Old People Are Pissing Me Off

And I'm not talking "old" like my grammie and grampie (in their late 80's), I'm talking about those damn meme's that are in their 60's and have bad dye-jobs.

I just left an intramural soccer game at The Kid's school and I was sitting behind one of these meme's, which is where my bad mood started. Keep in mind that this was an intramural game - no high stakes, no trophies, no World Cup, just a bunch of kids running around chasing a soft yellow "soccer" ball in a pint-sized gym.

"Come on Hannah! Block the ball Hannah! Run Hannah! Good block Hannah! Dribble the ball Hannah, dribble the ball." And on, and on, and on. Jesus God. Really? And then when Hannah would miss-kick, "What ah ya doin' Hannah? Get on that ball Hannah!"

It's a f'ing intramural game grammaw! Half the kids playing in this game are doing so because they're not qualified to play "real" soccer. Just ask my kid, "Syd, are you good at soccer?"

"Um, no. I pretty much suck. But that's why I play intramural's. I can still play but just have fun."

And that's the way it should be.

So then I decided that I needed a change of scenery today since half of my office is disassembled upstairs and the other half is re-assembled in the basement, I've made the decision that I'll surf all the free Internet I can find in town today (meaning Panera, Border's and the library). I no sooner get to Panera and another one of these goddamn meme's is bitching because there's no light roast coffee in the urn. And as the manager comes walking out of the back with an urn in each hand she huffs and says, "Oh! So there you are. I was wondering if we were ever going to get some light roast."

It's a good thing I'm not the manager. I would have thrown the light roast right at her, hopefully drenching her ugly snowman sweatshirt and her ugly mouse-brown dye job. I mean, really, if you're going to dye your hair, at least pick a decent color.

The Weekend Wrap-Up

So yeah, the weekend officially ended like, 5 days ago. And there is a new one starting in approximately 7 hours, but hey, who's counting? And the fact that I'm just getting around to posting about my ever-so-exciting weekend of last, we're all just gonna go with it.

#1. I found shit in my bathroom cabinet. Not like crap that people don't bother putting away - actual HUMAN FECES folks. On toilet paper.

Now, I know my own kid well enough by now to understand that she would not do such a thing. And certainly the boy and I would not do this either. So who exactly wipes their ass and then puts the dirty toilet paper in my bathroom cabinet with my nice Downy-fresh towels? Oh, that might be the neighbor kid across the street who I heard going through my cabinets when she was using the loo the last time she was over. And I know it's her because she's the only other person that's been in our house since then. Hm.

#2. My kid was offered a Playboy. By the same neighbor girl. Who's like, 8. WTF? She came over to our house and was like, "you've got to come over, I've got to show you something." Apparently, she'd been in her parents room and (shockingly!) been pilfering through their private spaces (between the mattress - how original) only to come up with a Playboy which she promptly hid in her own bedroom to show my kid. Lovely.

The first question that I have is, "why is she rifling between her parents mattress?" The second question I have is, "why must I have this knowledge?" I can no longer look out my kitchen window without seeing the man who owns the Playboy and getting visuals that no one should ever have. Short, squat and with a beer belly, he's a man that loves his leaf blower a little too much.

#3. I wasted 3 hours of my life that I will never get back at the spanking new Wal*Mart Super Center. It's a lot like Meijer's. Which was a little nostalgic for me. Anyway, the Sunday before many kids went back to school, 30 lanes open, every one of them 15 people deep. Who do I end up in line with? The old lady on the motorized scooter with an 18-pack of Ensure, a 24-pack of Busch Light and a value-size pack of Depends. I didn't actually talk to her, but I desperately wanted to take her picture and post it - too bad I couldn't find an excuse to get in front of her and do it.

#4. I realized the boy has no clue what Orange Crush is. Again, I ask, WTF? Sometimes I wonder if his parents kept him locked in a closet when he was little. We attended an outdoor wedding reception this weekend (which was in the middle of "Hurricane Danny") and of course I couldn't drown my sorrows at the open bar, so I opted for an Orange Crush. Dan walks up and asks for one, only to get in an argument with the bartender. When he is handed said can of Crush, he is thoroughly confused because he is thinking an orange slushy-type thing. I promptly edumacated him that it also comes in Strawberry and Grape. Yikes.

#5. I bought a new-to-me-vehicle. Without consulting the boy. Which is exactly what he gets for buying a new truck and plow last fall without consulting me first. I am still sticking out my tongue at him over that one.

So that's my weekend wrap-up. I'm headed north for the weekend to visit the 'rents for a night and then Sunday and Monday I have a wee bit of work to do. I've been bit of a slacker lately and it shows. Have a fun and safe holiday weekend!

Oh My Blog.....How I've Ignored You.....

I actually had someone tell me today that they thought I'd closed the doors on my blog - can you imagine?

As if.

What I have done though is be completely ignoring it.

There's a good reason - I promise. It's mostly because I've been totally uninspired to write anything snarky and I don't find myself funny AT ALL unless I'm making fun of someone - like my kid, or the boy, or random strangers.

However, all that changed with just one trip to Hannaford last night. The kid and I are breezing through the store, grabbing just four things: milk, peanut butter, wraps, and toothpaste. We get to the Express Lane, which by the way, I don't know why I bother, it's not like the damn Express Lane is ever fast. If anything, it's slower than any other lane in the whole effing store.

Anywho, the guy in front of me has 14 assorted bottles of liquor on the conveyer belt - let me make that even more clear - 14 assorted FIFTHS. So, needless to say, lots of liquor. The cash register guy gives him his total which is well over $100 and when the guy whips open his wallet, I peek.

That's because I'm nosy.

And what do I spy in the very front of his wallet, in that little clear place where his license should have been?

His Food Stamp Card.

How does he pay for his liquor? 2 crisp benjamins my friend.

This enrages me more than you could ever know. First of all, I want to know why people are allowed to do that. Like, "oh, I don't have enough money to buy food to feed my family, BUT I can pay cash money for my liquor." Why is that allowed????

Second, it makes me angry because there are people out there that could legitimately use a program like that to help feed their children that do not use it, simply because of the stigma caused by assholes like this. I mean, they'd rather let their kids go hungry than whip out a Food Stamp card because of the stigma.

It's a sad world we live in kids, a sad, sad world.

Sight Seeing

Yesterday was a nice day here in Maine. Sunny, nearly 60, very little breeze.

Come to think of it, it's the kind of weather we should be having right now, but since winter won't seem to leave, it's like a this great big treat when we actually get there.

But in Maine, because our winter season seems to last forever, people get a little crazy when the weather gets warm. And not really in a good way.

There are the high school girls wearing minis and tube tops the first day it hits 40, and this weekend, that effing ice cream truck decided to come out of the garage and start cruising the neighborhood. I wonder why there are so many self-medicated moms in the neighborhood; one can only hear the tinny version of "Pop Goes the Weasel" so many times in a day before you want to run outside and jam a knife in the truck speaker.

Ah...but I got off track.

So the weather was nice yesterday and when I drove into the Old Port I got an eyeful. Male, straight, 6' - 6' 2", 180+ pounds, big beer gut, bald, chest hair and full back hair wearing a wife-beater screen printed with "Who's Your Daddy?" and walking a Chiuaua.

This, of course, is a HUGE issue for me.

If you're a gay man, having a small dog might be fitting - it's a little more feminine. But if you're a straight man, you should NOT be walking a Chiuaua. I don't care if it belongs to your wife/girlfriend/mother/kid. You just shouldn't be walking it. If you're a straight guy, you need a big dog. One that looks mean even if he is really friendly. A dog that looks like it could rip your face off at any moment, even if he's an 80lb lap dog. A dog kinda like my Dodger. And never, under any circumstance should you be wearing a wife beater that says, "Who's Your Daddy?"

Which is why I know that the guy was straight and not gay. Gay men are always the best dressed people in a crowd. A gay man wouldn't be caught dead in that shirt. He might have a small dog but he would never let anyone see him in that shirt - especially if he had that kind of back hair. Gay men wax.

Oh how I wish had I snapped a picture.

The Friday Edition of "You Know You're An Asshole When......."

I'd had several cases of......"you know you're an asshole when".....things happen this week.

The first one was on Wednesday when I forgot my child at school. That's right. I forgot her. She actually had to call me and ask me where I was. In my defense, I was sleep deprived and had my mind on women's land rights in Ghana due to a doctoral thesis that I was editing, but still, I forgot her.

Worse yet, when she called I was actually surprised to hear from her. Like, "what do you mean where am I? I'm sitting at Julie's school waiting to pick her up and then we're coming to get you."

"What?!? Mom, I got out of school 45 minutes ago!!"

Shit, it's early release day.

The second happening actually involves a blind man - which is a little ironic since my friend Jess actually said something to me about making fun of people that wear sunglasses when it's not sunny out. Her comment was "what if they're blind?" Anyway.

This man has dressed up as Uncle Sam for the last 5 years and stood outside Liberty Tax Center, which happens to be owned by a couple of Middle Eastern men that dress in cheap suits and circa-late-80's leather jackets.

Of course, I find all sorts of things wrong with this picture, but I won't get into them except to say that, yes, I do find irony in the fact that two men of Middle Eastern descent own an American tax refund center that is called "Liberty Tax Center." Enough said.

So for the last 5 years, I've seen this man outside their place, pacing the sidewalk and waving to people. My dogs bark and growl at him every time we drive by and I happen to trust their judgment. And I haven't really made fun of him as much as I've said things like, "poor bastard," and "what kind of criminal record must you have if this is the only job you can get?"

Turns out he's blind.

And now I feel like a HUGE asshole.

Like, just to make it up to him I want to buy him a cup of coffee and an egg sandwich or something. And I'm not sure if I should be grateful to the men who own the tax place for giving him a job (although it's humiliating and probably doesn't pay well) or if I should be angry at them for exploiting a blind man to do work that no one else wants to do.

So, maybe someone in the universe is trying to teach me a lesson about being a better person - I don't know. What I do know is that, overall, I really thought I was a pretty good person to begin with. I have a lot of friends and I make people laugh a lot.

Like, sure, there are a few people on planet that hate me in a major way and it weighs heavily on me, but there isn't anything I can do to change that now, so rather than dwell on it, I've had to learn to let it go and hope that someday they can too. But to think that the big man upstairs is screaming, "hey asshole!! Hello?!? Are you listening Stacie? It's me, God. And I think you're being an asshole!!! You forgot your kid at school, you've made fun of a blind man, what's next?? An attack on the Little People of America?"

Well, that kind of shit makes you sit up and take notes.

Toddlers and Tiaras :: This is NOT a Good Thing

Have you seen this show? TLC's Toddlers and Tiaras?

This show is absolutely disgusting. Unbelievable. Does this look like the face of a happy child?

During the course of the show I watched her mother berate her, force her to get a spray tan, force her to wear makeup, and coach her through an entire routine designed to "flirt."

Here's what else I observed:

Every stage mom is fat - many are bordering on obese. Which makes me question why the eff they have any business telling their daughters that "they look a little pudgy," or asking "if they ate any cookies today." Are you kidding me?

Then we've got the mom who's sobbing - not because her kid won, but because he's just done his last pageant and he won't be competing anymore.

These women are nuts. And not nuts like a little Paxil is going to cure them. These women need some to shake them and be like, "Woman! You're an effing train wreck! Get your shit together you bitch and stop making your pre-pubescent kid more self-conscious than she's already going to grow up to be!"

Then they need to be kicked or something.

Seriously. This is infuriating. As if our poor girls don't have enough to worry about. How about we dress them up like little china dolls, stand in the audience prompting them to shake their asses and "flirt," and then, when they don't win a crown tell them, "well, you didn't deserve to win - your routine was off."

By the way, there is nothing more disgusting than a really obese woman in a tight shirt jumping up and down and coaching her kid to "shake it." I'm all about embracing your body, but you've got to know your limitations - really.

Here's what I actually find funny about this though. These women are willingly on this show, justifying their behavior, and thinking that America actually agrees with them. When all most people are doing is sitting around laughing at what a bunch of effing idiots they are.

But, that's entertainment in America, right?

Oh, and what's really sad? That the little girl at the top of this post is actually a really beautiful little girl - without any makeup. However, due to her mother's great guidance and wonderful example, she was sure she would win because, as she said, "I'm prettier than the other girls here."
Photos Courtesy of TLC.discovery.com

This Goes Out to All Those Hunting Widows......

Some of my friends are "hunting widows." And while their husbands are out hunting, they piss and moan about how they're home all by themselves.

WTF? Are you kidding me?

How long is hunting season? A month? Maybe 6 weeks?

Here's the deal. Embrace it. Sit your ass on the couch in your underwear and watch endless seasons of old 90's sitcoms like the original 90210 or TIVO soap operas and enjoy the drama. Give the kids a little Dramamine and pour yourself a glass of wine. For Christ's Sake, ENJOY IT!!

But please, stop bitching about it. And here's why.

Because I can't take it. See, I'm a "snow widow." My season lasts 6 months because I live in Maine. While your husband is out slaughtering food to throw on your table, mine is out plowing everyone else's driveway and hoping his clients will pay the invoices, while I snow blow ours. And let's not forget about the roof rake, shall we?

So please, please don't bitch about being a hunting widow. Of course, unless you're a vegetarian and having a dead animal hanging in your garage grosses you out. Then you're entitled.

A Mini Van Mom Shows Her Thong

And no, this isn't going to be all x-rated and stuff.

But here's the deal. Last night I spent my evening at the pool, which is the same as almost every other night of the week. But last night, one of the mom's, who is notoriously snobby, and who just happens to drive a mini-van, flashed her thong.

And guess what? It was holey.

Not holy as in religious. Holey as in, her cotton Vicki's Secret thong had holes in it.

Now why do you think that is? We've all been guilty of letting our underwear drawer slide once in a while. Maybe we just don't get around to cleaning it out often enough, or maybe it just creeps up on us and we're like, "Holy Shit! This is holey!" And then we throw it away in disgust.

But this was a holey thong that could not have been mistaken for an acceptable pair of panties. I wouldn't even have noticed except she was wearing ill-fitting jeans that gaped in the back and I had a clear view. And I probably should have told her, maybe not about the obvious holes, but about the fact that she was flashing the masses.

But I didn't. Instead, I sat right there, clucked my tongue and thought, "that's what you get for being such a bitch."

Kind of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?

Sanford Strikes Again

OK, the irony of this post will hopefully not be lost on anyone. In fact, I really don't need to say anything; just click here and read the story. If you want a better look, watch the video.

Oh, and a quick shout out to KLJ....email me chickie, or call me.....let's knit!! I think my emails are not making it to you.....

I've Pissed Someone Off Again - Imagine That

This is shaping up to be a fine week already.  Not only did I have the issue with the non-English speaking call center reps, I've managed to completely infuriate someone from Sanford of all places.

I didn't know they even had Internet access.

Anyway, I jest, sort of.  But check out the lovely comment that was left for me.  I draw attention to it for several reasons.

1.  The person who left it has no problem defending Sanford and touting its praises, but they had to leave their comment "anonymously."  If you really feel that strongly about a subject, at least have the balls to put your name out there.

2.  The person who left it has no problem eluding to the fact that they hate my picture, yet they leave their comment "anonymously."  If you want to throw stones at me my friend, have the balls to show your face.

3.  The person who left it has no problem making me out to be ignorant and uneducated about Maine humor and the regions that compromise this state.  They must not have taken the time to read further into my blog and notice that I also spend significant time making fun of Athens, where my parents live, Portland, where I live, and myself, my friends, and my family.   

4.  And finally, the anonymous individual who left such a pleasant comment refers to my "shallow analysis" of a store name, and that I think that the "dumb people of Sanford aren't intelligent enough to know how to spell."  Yet, in the final sentence, they inform me that they won't comment on my picture because "your not worth the breath."  Thank you, dear anonymous, pissed off, Sanford resident for making my point for me; in case you hadn't noticed, YOU'RE missing both an apostrophe and the letter 'e.'

Overall, I think the comment is a keeper, don't you?

Leaf Blower is Shirtless, and It's Not a Pretty Sight

I think the neighbor has decided that he's just going to spend the summer gainfully UNemployed while his wife works two jobs. If I were her, I'd probably kick his ass, but since she spends most of her time in tube socks pulled up to her belly button, her ninja skills might not be as excellent as mine.

Needless to say, with all his spare time, Leaf Blower has spent a lots of days shirtless in his cut-off denims, puttering with his car. Just the other day he was out there repeatedly revving his engine while taking a break from waxing. I really wanted to yell out the window, "Just beat your chest, scratch your balls, and get over it already!"

But the boy wouldn't allow that. See, he's kind of a peace-keeper, one of those "don't piss off the neighbors" kind of people. It's really too bad because I could be having a lot of fun if he'd just let me.

Other than that, things have been relatively quiet around here. Several trips to the back doctor to fix my squished/stuck disks, lots of writing for About, preliminary writing for Upromise, which should be posted in the next two weeks, updates at Fashion-Fox, and the final 25,000 words for my publisher.

Next up? A book about "book marketing in the Web 2.0 world...." Sounds like a real page turner, doesn't it?

I've Been a Little Weepy Lately

Which is why I haven't written in a while.

Recently, I've found out that 5 - count 'em - FIVE people that are in my immediate circle of family and friends, are pregnant.  F.I.V.E.

Like, are they drinking special water or something?  And if so, I'm pretty sure it's the same damn water that's running through these faucets and I've got nothing in utero. Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nada.

Which makes me weepy. Which is why I haven't been writing.

And it's really such a bummer, because I got great news in the midst of it all - I got the gig with Upromise.com.  So, so excited.  But then I got the phone call that the 5th person was preggo, and my big fat happy balloon deflated pretty fucking quickly.  

Owell, there's always next month, right?

Proof That You Can Pick Your Friends But Not Your Neighbors

Did you know that we actually pay $3000 a year in property taxes so I can sit in my kitchen and watch Leaf Blower and No Neck sit shirtless in their driveway drinking lemonade and eating BBQ potato chips?

I didn’t realize that was why our taxes were so high either, until Sunday.  Apparently, when the assessor takes a look at your property, they eyeball the neighbors and say, “Yeah, let’s tack on another $500 for the loose dogs that run around the neighborhood, and that Mullet next door is worth at least a grand.”

If they can get their minivan up on cinder blocks and put a NASCAR flag out front before the next assessment, we might even get jacked up to $3500. Then I'd actually feel a little more at home; it would be like having my brother right next door! (Sorry Shawn, I couldn't resist.)

Had I known then what I know now, I’m not sure that I would have been so eager to purchase this very fine house. 

But, truthfully, I’ve never had much luck with neighbors – which makes me question whether I attract crazy people, or if I am just attracted to them.  Although, the alternative would have been to stay in the apartment building that is now a meth-lab with a landlord that was arrested for kidnapping a prostitute and then assaulting her boyfriend with a handgun;  true Story.

And if I remember right, there was also a restraining order taken out against him by a woman that he claimed was his fiancé who had been kidnapped by a motorcycle gang. I’m pretty sure that he broke in to her home also, so there may have been a charge of B&E on that police complaint, along with the stalking charge.

The neighbors before that were a drunk couple with a special needs child.  I remember the police coming on more than one occasion; the final time because the guy was running up and down the street, shirtless, waving a sword.  Where to you even get a sword?

At any rate, my neighbors have always been nut bags.; I <3>

 

I Take That Back

Just when I thought that my Friday was going to pass with only the mild annoyance that Leaf Blower could bring, I woke from an afternoon siesta to the sounds of a kickball bouncing off the hood of my car.

No Neck and his Thug friends must have had a 1/2 day of school.

Then Mullet Mom started screeching out the window for them to watch what they were doing.

And then No Neck says, "Guys, let's see if we can hit the neighbors house instead!" With that, the ball went sailing in the other direction and landed in a neighbors yard. Ugh. What is with those kids?

Now, just to make my week complete, Leaf Blower has gotten his midlife crisis car out of storage and he's sitting in the driveway, revving the engine.

Sanford, ME :: The Cesspool of Our State

The sign in to town should read "Welcome to Sanford: Where Tapered Leg Jeans and Trailers Are the Lifestyle of Choice."

What a complete shit hole that town is. I've never actually been to Sanford before yesterday, and I'm quit certain that I won't be going back any time soon - at least if I can help it. The town has wonderful stores lining the streets like "Roger's Supa Dolla," and "Cigarette City." It really speaks to the caliber of people that make it their permanent home.

And yes, unfortunately, the "r's" are actually left off of Supa Dolla sign intentionally.

Three Types of Weight Watchers

After attending Weight Watchers Meetings for the last month or so, I've realized that there are three distinct types of people that attend these meetings.

1. The average joes. These are the people just like me and my WW buddy. While not overweight, we're not underweight. We know that the mid-thirties spread is just around the corner, and we're not yet mature enough to tell each other to "put the donut down." We eat arrogantly and constantly promise ourselves that "tomorrow, I'll exercise." We actually need a stranger to put us on a scale each week and give us a scornful look when we've gained 2/10ths of a pound. We are the worst possible candidates for any sort of nutritional program because we are so damn good at justifying what we put in our mouths. We have yet to admit that we have a problem.

2. The attention whores. These are the folks that are, clearly, far too thin to be at Weight Watchers. They sit smugly at the meetings in their tiny little clothes that are shiny and attention-getting. They spend the meetings eagerly raising their hands and volunteering information like, "You know, if you get on your ellipticle machine and crank it up to 10, you'll burn 1,100 calories in an hour." They like the fact that all the other women are bitching about how thin they are. In some sick and twisted way, they find pleasure in being hated by others.

3. The co-dependants. These are my favorites. These are the folks who are truly dedicated and they show up to the meetings religiously - often attending multiple meetings in a week. And they do it, Every. Single. Week. They tell the group how they go out to dinner and take their very own measuring cups and spoons, and some sort of spork like utensil that goes above and beyond the call of duty because it offers a knife feature too. They often speak of that excruciating activity called, "exercise." Yet they only loose 2/10ths of a pound every single week. These are the women that I think secretly eat Little Debbies and Ho-Ho's, just to stall their weight loss. For to be without a Weight Watchers Meeting might be worse than death itself.

Sometimes, even I am ashamed of myself. My sheer mockery of the human life around me is clearly a sign of my truly shallow, bitter, and bitchy character. I think I'll go console myself with some Ho-Ho's now.