Big Pet Peeve

The way a person moves through a salad bar can say a lot about one's character. This afternoon, I encountered a salad bar "wanderer." These people approach the salad bar like the ghosts in a Pac Man game. This particular person moved through at a snail's pace, then decided that they wanted sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, after all (both available at the start of the line). I guess they figured that they didn't have to go back to the beginning. No, the better course was to simply work backwards and jerk around with the line of people moving in the proper direction. Where do people like this come from? There is no reverse in the salad bar line! Oh, I didn't see that there was feta cheese! I think I need that on my salad, too! Look, Mr. Magoo, there are other people in line here!

It's the little things that get stuck in my craw, I'm telling you.

Ladies, Please Take Note

Like so many women, I've got a shy bladder. I'm working on it. I hear that in Japan, background noise is piped into public restrooms to help people deal with this. There's nothing like a wasted trip to the ladies room. I've always admired people who can just open the flood gates the second they sit down. Some people have very forceful equipment. Sadly, I do not. When there are other women mucking around in there, I have this kind of pathetic stop-go trickle. I've tried to meditate and block out noises. I've tried to visualize large bodies of water. Not much works.

To add insult to injury, there is always some woman who, after exiting the stall, decides that she's going to futz with her appearance, indefinitely. You hear the sounds of someone smoothing out their clothes, heels clicking and shuffling, hair accessories snapping and unsnapping, zippers, etc. Sometimes, women are moved to brush their teeth after exiting the stall. Or give themselves a huge makeover, complete with vigorous hair brushing and foundation application. Or stare at a side view of themselves. Come on! What's more important? The way your ass looks in those pants or my poor bladder? If you didn't get it right before you left the house, chances are, fifteen minutes of ladies room futzing isn't going to help you.

I urge you to think about this the next time you decide to set up camp in there, people! The kidneys are very precious organs.

Like sand through the hourglass ...

I touched on this in yesterday's post, but I will expand a little on it today, as there is now a sequel. Everyday, I take route 2 to 128 in the morning. It's the most direct way to work. I am not alone. Seems that everyone in western Somerville merges on to 128 along with me. The line is terrifically long. I don't mind waiting in this line. What I do mind is the fact that there are assholes who refuse to wait in this line. They drive up alongside the mile of bumper-to-bumper traffic until they reach the exit, put their blinker on and bully their way into the front of the line. These people should suffer horribly. They should be forced to vomit their breakfast and eat it again through a straw. They should be subjected to a never-ending loop of Lionel Richie's "Hello" until they go completely insane. I have always complained bitterly about these savages. It seemed that my pleas to the universe for help with this matter would go unanswered.

Until now.

I started noticing that there were cops parked on the meridian by the exit. Yesterday, I mentioned that I asked one of them if their purpose was to police the system and prevent the line cutters. Affirmative. So, you can imagine my delight this morning when, after an impatient chowder head cut in line (in back of me, as I keep my bumper as close as physically possible to the one in front of me at all times) and WAS PULLED OVER. Oh, was I delighted. Nothing could have pleased me more. Not free coffee, not George Steinbrenner's retirement, not a new pair of Doc Martens. Nothing. I pumped my fist in victory, MLB style. It was a great way to start the day. The only thing that could have trumped this was to be a fly on the uniform of that officer. To have listened as the asshole fumbled her words and played dumb when it was explained to her that there are arrows painted on the cement for a bloody good reason.

I know what you're thinking: Hey, get a life. But, these tiny injustices stick in my craw and I can't get past them. Especially when I am faced with them, day after day. So, even if the Red Sox don't force another game, I will have tasted a drop of sweet victory today. The nectar of the traffic gods. Thank you, Massachusetts police!

Wah

Some friends and I went out for breakfast (Percy's on Route 6) last weekend and our lovely time was interrupted by a child with the painfully high pitched scream. He was seated with his parents in the booth to our left. His shout was the kind that hits the most tender part of one's eardrum. Even his laughter was intolerable. To our dismay, his father began encouraging the boy's shouting. It was as though he forgot that they were no longer at home. That they were in a public establishment where manners are kind of a necessity. My friends and I had two choices: Stay and finish our breakfast or leave and give our ears a rest. We split.

Luckily, the family's booth had a window looking out into the parking lot. Our car was parked right in front of said window. The boy was pressed against the window, watching us getting into the car. We used this as an opportunity to get revenge. All three of us, while looking at the child, began screaming our heads off and waving our arms around. This created exactly the reaction we were hoping for. The kid started screaming back (we assume, he looked as though he were screaming. I doubt he was faking it.) and jumping up and down in his seat. The more he jumped and screamed, the more we jumped and screamed. We laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

I mean, really. Most times, when a child is acting up in public, the parents tell he or she to stop it. Many explain that it's rude to behave this way. Isn't it normal? I understand that a parent can become desensitized to the decibels at which their kids are capable of reaching, but the parents I know would not allow it in public.

Wow, I've been doing a lot of complaining lately.

Still D & C Free

Just wanted to let you know that I have made it almost the entire regular season without listening to D & C in the morning on WEEI. I made this pledge back in April or May and I've stood by it. I am a happier person when I waltz into work in the morning. Besides, NPR is a lot more informative.

Oh, Happy Day!

Many women still complain about the unbalanced state of affairs in the United States. Myself included. But the stuff that really gets my goat cannot be solved through the legal process. Allow me to explain.
Yesterday, I threw a bridal shower for my mother. Several weeks in advance, I sent out the invitations. Last Sunday, I received a call from one of the attendees, informing me that her daughters had not received invitations. These are folks I hardly know, as they are the children OF the children of the groom. My mother's address book (the source of the invitation list) did not contain these names or associated addresses. Because of my gender, I have to (a) organize and execute this sort of occasion and (b) smooth things over after feelings are hurt. Only women are judged based on whether or not they leave someone off of an invitation list. Only women are expected to plan these social events. Only women are expected to read minds and predict the future. My status as a good and decent human being hangs in the balance until I have effectively thrown a shower and completed damage control for holes in my mother's address book. Do you think for a second that a man is made to feel inept if he forgets to call a buddy of his on his birthday or fails to send a thank you card to his mother? This is so unfair. I can accept that there has never been a female president. I can (almost) accept that there will never be a female player in major league baseball. But these social expectations are bullshit. And I seriously think we do it to ourselves. It's not like there is a man standing over us going, "You'd better get those holiday cards out!" If women lightened up on the whole thing, men would adjust. Trust me. There are few guys now who care whether or not their female counterparts even make dinner. So, why are we so hard on ourselves? Why do we care what so-and-so's great aunt thinks about the appetizers? It's a game you can't win because it's impossible to please every single person. And yet, here I sit feeling bad because of the invitation snafu.

Ugh

Henry Rollins is really becoming more and more weird to me as the years pass. First, he does the voice overs for the Good Year Tire Commercials. Nuts, right? Now, he's planning on having Rufus Wainwright as a guest on his IFC show. Rufus Fucking Wainwright. Does music getting any more blah than that? Morrissey is the real deal. Wainwright is simply pretentious and shallow.

What is going on with you, Henry Rollins?

Earlier this year, I sent away for a Bikini Kill t-shirt. The company accidently sent me a Rufus Wanwright t-shirt instead. Perhaps I should send it to Henry Rollins. Or maybe I will auction it off on eBay and make a buck.

Peanut Gallery Rant

I'm a fairly eco-minded person, but I've got a beef with hand dryers in rest rooms. I am a fan of them in theory, as they prevent the spread of germs (though, where's the proof?) and they save trees. However, the reality is, I have rarely met a hand dryer I liked. I would think that the manufacturers would make a superior product in order to convince all the paper napkin people to make the switch (when given the choice) or insist on the dryers (if that's even possible). Instead of planning to capture the minds and hearts of service station goers nationwide, most manufacturers put forth a pathetic model that emits a mere puff of cold air.

Personally, I like the kind of dryers that rip your skin right off with it's gusty might. The sort that blow you over with air pressure and heat. I don't like having to press the button more than once - and I don't see how this necessary repetition is a more sanitary option. There is nothing eco-friendly about the additional energy this causes, either.

While on the subject of rest rooms, I should also voice my disapproval with the lack of heat I usually experience when using one. And this isn't limited to the Vince Lombardi/Molly Pitcher/Woodrow Wilson types of places. My butt has made friends with some super icy toilet seats in very fancy shmancy restaurants. What's the deal? Bathrooms are not places where you go to put more clothes on, so why lower the temp? Is there really that much riff raff to discourage?