Ahhh, sarcasm. It will either get me killed or make me live forever.
Ahhh, sarcasm. It will either get me killed or make me live forever.
When I heard that moving and changing jobs were two of the items in the Most Stressful Life Events, I decided hey…I’ll do both at once.
To those of you who pull up roots and move across the country, kudos to you. That seems like a lot of fun (said no one, ever). Your accomplishment almost makes me feel badly for complaining about my semi-local move.
Now, I decided in all of my wisdom to take the new job first, and commute back and forth while arranging my physical move. Why not? How can it possibly be bad to slide into my new position, over an hour away, while trying to arrange moving companies, downsize my belongings, and pack for the move?
First, let me say that I am moving from an area with high tourism this time of year. Second, let me say, I hate tourists. Thank you, young family in the mini-van, for playing something on your car DVD player that I could watch while stuck in the bumper to bumper traffic during my commute. Thank you, as well, Mr. Older Gentleman in the baseball cap for keeping me safe by refusing to drive at the speed limit. And a special thanks to all those who somehow manage to crash their cars so perfectly that all travel lanes are blocked in all directions, at rush hour.
And did I mention that I live over a bridge? Not in the troll variety, but definitely in a pain-in-the-ass variety. As in a bridge that is the only way in and the only way out of my little piece of hell. Picture this, if you will, 10 to 12 toll lanes spread across an expansive highway, chock-full of vehicles as far as the eye can see, who, once through the toll lanes, ALL must merge down into two – count them, people, two! — tiny bridge lanes. It goes about as well as you would think. Fun and games, people, fun and games.
And let’s not forget the truckers … all of whom seem to travel at the same time (I mean, really!?) and all of whom, instead of coordinating their driving so that they all make their way through one end of the toll entrance or the other (I don’t care which, just pick one!) would rather spread out into numerous lanes across the vast sea of traffic and then, using their sheer size and apparent disregard for simple etiquette, squish whole lanes of vehicles into an untraversable funnel that keeps everyone involved from moving forward. What did I say above? Fun and games. I honestly think that if people truly knew how to take turns AND if trucks could please, for the love of God, just follow each other through the toll lanes, that traffic could be eradicated on the Bridge I hate so much. As it is, it’s like trying to pour mud through a pinhole.
When I finally complete my hour long, now turned three hours long, trip to the House of Forgotten Boxes, I need to organize, scrutinize and itemize my belongings before stuffing them all in bags with sticky notes that say, “Dining room,” “Bedroom,” and “Who cares? I should have tossed this out years ago.” I believe my belongings multiply in direct proportion to how many hours I have spent driving. Seriously, it’s true.
It’s amazing the things you convince yourself to keep when you are moving. What should be a purge instead becomes a stroll down memory lane. “Awww, the receipt from that one store I went to that one time somewhere I don’t quite remember, three years ago. Better keep that, I may need to return whatever the hell this was.” “Look, it’s my Halloween costume from sixteen years ago. I can use this again someday.” “It’s my favorite Crocs! Ummm…okay, never mind, I can throw these away.”
My new job is great, and the people are fantastic. I feel a little lost when they discuss local adventures; I feel that I almost understand, but then they throw some twist in there that makes me do a Google Search later. “Let’s get crabs at Dave’s after work, his lawn mower opened that chicken egg last Christmas.” I nod and smile. I may even try to act like I know. “Ah, yes, Dave certainly did pick that oyster out of the chimney.” Blank stares follow, and they all talk about me over the water cooler at lunch.
I haven’t learned the shortcuts of my commute yet, either, and when people ask how I get to work they offer all sorts of useless advice. “Oh, you should have turned at that snowball stand on the west corner of the dirt road.” One day I’ll get it, but for now, I am lost in every way. And that’s just the commute.
At work, in my new building, I am convinced that people randomly switch floor stickers in the elevator. I find myself wandering around the rooftop looking for the printer, or down in the basement with the janitor, who, as it turns out, is a lovely person despite his overall serial killer-like vibe. He gave me a wonderful recipe for salmon fritters.
At home, I am surrounded by boxes that clog once familiar doorways, causing me to get lost in my own house, which is saying something considering the size of this house (have you seen my house? It’s small … as in tiny, like Jerry’s mouse-hole tiny). I haven’t seen the kitchen in a week, but my daughter tells me it is still there.
I have been on the phone for about three weeks trying to schedule my new cable in my new house, and I have been assured a cable worker will be at my new home sometime between now and December 23, 2022. Somehow, my mail has been getting lost. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling the bill collectors, but I’m not sure how much longer they will keep buying it.
As stressful as all this is, I know it will be worth it in the end to be settled in my new home and job. But for now, I believe I may have crossed through the third gate of Hell.
And obviously, I can’t find my way back.
I may have mentioned a few days ago that my life was crazy right now. I’ll be sharing the gossip on that soon. I promise. In the meantime, I thought you’d be interested in the latest derailment fiery crash of the mental machinery that is my train of useless thought.
So, I was browsing the shelves at my local Hallmark (they’re not just for movies!) when I ran in to this little gem:
Now I have nothing against the bottle, it is a very pretty bottle (with a strong, positive quote, might I add) designed to hold…well, hydrating items. Call me old-fashioned or low-class, but to me, this is a simply a high-falutin’ Water Bottle. Let’s take a look at the evolution from water bottle to hydration bottle, shall we?
First, other liquids realized they were getting the short end of the stick in the capitalism game that retailers everywhere know – and play – so well. Gatorade led the battle for change, crying “Gatorade is liquid, too!” Kool-Aid quickly joined in, followed by fruit juices. There were protests in grocery stores across the nation and even a riot or two in Aisle 5 which leaked over into Aisle 4 and part of Aisle 6. Sadly, these protests were ineffective because the liquids had no containers and the protesters were quickly mopped up.
Now, things got a little sticky, in every sense of the word. Soup demanded to be included, which sparked even more debate and controversy. But is soup truly a liquid? Where does this leave chicken noodle soups, or stew? Gatorade and Kool-Aid fought back viciously. The gutters flowed with noodles during the Chicken Noodle War of 2018, now thought to be the worst soup war in history. Many valiant chicken chunks were lost to the cause.
The bottle itself, striving for peace and equality, struggled to make its voice heard. In many poignant interviews, the bottle pled to be called a liquid container. This, in turn, caused the soups to become agitated yet again as they tried to find their place in the world.
Finally, Congress, in all of their infinite wisdom, passed a law to exclude soup from being contained in the bottle, stating that only hydrating products qualified. The point was made that soup has its own exclusive container called a “thermos.” Soup is taking this decision to the Supreme Court citing that coffee, while a liquid, also gets to be contained in thermoses. I must say, they do have a point.
While awaiting a Supreme Court decision, the bottle has been relabeled a Hydration Bottle. The products allowed to be contained in this bottle are not clearly defined; therefore, it’s anyone’s game. Or container, if you will.
Gatorade is calling this a clear victory in liquid rights for juices, vitamin water, and electrolytes everywhere. Soup cannot be reached for comment, although more protests are scheduled in the future. We’re not sure where alcohol stands, because well, alcohol isn’t usually standing for anything for any length of time.
When you are drinking your hydration product from your Hydration Bottle, let us never forget the electrolytes and fruit juices who spilled…well, themselves…to secure the right to be contained in them.
So. I got an email from Etsy today. You might not think this about me, but I love Etsy. However, this latest email had me questioning…myself, not them. Specifically, I had issues with the subject line. In this particular case, issues = confusion.
The subject line was: Start Double Tapping.
Now, as it turns out, what they meant was “double clicking” on the photo links, or in other words, buying stuff.
What yours truly took away from that subject line: Get ready for the zombie apocalypse. I’m not sure what that says about me.
Okay, so, when navigating a parking lot, for how long must one be actually in a moving car, before the onus of accountability falls on those who suddenly zip into the previously clear aisle? Or, for that matter, how long does one’s car need to be in motion before it becomes acceptable to squash the pedestrian who clearly sees you from across the way, but in what can only be described as a desire to play chicken sullenly reinforce their right of way as a pedestrian, decides to significantly speed up their gait so as to walk in front of your car?
Just asking for a friend.
Why no, Kevin, I don’t want to join your threesome. If I wanted to disappoint two people at the same time, I’d just go visit my parents. Although according to my mother, I don’t even have to be in the same vicinity as them, let alone the same room, to have that effect. So, yeah. Why needlessly expend my energy on you and your plus one, Kevin?
You know, this whole finding your soulmate thing is a lot tougher than I thought it was going to be.
I belong to several different online groups, especially on Facebook. They’re mostly book clubs, classic movie fan sites, and vintage photo connoisseurs. I’ve noticed that, especially in one of the vintage photography groups, people are becoming unnecessarily mean and argumentative. In this group, anyone can post pictures of anything vintage, whether it’s their family, celebrities, locations, etc. Someone posted a photo of Doc Holliday and “Big Nose Kate,” his girlfriend/wife, and there were people – you’d think it would be just men, but women as well – who jumped in to immediately say how much Kate looked like a man in a dress (she didn’t) and of course the comments spiraled out of control from there. Good grief! This Hungarian-born, frontier woman has been dead for 77 years. Let it rest.
In the same group, a controversial photo of Billy the Kid was displayed. It’s been authenticated, but some historians still have their doubts, which I won’t get into here. Still, it was as if some of the group’s members had been personally attacked or offended or perhaps had some vested interest in the origins of this photo for all the rage and insulting comments they were throwing out…directed at the photo, the original poster, as well as to those who mentioned, correctly I might add, that the photo had indeed been authenticated and even insured, controversy within the industry notwithstanding. Nothing is as irksome as self-appointed vintage photo police.
Photos will be posted of family members and people will scream “Photoshop!” even though the photo is obviously old and photoshopping didn’t exist then. While it’s possible the photo was manipulated in the dark room all those 100’s of years ago, who the hell cares? In any case, it’s the person’s family, so they would probably know if it was accurate or not. People will post old Victorian spirit pictures (which are well-known to be faked) and the commenters jump on those too – screaming, “fake, fake, fake!” As if no-one else had any idea and they are exposing some modern-day fraud. These Visual Vigilantes attack the original poster and anyone else who voices a positive opinion of simply liking the photo or thinking that it’s “cool,” or complimenting the dark-room work, regardless of whether it’s real or not.
Now I know the Internet, and Facebook in particular, is a breeding ground for arguments, but it has become increasingly apparent to me that people will indeed argue about anything and everything. However, it’s amazing to me that in a group that is supposed to be all about simple, innocuous, and light-hearted fun, there are those who cannot contain themselves. It’s as if they MUST be hateful, mean, and argumentative – as if they’ll implode otherwise, by containing all of that vile vitriol…like pressure-cookers left unattended. Or would they explode? Either way, it would be a big mess.
What is wrong with people that they can’t seem to find enjoyment in anything? Perhaps arguing and being hateful are their forms of enjoyment? If so, our society is going to hell a lot faster than I originally anticipated.
Earthquakes abound. Hurricanes are wreaking havoc and leaving trails of death and destruction in their wakes. There is rioting and looting in major cities, insane dictators launching nuclear missiles, flooding and famine throughout the world and people who still like the Steelers.
But nothing going on in this world today compares to the awesome destructiveness of Crayola’s newest color unveiling, Bluetiful.
Yes, this may be the most important subject and timely topic we can be divided over, hands down.
You see, Crayola has upset the space-time continuum by daring to name its own product. After a naming contest for its newest color creation in the blue family, the winning name was Bluetiful.
Immediate outrage ensued and predictably, a boycott was threatened. How dare this company name its own product? Don’t they know that millions of children rely on crayons to learn colors and spelling and vocabulary? It is no longer the responsibility of parents, or even teachers, to teach children that any shade of red is still red or that any nuance of blue is, in fact, still blue. And that they’re spelled r-e-d and b-l-u-e. Darn you, Crayola! How dare you, the most popular art supplier of colored drawing implements in the world, neglect your duty of teaching our children?
What’s next? Now that this insult is in place, will I be expected to teach my own children other things as well? Perish the thought! Kindergarten teachers everywhere are in a tailspin. They cannot be relied upon to teach our children colors! Only you, Crayola, could accomplish this feat. And you, Crayola, YOU just let us down!
I’m not sure I can continue to use my adult coloring books any longer. Yes, yes, I still play with crayons. But more important, the confusion of naming crayons something other than their original color is just too great for me to handle. What if I picked up the wrong blue and used it? Gasp! I mean, it could ruin a perfectly good drawing of Starry Night or Rainbow Dash. I simply cannot be held responsible for my refrigerator art if Crayola continues to confound me this way.
The majority of people who chose the clever name of Bluetiful in the contest obviously have no respect for the role that Crayola plays in tutoring our children. I suppose next I will have to teach my child manners? Crayola should do that as well; Please Pink and Thank You Turquoise, for instance. Yes Sir Yellow? The possibilities are endless. Crayola is falling behind the times here, and we are forced to teach our own children. It is an outrage, an outrage I tell you.
Apparently, Crayola is only confusing us on a limited basis, since they discontinued my favorite color, Dandelion to make room for the mixed-up-not-a-real-word Bluetiful. If you are going to baffle our children, Crayola should keep Dandelion and just add Bluetiful as an extra. I was just getting used to Dandelion, and had finally begun to accept that Dandelion was a shade of yellow after twenty-some years of confusion. And now, this?
A purple pox on you, Crayola, you destroyer of Denim Blue dreams! Our Eggplant egos have been dashed to the ground, and trampled on by your Salmon sandals. I can only hope that, together globally, we will overcome this Indigo insult.
Until we do, my friends, stay strong and Bluetiful.
Well, friends, it’s official. I’m a genius.
According to an article in Curious Mind Magazine, people who share my level of intelligence have a few things in common. We are all slovenly, foul-mouthed night dwellers.
One of the items the article touches upon is that intelligent people can live happily within mounds of chaos. I’ve always had the ability to find any object in the innumerable piles of my own self-made mess – or that of others – if I’ve touched it or seen it at least once. This talent has not only been helpful at home (with two kids who constantly screamed “mooommm, where is my [insert any item whatsoever here]!?”), but at work as well where I was always able to help my employers keep track of their own individual chaos. I assumed this was a subconscious thing I did to remember where the item was or where it was supposed to be, but it turns out that I am, in fact, just intellectually a level above all of you organized people. Hey, don’t roll your eyes at me! It’s in the article, it must be so. Also, my messy desk is a sign of creative genius, so just leave my mold covered coffee mugs alone and let me work in peace. I’m not lazy, I’m smart!
My inability to go to bed before 2:00 a.m. is also a sign that I am heads above all of you, tucked all warm in your little beds by 10:00 p.m. Never mind that 2:00 a.m. is when the best items are on sale at QVC or late-night horror movies come on, it is actually just my genius brain doing genius things at a genius time of the morning. Genius!
Lastly, it would seem my unrepeatable tirades against the entire driving population of my state are also a sign of my extreme intellectual advancements. Contrary to some of those inane studies that show that people who curse frequently are considered less intelligent, it has been scientifically proven that I and all my potty-mouthed kin are in fact superior in intelligence to our more straight-laced peers. I have a gloating comment to make about that, but I can’t write it here. Perhaps if you share my intelligence, you can imagine what it would be.
I’m not one to say “I told you so,” but I always knew that under my sailor’s vocabulary, under-eye bags, and piles of junk, I was a genius. Now, science proves it.
Oh, who am I kidding? I love to say I told you so. I told you so!
Go forth and spread the word to your cursing, messy, night-owl friends. We are the elite ruling class of intellectuals.
We are geniuses!