ME

M I S T E R.

The book I fucking want to read is on this piece of shit machinery that I can’t even access!!!! You see my fucking problem??!?!?  Do you?!?!?

I

AM

NOT

HHHHAAAAAAPPPPPPPYYYYYYYY!!!!

Long work days, stress and life in general…some nights I just want to read, in bed, with a glass of wine.  This night I could not do that.  This gives new meaning to having heads spin and green pea soup spitting out of mouths.

Yea, I am stuck to the ceiling, like some poltergeist entity.  And at this exact moment in time, I prefer it.  Just leave me be – thank you.  If you pick at me like a scab on your leg – you will regret it.

Trust.  Me.

I turned the fucking iPad off and climbed into bed at 9:15PM.  Annoyed, with a side of pissy.  It was safest for everyone at that point.

CASE TWO:  Nokia Cell Phone.

I am on my third Nokia phone.  I am a sucker for the camera.  It’s great.  In the last two months the little fucker has frozen up FOR DAYS.

Can’t slide the screen to save my soul for anything.

I could be trapped on the escalator to hell and having one call to safety – royally screwed as the dumb ass Nokia is yet again frozen in time.

The previous Nokia phone, if I was on a call too long, it would start setting off the flash for the camera and would get too hot to hold.  Literally.

Not kidding.

Now it freezes and I can’t use it.

For days.

Annoys me to no end.

Should have gone with the iPhone.  Of course, after my debacle with the iPad this week (two visit to the Genius bar, I’m thinking I’m going back to string and tin can.)

CASE THREE:  The dryer.

I start laundry today….Saturday.  The first load goes into the dryer only for a minute or two ….. just to get the wrinkles out.  Nothing major.  Pull it out, hang it up without incident.

In goes load two.

10 minutes later I go in to take those delicate items out that need to be hung up so they don’t wrinkle.

Hey!  Where’s the heat?!  I’m like the little old lady from the Wendy’s commercial from year’s ago…”Where’s the beef?!”  I’m pissed.  You have to be kidding me.  Seriously?

I unplug the machine.  I turn the dial.  I check the filter.  I restart.  Hit the GO button.

A few minutes later…..

NO HEAT!

Are you kidding?!

I march out to the living room and state to The Mister:  “The dryer has no heat.”

He comes in and does the same thing I just did.  NOTHING.  I mean

N O T H I N G

Now the machine doesn’t even turn on.

We flip the breakers.  Nothing.

I have now decided not to touch anything that is plugged into the wall.

Unless you want an electric shocker…..don’t touch me.

I am shocking the shit out of everything.

If I could figure out how to turn this into a paying job……

 

 

Drive! The! CAR!

Traffic annoys the hell out of me.

What I don’t get is, how can it be so bloody terrible?  If the people in the front would just go.  I mean really GO, how can there be all this back up?  If we’d all just GO the same speed it wouldn’t take us forever to get anywhere.  It’s called teamwork people.

What really gets me is the rubbernecking.

It’s like watching a stupid show on TV and after it’s over you realize THAT was a waste of your time.  Slowing down to see the crash or non-crash is….guess what?  A waste of time.  For you and me!  Good grief, Mr. Rodgers could have me a song out of this concept.

JUST DRIVE the car.  You have to actually step on the long rectangular pedal that’s on the floor on the right.    It’s a novel concept, but the car doesn’t go on it’s own – you have to assist.

Seriously.

There’s a car pulled over on the side of the road.   Everyone has to slow down to look.

There’s two cars pulled over – an obvious fender bender.  Slow down, let’s all look!

If there’s cars on the other side of the highway – with lights flashing – let’s all slow down to look.  There’s even a big concrete wall dividing it and you can’t see anything!

There’s a terrible accident and people are nearly creating additional accidents just so they can see the carnage.  I mean really.  For what?  To see if their day was worse than yours?  I fucking guarantee it!  If their car is waiting for a tow truck and there’s flashing lights at the scene.  Guess what?  They are having a suck day.  They win.  Now DRIVE!

The other thing about the traffic and I’m not even going to mention the blatant honking of the horns – which is out of control in Miami.  My brain waves don’t even function that fast.  It could be a game show.  QUICK.  Try to get your foot off the brake on to the gas pedal before the jackass behind you is honking and gesturing wildly.  Yeah, well the Alaskan will get to going when she’s good and ready.  Keep your pants on.  Besides, we’re all going to be at the next light together in 200 yards anyway.

The privacy.  People, your windows may be tinted by I can still see thru them.  HEY!  Yes!  YOU!  Picking your nose – I can see you.  Unreal.  Flipping me off?  I see you!  Yelling at your partner in the car – I see you.  Thinking you are the next best thing sliced bread – I see you.  It’s exhausting.

Lastly, hang up the phone.  In today’s world with bluetooth technology – there’s no reason people need to have that rectangular block of radiation next to their face while driving.  If drinking and driving is a hazard so is anything connected to holding that ridiculous cell phone and driving.  My cat can drive better than some of these people with the phones attached to their heads.  The car was one of the last places on earth where you could escape to the solitude of your thoughts and favorite radio stations.   Not anymore.  Apparently people can’t survive 5 -30 minutes without constant technological interruption

Shit.

So here’s the thing with the traffic and the endless line of cars during rush hour.  In Juneau, it was a rush minute.  I’m not kidding.  Four minutes and you were done.  Now, some days it takes me an hour either way to or from work.  (Although, after being here a year I am working on a system to beat the rush hours.)

I love my little Yaris.  His name is Norman.   Yes, he’s a boy car.  How do I know it’s a boy car?  He’s a stick…..duh.

I’m looking to upgrade.

All I’ve wanted for years is a Camaro.  Midnight blue with the glitter paint flecks.  V6.  I want the engine that purrs to a stop.  Every damn time I see this car on the street a little bit of drool forms at the corner of my mouth.  They’re common, but not as common as the BMW here.  Which is as common as sliced bread.  If I wanted to be a trendsetter I get a Subaru!

camaro

I

LOVE

THIS

AUTOMOBILE.

It’s hot.  I’d look hot in the car.  Blue, I’m going to BE hot in this car.  I want this car.  I need this car.  This car….makes me purr.  This is a sexy car.   The curves…especially from behind….wow.  Wow.  This car makes me talk like a guy.

BUT then, as things would have it in life.  An option appeared, one I was not expecting.  Now, I am truly in a quandry.

We’re sitting at a light.  Up rolls a Dodge Challenger.   White with a racing stripe.

Challenger

Ohhhh well.  Hello.  You.

Now.

Look.

At.

That.

Me. YOW.

Now if that isn’t a stud car.  And boy did that have a purr.  It was like a roar….not so much a purr.  I think I broke out into a bit of a sweat.  Of course, I’d want a V8 for this car – because this is a definite boy car.  There is nothing soft about this baby.

So now I spend my days driving into and out of work – looking for my cars.  Every time I’m sold on the Camaro one of these Challengers goes past and I say one word:

DAMN.

Of course the kicker ….. as much as I love my Camaro, the other day one went past and a grandma was driving.  Not that there is anything wrong with that but then I was thinking….really?

NormanOn the other hand, I could keep on with my Norman.  He was transported all the way from Juneau.  Great, zippy, keeps up with traffic.  Although he’s not real thrilled about doing 80 mph on I95, but I’ve had him up there.  Swear!

He can out run the best of ’em – in our own minds.  Go Norman!

Of course, in a Challenger…..imagine the speed!  The tickets….no good.

The Camaro….imagine how cute I’d look!  So good!

I think I need to go for a test drive and let my heart sing.

 

 

 

 

 

No Comprendo aka La La La Pencil

One thing I’ve learned since moving to Miami is…..I need to learn Spanish.

Pronto.

The local community college, had a Saturday class being offered this summer, “Beginner’s Conversational Spanish.”   Great!  Sign me up.  That’s exactly what I need.

Now, I will be able to make small talk in elevators, listen in on conversations when they think I don’t know what they’re saying and I can tell the Urgent Care to stop leaving messages for Juan….as they only leave messages in Spanish.  On my work cell phone no less.  I don’t know Juan.  How do I know what they’re calling about?  I had to ask one of my coworkers listen to the message, which I knew obviously it wasn’t for me.  It was in Spanish – duh.

Today was the day for my first Spanish class.

I was excited and ready to get going.  I logged the community college’s address into my GPS and headed out the door.  Of course, I had a general idea of where I was going.  Down the highway a couple of exits and then head West-ish.  When I got off the highway and was stopped at the first light, I should have trusted my gut and pulled a u-turn.  There was a vaguely familiar looking man sitting on the side of the road playing music.  On a 5 gallon plastic bucket.  For money.  He had a mustache like Cheech Marin.  Had I been quick enough, I would have snapped his photo as he looked like someone I used to work with years ago.  Enormously large bushy mustache….all you can see on the face…..stache and more stache.

Anyhow, I made my turn and quickly realized this was not the best neighborhood to be driving through.  I was expecting a scene out of West Side Story to erupt at any moment.  As I drove, I continued to keep my eyes open for unauthorized drag races to cross my path.  After a little research, I found that this town in particular had the highest crime rate in America in 2004.  Dear Lord, keep your eyes on the road and let’s just keep going forward.  I should have turned around at that light back there.

The ridiculous GPS, which sometimes sends me in circles.  Literally:

Turn left.

Turn left

Turn left.

Turn left.

Turn

NO!

Didn’t bother to tell me to Turn Right…..and I zipped right past the college.

Turn Left

Turn Left.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I know.

Click.  OFF.

I pull into the first tiny little parking area.  There is a LAKE of water covering three spots.  Being I am now living in Florida, my footwear is not suitable to navigate this wading pool.  I drive to the end only to realize the last open spot is clearly marked (with a Pictionary sign) for people with babies and strollers.  Crap.  I head out of the parking area and a lady is blocking the exit, trying to decide whether or not to turn in.  She finally decides to give it a try and turns past me towards the pool.  As I head down the road to the next parking lot I see she zipped into the people with strollers spot and I slow down to see if she has any babies with her.

That would be a big NO.

I give her a disapproving glare and continue on my way.  Seriously, parents have it rough enough and now they can get this one little break in life.  Uneducated girl is going to take one of their spots because she’s too lazy to walk from the next lot over.  I hope you get explosive diarrhea in rush hour traffic…  (This is my standard curse.)  Yes, apparently she is uneducated.  Even if English isn’t her first language the giant picture of a stroller should be a dead give away.  My guess is she doesn’t do well in Pictionary or Charade games.

After I get my spot, I head towards building Numeral Uno!  I am a few minutes late and make my way to the second floor to the assigned classroom.  Yahoo….so excited.

I open the door and the instructor first greets me with a “bon jour!”  Followed quickly by a “buenos dias.”  I mutter a quick “hola” while she explains they were just talking about the French language as she teaches both.  Whatever.  I grab the first seat I see, right by the front door.  As I go to sit down I look at the girl a few seats back.

It’s the STROLLER LADY!

Great.  A sign of things to come.  Another indication I should have turned around at that light with Mr. Mustache.

Suddenly the instructor is addressing me.  All I catch is, “Giruod jab, whiuyt?”

The only thing I can say is, “Donna.”  I assume she’s asking for my name.

Then she says, “Luiy weng tldiwl uls?”

My response:  blink blink blink blink.

Again she says, “Luiy weng tldiwl uls?”

Again my response:  blink blink blink blink.  For good measure I shake my head NO.

An older gentleman in the class yells out, “last name.”

Oh!  Powell.  Donna Powell.

Good grief.

She goes back to the question at hand and begins to discuss how things will be listed on the immigration form, regarding your name.  Immigration form?  What the hell?  This is supposed to be Beginner’s Conversational Spanish, not how to fill out your immigration forms.  Well this is strange.  Next up, the instructor, whose name I have not a clue, starts to talk about something that sounds suspiciously like, “come here lama.”  NO clue.  I have not one bit of an idea what this woman is saying.  It continues as she points to the board, each time with a different stress accent.  “COME here lama.”  “Come HERE lama.”  “Come here LAMA.”  She explains in English something about using the “tu” when speaking with small children and the “utes” when speaking to adults.  “Come here lama.”

By this time I start looking around the room to see if there might actually be a lama somewhere.  Here a lama.  There a lama.  Everywhere a lama lama.

Guess what?  No lama.  Damn.

The instructor continues with the lesson:  “Oulkjda  jldoa  pencil  a’kdao kluou!  Hwid, wolwd jweoub aoul?  Taden pencil aera oueab weraouib alkpie. Right?  So then, aoiudf’ag jlareio  aoiejang aliduar ieialgob  alkubow.”   Now I’m looking around to see what everyone else is doing.  Nobody has a notebook out…not even a pencil.  Even the instructor only has a cell phone and cup of coffee on the desk.  Should I ask if I am in the right class?  Is anyone else dazed and confused or are they getting it?  One guy is sitting there smiling like this is the biggest punch line he’s ever heard.  Really?  I am so screwed.

Well, it’s still only the first few minutes of class, maybe she’s going to start explaining whatever she’s saying in a minute.

Cue the hourglass timer…..any minute now we’ll be speaking in English.  Any moment.  Wait for it.  One minute.

“Taljgljb  kjadaljgio  alkjro?  Waoiudgh lkjdfopig qjdagji adlgajgoiuej akfji?  Haidoug lkaj it.  The plural of the uya aor, aoiuf alkjb as it is in English.  Veriu aloiu akdj polg akjb.  You want to aenbo agoiub and then in the French language it is pronounced ela aoub akuouv alouf vous.  Taerib aljboiue jaoe kjgi alkjir; buanb aiuelg which is what?”

Which is don’t make eye contact cause I have no clue what you’re saying and I’m pretty damn sure it’s not English.  La la la chicken.

“Bof lb iead, akjoie afoinl aulz ojghs oaurl and always make sure you ahbie pbiael aieug adiwow.  Now, of course sometimes bagowie wobbloiu aty byru xkiao. Zcait abiuet itub lama aeiu?”

This is getting really, really awkward.  Now it’s obvious she’s asking questions to the class.  I’ve got nothing.  The suck thing is I’m sitting in the front row.  Prime target for being called on.  Duck and cover.  Duck and cover.  No sense in trying to fake tying my shoes. First, because I’m in the front row and second because I’m wearing slip ons.  Total failure.  Whatever happens don’t make eye contact.

Shit.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit.

It’s dawning on me that apparently, you need a working understanding of the Spanish language for this “BEGINNER’S” class.  Well had it been a requirement, do you think I would have signed up for this hell?  I have no clue what this woman is saying.  Yatta, yatta, yatta SHE, yatta, yatta, yatta what do you call that? Yatta, yatta, yatta, yatta and then you yatta yatta yatta lama.

How the hell do I get out of this?  I better do it quickly before we partner up for role playing and conversations.  Oh my god, the horror of that thought.  As soon as she turns her back to erase the board I am out of here.

Now she’s talking about pronouns and tenses.  She’s asking questions and don’t you know it, STROLLER LADY is the only one answering.  I don’t want to be rude and leap up from my desk and bolt to the door, but I know it’s only a matter of time before we have to pair up.  What is this Top Twenty Spanish Pronoun Questions?  Let’s get on with it.  Turn around.  Turn around.

Honestly, I shouldn’t worry about being rude and walking out.  After all she’s the one speaking in another language that I don’t understand.  Geez.  That’s rude.  Miss Manners would not be impressed.

I casually take out my cell phone to check the time.  I have only been here 20 minutes.  Well guess what.  Time is up.  Gotta go.  Oh yeah, did you hear that?  Sounded like a fire alarm.  Gotta run.  I casually loop my hand bag over my wrist and pick up my book bag off the floor.  The instructor starts to reach for the eraser and I’m up and out of my seat faster than a naked man being bit by fire ants on the yin-yang..  As I swim through the air to get to the door I hear her say:

“Yzgibb   aoiuearlj olkg  iwkg  aiublka laopiw?  Zkie gubja….”

Don’t turn back, that could have been directed to me…..for crying out loud, this is an episode mix between Fear Factor, Whose Line is it Anyways and Hidden Camera.  I close the door….on what I think is mid-sentence and then breathe a sigh of relief, wipe the sweat off my upper lip and think to myself:  Gotta go.  The lama called……and it said SAVE YOURSELF!

If You Were To Ask Me…This Is What I’d Do.

Do you ever find yourself watching someone do something and you think to yourself, “You know what would make it better? Easier?”

Last night I was at a rehearsal for a performance and long story short, I kept coming up with suggestions on how to make it a better act for this one group. My friend and I were full of suggestions but it wasn’t our place to blurt out our thoughts. We weren’t the choreographers or the director or anything. Just an act in the show.

It was obvious to us what this group could do. But alas, not our problem.

It’s like being in the check out line at the grocery. You know, the one that says, “Under 12 Items” and the person in front of you clearly has DOUBLE the amount. If I was the cashier, I would tell them to put their stuff back in their little cart and high tail it over a lane. But no. They’re up there grinding their teeth probably thinking this poor chap apparently can’t read. Or they can’t count.

Have you ever been driving behind a really slow person on the highway? One who can’t seem to get close to the speed limit? Finally you pass them and they’re busy chatting on the phone. I wish I had a sign I could post in my back window: Hang up and DRIVE! These people wonder why people are passing them, honking and flipping them off. They’re annoyed with US! Well duh, you self-absorbed ninny….do us all a favor: Either pull over and finish your conversation, as you obviously can’t multi-task or here’s an idea: HANG UP AND DRIVE.

Parents, in the grocery, why, why, why….do you let your kids pull stuff off the shelves? Solution: stores should make the aisles a little wider – then parents could easily drive the cart down the middle of the aisle, allowing plenty of space for the rest of us to go around them. It would be a blessing. Pushing your cart, loaded with a kid in the seat, near the shelves, only encourages them to grab and throw. It’s like being in a B-flick horror movie. The kid grabs a box of macaroni and hurls it at the granny. She collapses on the floor and a zombie comes crawling out from under the shelving unit to eat her.

Either make the aisles bigger or provide duct tape to secure their arms/hands to their bodies. It could be like Band-Aids. Which do you want? Spiderman or Princesses?

My last solution would be to get rid of the damn paper bags the movie popcorn is served in. I enjoy the movies. The fuckin’ crinkling of the bags is enough to send me through the roof of the theater. People are digging through those bags like they might find a prize at the bottom. Eat from the top. Don’t dig. Yes, I have been known to yell out, “STOP IT!” ” ENOUGH ALREADY!”

If I was ever captured by Russian spies and tortured, all they’d have to do is put me in a room with people and the damn popcorn bags….digging, digging, digging, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. The whole bag is filled with popcorn, what are you doing? If you only like the ones with butter, you should have asked for more butter. And thrusting your fist into the bag, behind my head…then shaking your fingers wildly at the bottom to find that non-existent popcorn prize it going to land me in your lap and pummel you like a UFC fighter.

Instead, let’s use cloth bags that can be washed and reused after each show. Problem solved. While we’re on it – get rid of the JUMBO TUBS of popcorn. Nobody in America needs JUMBO anything these days, unless it’s a pile of cash.

That’s Either A Thong Showing Through Your Gym Shorts Or…

Your husband’s tie got stuck inside your gym shorts – thanks to static electricity. Or is that your child’s sock hanging out your backside?

First of all, I know the fashion trend segment on the Today Show said winter whites are the style to have this season. I think they were talking about pants and skirts. Not gym shorts. If they were talking about shorts, I’m willing to bet they were talking about a nice gabardine wool blend that would look darling when pieced together with a sweater for a trip to the local museum. NOT, thin, barely there, single ply cotton gym shorts from the ’80s. I’m sorry, but your shorts have the weight of a handkerchief.

Apparently this not-so-young-lady was confused and thought my gym was the newest Hooter’s location. As I passed by her – she was on the stairclimber closest to the aisle way. Slowly bouncing along, with her butt cheeks peeking out to jiggle a “hello” to everyone who passed her. Really? I stopped short and looked around. Did I accidentally end up in a gym for men, where the encouragement is nearly naked women on cardio machines? I hate when I trip down that damn rabbit hole.

To top things off, she’s on her cell phone. On the stairclimber. Okay, if you’re a doctor, which there are a few at my gym – I understand the need to keep your phone close. I fully support the doctors taking phone calls and recommending an increase in medications or having to dash to the hospital for a patient. I would expect them to take phone calls – that’s their job, to be available! However, to trudge along on the cardio equipment and pant out a conversation, at the top of your lungs because nobody talks quietly on cell phones, what skirt you’re going to wear to dinner and your conflict on which nail polish shade to choose – is stupid. And annoying.

As I begin my cool down and stretching routine, I look up in the mirror and notice, with a horror that turns the water in my stomach like a washing machine on an extended spin cycle….she’s wearing a blue thong.

“&^%$ are you kidding me?”… I mutter as I fall out of balance in my quadricep stretch and nearly crack my head open on the handlebar of the stationary bike next to me. Enough. I’m done. Put that away. I don’t want to see that now or anytime later.

Recently, my gym put up signs (yes, multiple) in the ladies locker room that proper gym attire means wearing a full shirt. Walking around the gym floor in a sports bra does not constitute a full shirt. When I got back to the locker room I added, “no see through shorts permitted due to potential blinding of other gym members.”

I’d also like to put a sign up in the mens locker room that advises them if they have enough body hair to appear like a relative of Sasquatch, tank tops are not permitted….a full shirt is required. Glistening, sweaty, body hair is about as appealing as having to drink a glass of buttermilk.

I just threw up a little.