Bully For You

Today when I was out taking a walk at lunch, I passed a bunch of grade school kids playing kickball in a narrow stretch of grass outside the public library. I’ve seen them playing all summer long – I think they’re part of some summer camp at the library - and every time I walk past them, I am absolutely obsessed with keeping my eye on that red kickball to ensure that it will not come flying at me and nail me in the head. And why am I worried about getting hit in the head? Because it will hurt? Because it might lodge my iPod earphones into my brain? Because my hair looks particularly nice today? No, my friends. I’m afraid that if a wayward ball hits me in the head…those kids will laugh at me.

Y’all. I’m 30. These kids are 9 years old. It kind of struck me today how fucking pathetic that is.

The thing is, I know that if it happened I’d just smile and laugh it off (unless my earphones did lodge themselves in my brain, in which case I’d probably just lay there, twitching and soiling myself). One of the counsellors might yell out an apology, and because I try to not be a bitch in public, I’d probably chase after the ball and toss it back to them. I know some of the kids would be laughing, and who am I to judge, because if I saw it happen to someone else, you best believe I’d be laughing (on the inside, of course – see: not being a bitch in public, above) and then emailing everyone about it once I got back to the office, especially if the kickball made that hilarious hollow “BOING” sound when it hit the person’s head, because that’s just how I roll. But yeah, if it happened to me, I’d laugh, I’d throw the ball back, I’d keep walking. I’d fucking handle it, because I’m an adult and these are 3rd graders, for Christsakes. But I know myself, and I know it would take me the rest of the afternoon to shake the tightness in my stomach and in the back of my throat that I get when I know someone is laughing at me.

 Of course, I know why I have that reaction. In 7th and 8th grade – mostly in 8th – I was teased, mercilessly, in school and on the school bus. I actually hestitate to call it teasing, because “teasing” sounds so gentle and so harmless – something that would stop as soon as feelings got hurt. The stuff these kids said to me was cruel. I still remember most of their comments word-for-word (and I can still hear them saying it). Maybe that’s a testament to how my weird little mind traps inane details like flypaper, or maybe it’s proof that I don’t know when to just let shit go, but I think the real explanation is that those little cruelties that happen to you when you’re young never really go away (which is why I can’t even imagine how people who were abused as kids even manage to get through a damn afternoon). This is not to say I regularly weep and wail over the relatively insignificant unfairness of being a nerdy junior-high target for the popular kids – because I don’t – but that awful, heavy feeling of being tormented by that slutty bitch Erin on the bus tends to crop up when I least expect it.

What I really don’t understand is why kids have this need to bully other kids in the first place. I don’t think that kids are inherently assholes, and it’s easy to see that most of the stupid/mean stuff they do stems directly from them just not knowing any better (e.g., pulling the cat’s tail, roller-skating in the house, saying a bad word just to see the reaction it gets, hitting your sister with a shoe while fighting over the remote control) but none of that stuff has any kind of lasting effect. Yeah, my sister had that shoeprint on her thigh for the rest of the afternoon, but now we’re very close (just as long as bitch does not make a play for the remote control). What I’m saying is, none of the dumb stuff kids do really ever leaves a mark, so why do they have the sinister capacity (and a downright need) to be mean to other kids – something that leaves a mark so deep that it still hurts me 17 years later?

The sick thing is, this kind of behavior isn’t limited to kids. I was still on the receiving end of this horseshit in high school, and I see adults acting like 4th-grade dickwads all the time. And even though I wasn’t a career bully, I can remember a few specific times I was a total shit to someone, and I’m sure there are countless more times I hurt feelings without even knowing it. I dunno – maybe people are inherently assholes. Which supports my proposal that God should design your ovaries/testicles to shrivel up if you haven’t outgrown the need to bully by age 20, so the rest of the world won’t have to be subjected to the inevitable douchebag fruit of your asshat loins.

I guess I’ve been thinking about this stuff a lot lately because we’ve been planning on having a kid in the next year or so, and the thought of bringing a person into a world where he or she will unquestionably get hurt is a struggle for me. Granted, I will never allow my child to sport a perm, glasses, AND a tapestry vest all at the same time (thanks, 7th grade school picture, for capturing that moment and burning it into my brain), but I know I won’t be able to protect him or her from whatever awful things the kids at school/camp/the bus stop cook up.

What I can do, though, is tell those little bullying shits about the zombie living under their bed who is waiting every night to grab their ankles if they get up to pee. And that divorces are usually the kids’ fault. And how dogs, cats, and grandmas burn in hell when they die. 

That should even the playing field a little bit.

Where Have You Gone, Geeky Prop Comic?

Forget all this Lindsay Lohan drama (although the latest developments are pretty amusing – rumor has it she made a last-ditch attempt to pin her drunken driving on a black guy who happened to be in her posse that evening, explaining to the officers, “The black kid was driving.” You stay classy, Lindsay). Anyhoo, onto the issue at hand: Have you seen Carrot Top lately? If not, allow me to explain. This is what Carrot Top used to look like:

 

And here’s what we’ve got going on now:

“How d’ya like me NOW?!?!”

It seems to me that his new favorite props are probably GNC MegaMass, a needle full of steriods, and two shriveled balls. 

Here’s some sadistic food for thought, in the spirit of the Would You Rather books : Which one of those would you rather have comin’ at you for a clumsy grope after a night of downing Jager-bombs at the Comedy Cellar? I’m voting for the Chairman of the Board up there, solely based on the fact that I would probably be able to fight him off without getting black eyeliner all over my shirt.

Hey, Michael Vick!

I hope one of the dogs you forced into dog-fighting goes rogue and chews your nuts off, you sick fuck.

But no worries. In the [unlikely] event that you end up doing any time in prison, I’m sure someone will be more than happy to chew your nuts off in the shower. You have fun now!

MySpace, get up out MyFace

I hate you, MySpace.

I hate your cheesy-ass backgrounds.

I hate your high volume of child molesters who always end up on “To Catch a Predator.”

I hate the forum you provide for slutty underage girls to post slutty underage pictures of themselves.

I hate the LOUD LOUD ALWAYS LOUD music that plays whenever you open someone’s page. Yes, I KNOW you can turn it off, but the music ALWAYS loads before the little pause/stop/play controls do.

I hate it whenever people ask me to look at their MySpace page, because I know I will be filled with murderous rage in my near future.

I hate how often MySpace pages are used as “evidence” of infidelity on shows like Maury & Dr. Phil.

[I hate that I sometimes watch Maury & Dr. Phil]

I hate how you rope me into trying to find the pages of people who were dicks to me in high school, which only serves to inform me that people who were dicks to me in high school are now doctors and lawyers and PARENTS, oh my God, those people should not be parents.

I hate you, MySpace. Please go away.

P.S. Your search engine sucks.

“Damn you, Scuba Steve!” is my second favorite

My favorite moment in the Adam Sandler movie “Big Daddy” (what? Don’t you have one too?) is when he has to resort to public urination to solve the little boy’s “I have to pee NOW-NOW-NOW!” problem in the middle of New York City. It’s not that I’m some sort of weirdo who enjoys public urination in the cinema, it’s that I get a huge charge out of Adam Sandler’s reaction to the women at the outdoor cafe giving him the stink-eye: “Mind your business.”

You have no idea how many times each day that phrase runs through my head.

It never ceases to amaze me how eager people are to inject their unwelcome bullshit into other people’s situations. And it’s not just the unsolicited advice (or “assvice,” as Amalah is fond of calling it), it’s the obnoxious, self-righteous, blatant shoehorning-of-oneself-into-situations-that-do-not-concern-you that makes me want to sucker-punch people in the throat.

Case in point:

We own a house in the city, complete with sidewalk out front & huuuuge city-owned shade tree plopped right down in the middle of said sidewalk. We are responsible for the sidewalk. The city is responsible for the tree. But when the tree starts to interfere with the sidewalk…that’s when things get tricky. According to the All-Knowing City, the shade trees planted on our street were supposed to be the kind that grow “deep roots” that will not buckle the sidewalk. Well. You can imagine how that worked out. Our sidewalk has been replaced twice in the past 30 years because of the tree roots pushing the concrete all over the damn place. When we moved in, we noticed that the sidewalk was getting pushed up a little in one place by the tree roots, and in the short 18 months that we’ve lived there, the tree has decided to turn our sidewalk into a fucking diorama of the Rocky Mountains. And because a bumpy sidewalk = open invitation for some clumsy asswipe to trip and sue, we realized that a sidewalk replacement was in our near future.

This is how the [fucking expensive] sidewalk replacement process works: We pay to have the sidewalk removed. When the sidewalk is torn up and the front of our house looks like war zone, city forestry people come by and determine if the tree will withstand a root-pruning OR if a root-pruning will kill it. If a root-pruning will kill the tree, they will remove the tree. Once the city is done doing whatever they decide, we put down the new sidewalk and everything is right with the world. Except that we are poor and must eat ramen noodles for the next 5 months, but we can do so while marvelling at our spanking new expanse of concrete. Yay.  

So last week is when Project Sidewalk officially began. We were no doubt the most beloved people in the neighborhood when the workers spent all day Wednesday jack-hammering the shit out of our sidewalk. I fully expected our cat (and perhaps the old lady across the street) to be bald from the stress when it was all said and done. But we all came through the sidewalk-busting with our sanity & hair follicles intact (I cannot speak for the old lady across the street; I haven’t seen her since. In fact, I haven’t seen her in a couple weeks. Oh God. Maybe someone should go over there and knock on her door.).

Now, when I came home and saw the sidewalk obliterated, it hit me that the end was finally in sight in the battle of Sidewalk v. Tree.  We’d been dealing with the situation for several weeks (getting estimates for the job, getting work permits, getting generally pissed off at the whole situation), and now things were starting to happen. And because I am a sentimental asshole, I began to get kind of sad at the idea that they might have to cut down the tree. NEVERMIND that I have spent nearly two years cursing the tree and its incessant vomiting of leaves, sticks, blossoms and pollen all over our sidewalk, steps & front yard, NEVERMIND that I have had fantasies about a strike of lightning obliterating the thing so that I could finally grow some damn flowers or azaleas or ANYTHING besides fucking Hostas underneath that sun-blocking bohemoth, NEVERMIND that I once experimented in vain to see if just maybe a bunch of Round-Up might kill that sum-bitch…I was starting to get a little melancholy when I thought of them sawing the fucker down. It did shade the house nicely, and provided a lovely shield from the [very nosey and now possibly dead] old lady across the street, and – Oh, God – what about the birds & squirrels that probably live in it?! And their little bird & squirrel familes?! HOLY SHIT, I AM A MONSTER.

Early Thursday morning, the City Forestry Guy showed up to assess the tree root situation now that the sidewalk was gone. CFG told B that from what he could tell, the roots didn’t look too bad and the tree would likely stay. He was going to try to ensure that we’d at least get the branches (which were almost touching the house across the street) pruned this year.  During this conversation, B noticed that some douchebag walking his dog had stopped to completely eavesdrop on something that did not concern him in any way, shape, or form. As B turned to come back inside, Dog-Walking-DoucheMonkey approached CFG, fully inflated with his douchey self-importance, and said, “You’re not thinking of cutting down this tree, are you?!?” and then launched in to a full tirade of douchebaggery about how we should save this tree WHICH WAS NOT ON HIS PROPERTY, WHICH HE KNEW NOTHING ABOUT, and most importantly, THE EFFECTS OF WHICH ON MY SIDEWALK HE DID NOT HAVE TO PAY THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS TO REPAIR. MIND YOUR BUSINESS, DOG-WALKING-DOUCHEMONKEY. 

I don’t know who that fuckwad was; I can’t remember seeing him around before, but then again, I only know a handful of people in our neighborhood. But I do know that spent the rest of the morning dreaming about telling him to kiss my ass.

When we got home Thursday night, the tree was gone. Turns out that when they took a closer look, they found the culprit: a huge mass of roots that would surely kill the tree if removed. They had no choice but to chop down the tree, which they did. And while it’s a little sad, it’s a LOT fucking fantastic, as I finally get some natural light in the front half of the house and can now landscape the front yard with pretty flowers that will actually grow. Not to mention that we will not have to replace the sidewalk for a good loooong while. Glorious!

As for the asshat who felt so inclined to shame shame SHAAAME us for removing the tree (even though, at the time of his interference, CFG probably told him that the tree was staying, and then it DIDN’T, which: HA!), I have to admit that while I stand out front happily surveying my now-treeless sidewalk, I’m hoping he’ll come by again and start some of his shit with me so I can tell him that not only was it ultimately out of our control, but it was of absolutely no concern to him, so kindly fuck off. Because I am 100% sure he’s precisely the kind of asshole who – had the tree stayed – would sue us toothless if he ever happened to trip on the tiniest root-induced bump on our sidewalk.

So that’s my little tale involving trees, sidewalks, thousands of hard-earned dollars down the drain, neighborhood assholes, and MINDING YOUR BUSINESS. Took me a while to get there, but I think you’ll agree that we’d all be better off if we remember to MIND OUR BUSINESS the next time we think of opening our big, fat cakeholes. Of course, there are times when it is absolutely appropriate to interfere. See someone shoplifting? Starving their pets?Abusing their children? Vandalizing? Stealing? Maiming? Killing? Well then, by all means say something. But – for the love of God – learn the damn difference between “someone hitting an old lady on the head and stealing her purse” and “someone removing a tree from their property.”  You have a moral obligation to interfere in one of those situations; and the old lady with the head injury really hopes you know which one that is.

Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

My husband B told me today about an email signature he saw that read:

“When life gives you lemons, squeeze them in peoples’ eyes.”

It was attributed to Fred Rogers. Call me crazy, but I think that is a misquote.

But since it’s fun to falsely attribute quotes to one of America’s most beloved cultural icons*, here are some others me, B and our sick, sick friends came up with:

“If at first you don’t succeed, just blame someone who is a different color than you.”

“It’s always good to have a sober buddy around when you’re trying ecstasy the first time.”

“Fred Rogers will kill a snitch.”

“Remember kids: when you got two pairs of shoes, the cops can’t find you by your footprints!”

“Like my new cardigan? It’s 100 percent Bob Dog fur.”

“Jeremy, your HAIR is SOOO freakin’ SOFT!”

“I’d totally hit that.”

“Puff-puff GIVE! Puff-puff GIVE!”

“Hear that snap? That’s how you ensure a clean break.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to say you’re sorry. Especially when you’re apologizing to your bitch wife Linda.”

“The Land of Make Believe will burst into flames if you tell anyone what happened on our field trip to that bookstore that’s just for mommies and daddies.”

“It’s OK to feel sad. Especially when your special friend LeRoy decides to move back in with his wife.”

“…fortunately, Picture Picture has a false bottom for just such an occasion.”

*Alright, before you leave me hateful comments (which isn’t likely, since no one reads this blog), let me just state for the record that I LOVE Mr. Rogers, I watched him all the time growing up, I had his autograph, and I cried when he died. He was a great man. So get off my damn back.

Open Letter to the Cleaning Lady Who Gives Me Only a Blank Stare in Response to My Friendly Greetings

Look, bitch. I know you’re not deaf; I know you can speak. I hear you saying hello to other people in my office. So why not me? I keep my desk neat, I never make a mess in the kitchen, and I certainly don’t leave pubes on the toilet seat like some dainty flowers I work with (your open letter is next, Pubey McShed). Unless I am blacking out and taking a shit under my desk every afternoon, I am aware of nothing I do that could possibly merit your pissy silent treatment. I say hi; you say hi back. See? Easy! LIKE ME, DAMMIT!

Why can’t you be like Creepy Valet Parking Attendant downstairs? He left me his phone number in my cupholder once. Did my skin crawl for 3 weeks straight after that? Did I secretly suspect he had been smelling my seat cushions? Did he eventually get fired for doing the same thing to other women? Yes, yes, and yes. But at least he was polite. Jesus.

Marital Discord: Definitely not “Yum-O”

 

Did you hear that Rachael Ray might be getting a divorce? Or, I guess in her case, it would be a “Di-V.O.O.”

These are a few of my favorite things…

Know what I love? These kinds of conversations with my boss:

Him: Could you edit this when you get a minute? No rush. By sometime next week is fine.

Me: Sure. No problem.

[Two hours later...]

Him: You edit that document yet?

Me: ???

Him: Oh, you didn’t?

Me: But…”no rush?”

Him: [Looking disappointed] Oh. Hm. Well, just get to it whenever you can. Sigh.

EEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHH.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Blog

I graduated from college in 1999. I got my first office job that same year. I have never had to work in an office without Internet access (thank you, Jesus).

I honestly don’t know how I would have survived an office job back in the days before the Internet, when the only things sitting on your desk were a telephone, a typewriter, a Rolodex, and perhaps an ashtray filled with Lucky Strikes and polio (we’re talking about the olden days, after all). What did those people DO when they wanted to goof off/waste time and still appear to be working? Did they actually…work? All day long? WITH NO SLACKING?!? Greatest Generation my ass; that sounds pretty stupid to me. (Sorry, Grandma.)

Suffice it to say, I am pretty grateful that I never had to spend 9 hours in an office during those dark, polio-ridden, non-Internet-y days. I probably would have hung myself with my feminine hygiene belt in the back of the nickelodeon (remember: olden days) by week two. Yes, my friend the Internet has held my hand through some of the most horrific work weeks I have ever known. And with that, I present to you with “Why I Owe My Sanity to Sweet Lady Internet: A Memoir in 6 Parts.”

Part One: The Bank Job (a.k.a. Living With My Parents – or – The Year I Never Stopped Crying): It is 1999. I am working in a bank as an assistant to the President. Bitch crazy, and often throws things across the room, including but not limited to 1) her briefcase, 2) the contents of an entire file drawer, 3) an expired carton of Coffeemate. I soothe my rattled nerves by surfing my online bridal registry and copying plot summaries off of literary websites for the 8 million plays I am supposed to read before entering grad school the following year. President Bitchface later accuses me of being “distracted” by my wedding plans. Screw her.

Part Two: The Software Job (a.k.a The Job I Got Once I Dropped Out of Grad School – or – Maybe I Should Have Actually Read All Those Plays After All): It is 2001. I train for a month to learn how to sell software to companies that have contracts with my company. Meaning that they have to buy software off of us. So there is no real charisma required on my part, which is good, because I suck at my job. No one ever calls me to place orders, and I never have any work to do. Actually, there were quite a few of us who never have any work to do, so we openly waste hours upon hours on the Internet. This is where my Internet use really explodes. I discover The Onion, Television Without Pity, Bored.com, and MSN games. I am the world’s highest paid Alchemy player.

Part Three: Temping in New York City (a.k.a. My Soul is Dead – or – This City Hates Me): This particular level of hell lasts from 2001 until 2003. In these two years, I fulfill assignments at a publishing company, two investment firms, a law firm, E! Entertainment, Playboy Enterprises, the public library, and a very ironic assignment answering phones at…a temp agency. The highlights of my work life include meeting F. Murray Abraham at the library, and being required to sign a waiver at Playboy stating that I will not be offended if I see naked boobies around the office (note: there were a lot of naked boobies around the office). The Internet is my soulmate during these endless workweeks, and I add Fametracker, CNN, Tomato Nation, NY Newsday, Time Out NY, Playbill.com, Backstage.com, and James Lilek’s Gallery of Regrettable Food to my regular rotation of web surfing. My temp agent lies and tells one of my bosses I can do shorthand. I cannot, but must pretend I can in order to keep my job. Life is looking grim.

Part Four: I Move Away From NYC and Work in a Mall for a Year (a.k.a. What the Hell Was I Thinking? – or – I Am The World’s Worst Manager): From the spring of 2003 until the spring of 2004, I work as a manager at a store in the mall. I hardly ever email or sit in front of a computer. I am horribly out of touch with everything. Customers yell at me a lot. I yell back, and get worried that they will beat me up in the parking lot. I eat a lot of Chick-fil-A from the food court. Then I quit before they can fire me.

Part Five: The Marketing Job (a.k.a. I’m Back, Sweet Lover Internet – or – I Did Not Quit Before they Could Fire Me This Time): It is the spring of 2004. I take a job as an “administrative assistant” at a marketing firm. I do not realize until it is too late that I will be sitting at the front desk. Basically, they trick me into being their receptionist. They suck. I discover the “For Better or For Worse” comic strip archive. I shamefully read it in its entirety…twice. I get unceremoniously laid off as soon as the lady I am assisting comes back from maternity leave. They tell me that sales are down and they can’t afford me. I cry in front of all of them and fight off the urge to tell my now-former boss that her baby is ugly.

Part Six: My Current Job (a.k.a. Not So Much With the Details Because I Don’t Want to Get Fired – or – I Have a Mortgage Now): In the fall of 2004, I start working Here, and it is glorious. I discover blogs. Sweet, delicious blogs written by ridiculously funny people, most of whom are listed in my blogroll. I also fall in love with Flickr, Perez Hilton, Go Fug Yourself, and Weather.com, because I am a nerd. I might check For Better or For Worse’s website every morning, but that is probably an ugly rumor started by people who smell. Whatever. Don’t hate. And don’t pretend like you don’t read that shit too.

So, that brings us to Now, when I – Miss Technology – decide to be a trailblazer and start a blog at the crack of 2007. So forward-thinking, this one! It still remains to be seen if I will have the motivation to post regularly…but if past is any indication, I will be making hot, salty love to my girl Internet for years to come.