You know what I'm sick of hearing about?

Tiger Woods.

Guess what people...I JUST DON'T CARE that he slept with a bunch of women who weren't his wife.

Not even a tiny bit.

Less than you're thinking even.

And yet here I am talking about it because it's all I hear about on the damn radio.

Let me ask you this: Did Tiger Woods ever sign up to be anything but a really good golfer? Nope. So he cheated on his wife. He can still probably swing a golf club and that's all I expect of him. Whatever else he wants to do in his spare time is really none of my business.

Please tell the media to get it together. There MUST be something else to talk about, right? Anything? Hell, I'd even listen to more TO talk if it means I don't have to listen to everyone act like Tiger Woods has raped and murdered a small child or something.

We'll get back to your regular grumpy holiday blogging tomorrow, today? It's poo time.

I understand that popular notion of waiting until you get to the office to take your morning dump. The toilet is clean (except that you pooped in it yesterday morning and our cleaning people only come on the weekends), you're at work so you're getting paid to relieve yourself of the giant load of crap you're hauling around in your intestines, and there's the added bonus of subjecting your coworkers to the smell of death wafting from your rectum.

What's that you say? You've never contemplated the third one? Ah! Then you obviously don't work in my office.

See, most offices have restrooms for men and restrooms for women and they aren't located, say, in the middle of the space. At my job? We only have one bathroom downstairs and one bathroom upstairs and both of them are within a (two year old's) stone's throw of each and every desk. Which means each and every person. Which mostly means ME. (Obviously.)

Every morning, most of my coworkers choose to wait until they get to work to take their morning poo. I've ranted about this before, but I feel the need to do it again, because I just got knocked in the face with POO SMELL.

Here's the thing, boys. It's disgusting. I don't care who you are, your shit does, in fact, STINK. We also have several different kinds of poopers in the office.

The "I Have a Lot of Gas and I'm Going to Force You to Listen to It, But Then We're All Going to Have to Pretend That Didn't Happen" Pooper: I hate to tell you this, but having to listen to you relieve your bowels every morning is really not inspiring any more respect for your cause here at work. If you feel like it's going to be a gassy one? Please poop at home.

The "I Just Rocked a Big Deuce and I'm Going to Leave the Door Wide Open and Never Bother to Use the Air Freshener so Thoughtfully Provided for Me" Pooper: If I never have to smell your crap again, it will be far too soon. Please subject your wife to this, she took vows. I didn't. That doorway is in direct path to my desk. For the love of all that is orange, please close the door at least a little and feel free to use that fancy little bottle of Febreez (which, actually, now just smells like poop to me anyway...but at least it's slightly prettier poop than whatever roadkill you've been consuming).

The "Close the Door All the Way and Trap the Smell in the Bathroom" Pooper: While I'm generally okay with you trying to be considerate about the smell, all you're doing is making it worse when I realize that I have to pee. Which is inevitably about five minutes after you've expelled the large quantity of meat you ate for dinner last night right into the work toilet we all share.

The "I Work Upstairs, but I Don't Want to Smell my Own Poop While I'm Working" Pooper: Seriously, POOP IN YOUR OWN BATHROOM. I'm already dealing with a lot of poop down here, I don't need you adding to it. If you get the urge, just as you come downstairs? I feel sure that you can hold onto that log until you get back upstairs to your own space. I usually manage to hold mine ALL DAY. Hell, I barely even pee at the office any more if I can help it.

So, this is to you, dear Office Poopers. Please, please, please...KEEP YOUR POOP IN YOUR OWN TOILET. If you're so regular that you can plan your poop for every morning right as you get to work? Please schedule that poop with your intestines just a little bit earlier. You know, when you're at home. I'll talk to the boss about counting that time as work, so you can get paid. It's not like you're doing anything useful in the bathroom for that half hour anyway.

**In case you didn't notice (seriously, what's wrong with you?), I changed the layout on my blog. What do you think?**

Okay, yes, I've talked about this before, but it's my blog and I'm going to talk about it again.

Grocery stores. Grocery stores. GROCERY STORES.

As I'm sure most of you know, this past Thursday was the day of the turkey. Frankly, I'm not a fan of turkey, so Thanksgiving is one of my least favorite holidays.

This year, Princess and I were going to hang out with two of my friends (who just got married) for a grown-up Thanksgiving. They were doing most of the cooking (because they're both really great cooks), but I was told to bring anything that means Thanksgiving to me. So I did.

Unfortunately, this meant a trip to the grocery store. I shudder to think what might have happened had I been there to pick up more than five items.

Here are the items I needed: noodles, Kosher salt, cheese, cream.

This particular grocery store has always made very little sense to me, as is the case with most of the Albertson's in the metroplex. On top of that, they decided that the Thanksgiving holiday would be the best time to rearrange the store.

So there were boxes all over and most of the aisles were mislabeled. My personal favorite: The milk/cream, yogurt, cheese, and eggs? Are all in different locations around the store. The cheese, specifically, isn't even all in one place. Half the cheese is with the produce and the other half? Is in the aisle with lunch meat. That aisle is labeled "frozen foods" and is in the middle of the store. No, I'm not joking.

It probably took an hour to navigate and find the simple things I needed. More than once, some poor (usually male) soul looked up at me when I passed, "Do you know where I can find baking soda (or some such item)?" Sir, I don't even know where you can find the door at this point. (It turned out he really needed baking powder, and that they were completely out of it. Good thing he didn't get baking soda instead, we all know how that goes...)

I have to say, if I never have to go to another Albertson's again? It will be far too soon.

But then I made cheese and spaghetti (my must-have Thanksgiving food) and it was delicious. Princess and I made it to my friends' place, where we feasted on beef tenderloin, au grautin potatoes (for which, you probably would have given up your first-born...I have the recipe, but I don't want your children), cornbread dressing (seriously, we all have our own, and I didn't really like this variety as much as the one my Granddaddy makes), cheese and spaghetti (I can eat my weight in this stuff, seriously), and some really crunchy green beans (which I don't like).

For dessert, my friend out-did herself with a Triple-Chocolate Mousse Cake. TASTY.

And if that had been the end of the day? It would have been a fun and relaxing Thanksgiving.

A metered reaction.

I love downtown Dallas. I really do.

I had never really spent much time downtown, but Princess lives in a schmancy high-rise building (for only another month, SADFACE) (his new apartment is awesome, though, so I'm not complaining), so I've had plenty of opportunity to get my downtown on. And I have.

Here are the things I've discovered:

• Everything closes at like 7:00 pm. And I have no idea why.
  
• There's only one grocery store and I can't even keep a straight face while calling it that.
  
• There's a distinct lack of laid back dive bars.
  
• Walking everywhere you want to go is AWESOME.
  
• Everything is pretty damn close to where you are.
  
• The Walk/Don't Walk signs? Actually work. You don't even have to push the button like everywhere else in the DFW Metroplex. (Seriously, folks. There's just a steady "Don't Walk" hand, if you don't push the little button. In Dallas, we're serious about our cars. Please, dear pedestrians, get off the road. NOW. My personal favorite is when you push the little button, the "Walk" sign flashes up, you step off the curb, and immediately the "Don't Walk" sign is blinking at you. You must be The Flash to cross the street.)
  
• Parking can be really easy if you know where to do it, however...
  
• No one knows how to park at the damn meters.
  

Last night, Princess and I planned to watch the Titans (WOOHOO!! It was a rough start to the season boys, but it's good to see us playing football again. Let's not talk about that Patriots game, mkay?) play the Texans at a bar near his apartment. Usually he just picks me up because he's very concerned that my car will be vandalized and all my stuff will be stolen. You see, his apartment building? Has no guest parking. None. They have a parking garage, with the kookiest layout in the universe, FULL of empty parking spaces, but to get in it, you have to have the little key fob dealimajigger. You also have to have the key fob dealimajigger to get OUT of the parking garage. It's kind of a pain in the ass.

On the occasions when I do drive over to his apartment, we either to the little dance to get me into the parking garage or else I just park at a meter on the street. They're all free after 6:00 pm. The only catch is, they start up again at 7:00 am. It's not so bad really. Just means I might actually be on time for work!

Finding a meter can be tricky. Other people use them, and most of those people don't even remotely understand the concept of parking at a meter. You see...your car? Should not be in the middle of the parking meter itself. A la this:



This way, no one can park at the meter in front of yours, or possibly at the meter behind yours. Because you are taking up all the space. You can see the problem, right? With your single vehicle, you have occupied up to three free parking meters. This is about the time I curse you*.

Last night, I passed about five such vehicles. WTF people? Get it together. I even googled "How to park at a parking meter" to see if I could find a tutorial, and guess what...even google thinks you should know how to do this. So please, get in your car, drive around, note the proper technique, and employ it immediately. Thank you.

*I'm pretty sure in New York or Seattle or Boston or DC, they'd shank you. So consider yourself lucky you only had me to deal with in this scenario.

(Dear Cleveland Browns, please please get it together. You're killing me. And I love you. --Shine.)

Have you ever...

Woken up one morning and realized that maybe you are, in fact, more like your ex-boyfriend than you care to admit?

Because I just did.

I just uttered the words "But I don't want to be dependent on anyone." Fuck me.

That is all.

Is it just me?

So the big hullabaloo on the (sports talk) radio station I listen to this morning was...the Dallas Cowboys cheerleader who dressed as Li'l Wayne for Halloween.

The controversy is this: She's a little white girl with blonde hair. And she dressed up as Li'l Wayne for Halloween. In order to accomplish this, she used dark makeup to darken her skin. BECAUSE SHE WAS TRYING TO BE LI'L WAYNE. Who, ya know, isn't white.

For reference, here's her picture, both as a cheerleader and as Li'l Wayne, and a picture of Li'l Wayne:





Now this poor girl is being labeled as a racist and being disciplined by the Dallas Cowboys cheerleading Nazi, Kelly what's-her-name. For her HALLOWEEN COSTUME.

Look, if she had dressed up as a person of color being hung by a noose from a tree? That's incredibly offensive. But to dress up as a famous rapper? I'd say that's complimentary. Maybe she was being offensive about it at the party she attended, I don't know.

However, not that I'm watching the fourth season of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team, because that would just be silly, Kelly what's-her-name just nearly cut someone on the last episode because she was "looking a little chunky." Which means that normally girls "her size" weigh 112 pounds and she weighs 123. So she really needs to cut that down if she expects to make the squad.

You know what I find offensive? THAT.

It's not a World Series if yours is the only country competing, assholes.

So the Yankees are in the "World" Series. Color me pissed off.

Not that I'm an Angels fan. I'm not. Pretty much anything Disney related can kiss my grits (What? I'm from The South.). Well, except The Little Mermaid and Mary Poppins. Okay okay, there are probably others I like. But still. This whole Disney Vault thing? Blows horse penis. And I think we all know it. (Sorry, family. It's Monday. I'm not in a censorship mood.)

Since my Dodgers couldn't pull one out (TWSS), I'm stuck with a Phillies/Yankees "World" Series. Frankly? I couldn't care less about it.

But let's talk about this for a second. A WORLD Series? Because the United States of We're More Important Than You encompasses the whole world? No. You people kinda make me sick.

I guess it's too late to change it now. Just make a note: I think this is complete jackassery.

In other news, I, too, am a jackass. For an entirely different reason, though, don't worry. And this isn't an interesting story. I'll just warn you now.

At the office, we have this printer, copier, scanner, fax machine thing. We all hate it. For months, it printed all white backgrounds blue. Which is fine, except we print A LOT of maps. So it looked like everything was underwater.

We lease this machine from a company and that company pretty much refuses to give us a different one. So we're stuck with this one.

Well, it's a laser printer, so it uses toner. LOTS of toner. And of course, the excess toner has to be stored somewhere. They give us a little reservoir thing which has holes that correspond to each of the toners. When the reservoir fills up, I have to change it out for a new one. All of this sounds pretty simple, right?

Removing the completely-full-of-excess toner reservoir is where things get a little tricky. See, it has a bunch of holes in the top, for the toner. No problem, right? But when it's full, I have to do something with it. This is usually on a day when I've actually gotten ready for work and/or am wearing something white. Cue disaster.

I pull the reservoir out of the copy machine; carefully trying to put it in the plastic baggy that the new reservoir just vacated (with my help, of course). Inevitably, I spill toner all over myself/the floor/someone else's face whatever. ALWAYS. Then came the day I realized that the little baggy? It has a HOLE IN IT. Oh good!

Last week, I was changing the toner reservoir when I noticed all these little plastic knob looking things taped to the front of the container itself. They are oddly the EXACT size of the little holes in the top. Like so:



Now, I've been doing this toner thing for nearly two years now. And I've never noticed this before. I'm supposed to be using the little plastic things to PLUG THE HOLES (TWSS?) in the toner reservoir before I dispose of it. You know, so I don't get toner all over the damn place.

Hi, my name is Shine, and I'm an idiot.

Who knew a purse could crash a plane?

This weekend, I traveled to Huntsville, Alabama for the wedding of two of my friends. It was beautiful. A bug flew in my eye and caused it to tear up, but I did NOT cry. Of course, I don't want to talk to you about that sappy stuff, though.

Let's talk airlines. As an experiment, I left my cell phone on for the duration of both flights.

The plane did not crash.

Has anyone ever contemplated what would happen if we all just refused to put our seat backs and tray tables in their fully upright and locked positions? If this actually affects the way the plane takes off and lands, someone please let me know.

I'm pretty sure this is all just an elaborate game between flight attendants to see what they can get a flight of people to do next. Or rather, not to do. Because they still have to give their oxygen mask/seat belt demonstration every time and no one has bothered to listen since 1982.

The latest? You can't even hold your purse in your lap while the plane is taking off and landing. So I was sitting on the plane, in the first row, where I couldn't put my purse under the seat in front of me because there was no seat in front of me and I was thinking to myself, "It's cool, self, just hold your purse." Then they told me I couldn't hold my purse. Unfortunately, it's the kind of purse that has no zipper. As you can imagine, I didn't really feel comfy putting it up in the overhead bin so things could fall out of it all over the place.

--You know what they never say any more? They never tell you to be careful opening overhead bins because carry-on items may have shifted in flight. You know why? Because overhead bins are now stuffed like sardines in a can because they've limited what you can bring on the damn plane while simultaneously deciding that the cargo space they already built into the plane for your damn luggage is now prime real estate, for which you must pay. Assholes. In other news, my hair is a frizzy mess without some kind of product in it and they don't make mousse in travel size. So yeah, I looked vaguely like carrot top for the entire weekend. I can only hope there are no pictures. But it was a WEDDING.--

Instead of holding my purse, I held my wallet, phone, two books (I was almost done with one, so I had to have the second to start before the pilot turned off the "Fasten Seat Belts" sign...which he never did), and chapstick. I feel sure that this was better than me just holding my purse. I mean, if I need my hands, I could just sit my singular purse on the floor or whatever and now I'm doing a juggling act, but I kind of wanted to join the circus anyway.

To sum up, fuck you airlines, for making my life as difficult as possible. Also, homeland security? Let's get rid of the pretty color system, shall we? Has the threat even GONE below orange in the last eight years?

Oh, they'll pick you up all right. But then they'll bend you right over that counter without even buying you coffee first.

"Call Enterprise! We'll pick you up!"

Yeah, no. They won't. Well, they might, but it will take three hours.

This weekend, I had a little car trouble. And by little, I mean a lot of car trouble. Like, my car is in the shop and I can't get it out without paying them more money that I have car trouble. Good times.

I was in my car Friday night, driving to girls' night sushi, when I realized that my car didn't really want to accelerate. I mean, it would accelerate, but it clearly didn't want to do it. Which is weird, since acceleration is most of its purpose.

I made it to the sushi place, had a rockin' time with my girls, then we went for some karaoke and I had a date. (Brave soul came out and met me with all of my girlfriends...)

I made it home, but the car still felt really weird. It was 4am, though, so I went to bed and didn't think about it until the next day.

As I was driving to my rock climbing gym, I found that my car wouldn't really go over about 45 MPH. Huh.

Then when I left the climbing gym, it wouldn't go over about 30 MPH. Oh dear.

I knew I was due for an oil change and I was hoping that would solve the problem. No, I'm not stupid enough to think it actually would solve the problem, but a girl can hope, right? Plus, it wasn't making any weird noises, so I couldn't do my usual turn-up-the-radio-and-drown-it-out plan, hoping it would spontaneously go away. Silent but deadly; it has a whole new meaning.

I sat at the oil changin' place for quite some time while they changed the oil, topped of the fluids (TWSS) and inspected my vehicle. I had mentioned my little acceleration problem, hoping they would locate the issue and tell me all about it. My car passed inspection with flying colors and I drove off the lot...once again realizing that I couldn't accelerate. But this time, it wouldn't go over 15 MPH. It seems that passing inspection has nothing to do with the car actually...going. Interesting.

The Move Trading Company parking lot was looming, so I pulled in there and had my car towed to the dealership. Which meant I was without car for the rest of the weekend.

It was too late to rent a car that day, and I was in a hurry because I was supposed to have a date, which I had to move to the bar across the street from my apartment (so I could walk), rather than going to Oktoberfest.

Rental car places are closed on Sundays. Who knew? So I made a reservation and asked that Enterprise pick me up the next morning. The guy on the phone said I had to call them an hour before I wanted to be picked up.

The next morning, Monday, I talked to the people at the dealership and talked to my boss to remind him I would be late. I called Enterprise for a ride and was told that the driver was out picking someone up, but that as soon as he got back, he would be on his way to my place.

Thinking I had a limited amount of time, I hopped in the shower and got ready quickly. Then I settled in to wait. And wait. And wait.

Two hours later, I called the office. No answer. GREAT.

Another hour later I called back. No answer.

Ten minutes later I called again and got the same song and dance about how the driver was out picking someone up and would be on his way as soon as he got back.

"That's what you told me at 8am. I'm really late for work now..."

FINALLY, an hour after that they called to tell me that the driver was on his way. Twenty minutes later they called to tell me he was lost. The office is three miles from my apartment. (I should have walked.)

When the dude finally arrived, I was beyond annoyed and he was trying to tell me what I should have done about my car. I almost killed him.

He walks me into the Enterprise office and asks for my ID and my insurance and all that jazz. (JAZZ HANDS!) I hand him my debit card (I don't like credit cards, so I don't have any) and he said, "Oh, do you have a major credit card?"

I said, "No, I have my debit card."

He said, "Oh, if you're going to use a debit card, we have to charge you a $250 deposit AND we'll need to see two recent utility bills."

Um...what?

I said, "Don't you think it might have been wise to tell me this before I left my apartment? Do you really think I just carry two utility bills around with me at all times in case someone wants to look at them before letting me use my own ACTUAL money from my own ACTUAL bank to pay for something?"

He said, "Adam? Did you not tell her about this on the phone?"

Adam said, "I didn't know she was going to pay with a debit card."

I said, "So this is my fault? You don't think if you had mentioned any of this on the phone, I might have mentioned I was paying with a debit card? You know what? This is fucking ridiculous. Give me my card back, I'm leaving. And if you charge me even ONE CENT, I will be back in here with some words for your manager."

With that, I walked out the door and realized I was stuck, three miles from home, with no car and no way to get to work. Of course, it was noon anyway, so I'd already missed half the day.

Sometime in the middle of all that, the dealership called to tell me that my car needed new coils and spark plugs and the pistons were misfiring so much that they couldn't even tell if this would fix the problem, but that these things had to be replaced for them to even look any farther.

"How much?"

"Ma'am, with labor and everything, that will be $878."

"Fuck."

Here's my thinking at this point. I've already spent money having my car towed there (For which they, of course, accidentally charged me twice, so I have $200 sitting on hold at my bank for three business days. Goody.). They charge $100 to even look at it, which they'd already done. This money comes out of the repair cost, if they repair it. I can't drive the damn thing as it won't accelerate, so I'd have to have it towed somewhere else anyway. Just to likely find out exactly what they just told me and have someone charge me almost the same amount, which, when you add in towing fees and $100 would possibly even be more. So I said, "I don't really see what choice I have. Go ahead and do it."

And please, please, one more person tell me that they're doing too much to my 7-year-old car which has 140,000 miles on it. PLEASE. Guess what? It's a piece of crap, but I have no payment and I don't want one. And sometimes cars need work. Especially when you know nothing about cars and haven't bothered to do anything you're supposed to except change the oil. SHIT HAPPENS.

Every single time someone not at the dealership has tried to work on my car, from individuals to other auto shops and such, it has been a SHITSTORM OF FAIL. I don't know why. Also, the dealership people work fast and I know where they are and they're unlikely to be gone next time I need something.

Ahem. Can you tell I've been dealing with this for three days straight now?

I had a little bit of a breakdown when I walked out of the Enterprise place. So I called my mother. Which I was trying damn hard not to have to do. I'm almost 30, for cryin' out loud. However, at this point, I was stuck and trapped and they have an extra car.

I walked home and my Aunt Dana (who's been working on cars since she was old enough to walk) came to pick me up. We went to the dealership and evaluated the situation. As it turned out, the car needed several other things, including a new timing belt (which should have been replaced at 100,000 miles) and a coolant flush because the asshats at the oil changin' place had put the wrong coolant in and now they were all mixed in there and my car is old, yo. Dana said that the car gods had clearly been smiling on me and she thought that the work they suggested was warranted if I wanted to continue to drive the car.

SEE? I didn't just go with whatever they said. I'm not a complete idiot. (Even if someone did happen to call me one for being an atheist...on our first date. Wanna guess if we had a second one?)

At this point, making it to work was out of the question, so I went up to my mom's to work there and pick up my sweet ride. For the next two days, I am the proud driver of this:







Oh baby. HOT. It has the same size steering wheel as a racecar bed, I think. Maybe smaller. And it's ELECTRIC blue; inside and out. And doesn't the exhaust pipe look a little...phallic? Oh yeah.

Aunt Dana and I also saw this gem on our way to my parents house from the dealership:





The first thing Dana said? "That's a Pops move, right there."

My Pops (her dad, my granddad) is the master of all things bungee cord or rubber band or duct tape or...bubble gum. He tried to fix a gas leak in my mom's car with bubble gum when I was a baby. Bubble gum. Just in case you're thinking maybe that's pretty clever...it's not. Gasoline takes all the sticky out of gum in about five seconds flat. But he's cute. And he's the only person I've ever known who actually drives just as well asleep as awake.

Failure to use a turn signal when you're not changing lanes may result in the acquisition of a ticket.

Monday night, I was driving home from dinner with my mom, talking to Cheese on the phone. I was in the far left lane on the highway because that's how I do. Also, my exit is a left exit. I like to be prepared. There was a car beside me in the next lane over.

All of a sudden, in my rear view mirror, I see a speeding car come riding up on my ass. It's a cop. I check my speed to make sure I'm not going 85 mph. Sometimes this happens when you're not looking, ya know? I was going about 65 mph, though. No problem.

Mr. Policeman Asshole was seriously on the edge of my bumper. I couldn't even see his headlights. We proceeded in this fashion for about five miles. At which point, his lights flash on and he slows down.

Ummm....WTF?

To Cheese: "Uh, I think I'm getting pulled over. But I wasn't even speeding! I have to go."

I hang up the phone and start pulling over to the right. Once I get there, I put my car in park and turn on my hazard lights. Of course, I'm BLINDED by the policeman asshole car spotlight. I HATE those things.

The policeman asshole comes up to my window.

PA: "Is this your car?"

Me: "Um." (FREAKING OUT. Has someone reported my car stolen or something?!?) "Yeah."

PA: "License and insurance."

I got out my wallet and handed him my driver's license. His response? To bark "INSURANCE" at me, like I'm some kind of idiot.

I said, "I'm getting it. Just give me a second to find it."

Of course, I can't find it. It must have fallen out of my wallet. And I can't really reach or see into my glove compartment well enough to tell if I have the current one in there. And no, I wasn't about to take off my seat belt to look. I don't really need a seat belt ticket on top of whatever the hell ticket I was about to get.

Oh, it happens like that. I was in the car with a friend who got a ticket for not wearing his seat belt when he had only taken it off to get stuff out of his glove compartment.

Me: "I can't seem to find the piece of paper, but can I show you my insurance card in my email? I have it on my phone."

PA: "You can do that?"

Me: "Yeah."

PA: "Well, that's pretty cool. I'll be back with your license in a minute."

I should mention here that I had to piss like a racehorse. I drank three glasses of tea AND a cup of coffee at dinner with my mom. I knew I had to pee when I left the restaurant, but I figured it was only about a half hour home, and I could make it. I had already told Cheese 10 times that I had to pee so bad it was about to come out of my mouth.

Mr. Policeman Asshole took my license, went back to the squad car, and (I'm guessing) talked about sports, boobs, and donuts with his partner for the next 15 minutes. My bladder was aching. Aching.

When he finally came back to my car, I showed him my insurance card on my phone, and he said, "Well, ma'am. I'm going to have to give you a ticket for failure to use your turn signal when changing lanes."

Me: "Uh, when did I change lanes?"

PA: "Back there. Now, that's a really dangerous thing to do. People are always getting messed up in this area because they don't signal lane changes. This is for your safety, ma'am."

But.

I DIDN'T CHANGE LANES. At least, I hadn't for the five miles he was behind me. HE WAS BEHIND ME.

What can I do, though? I took the ticket, he told me to be careful, and I drove away.

I called Cheese back and said, "Guess what the fuck I just got a ticket for doing?"

Cheese said, "Not using your turn signal."

Me: "Are you...here? How did you know that?"

Apparently, "that's how they get ya." Because there's no way, really, for me to prove that I didn't change lanes or that I did use my signal or whatever.

So thank you, Mr. Policeman Asshole Dallas Constable Dickhead. I appreciate the life lesson, but maybe next time you could let me break the rules before punishing me. I don't care about your quota. May your wife's vagina shrivel up and seal shut so you never get laid again. May you lose your penis in a tragic donut-hole-cutting incident. Also, STOP SPEEDING AND TAILGATING, douche. And I didn't see you signal when you changed lanes either. Prick.

At least I managed to not pee myself in the car while I was waiting. Just barely.

If you look closely, you can see a real cougar in the wild...only she's wearing leopard print.

The Willis and I went out for drinks last night. At our second stop, we ran into...Motorboater! AND HIS MOM!



If you look carefully, you can see Motorboater's mom over The Willis's shoulder. Yes, she sat down right behind us.

Motorboater didn't speak to me for the entire night. Not even when he decided to hang out with him mom (Who was hitting on some guy wearing a top hat. Yes. A TOP HAT.) right next to us. Which was fine with me, really. But kind of awkward.

The Willis and I left around 1:00 am. When we got in the car, I heard my phone signal that I had received a text message.

"Oh that better not be from Motorboater."

But it was. Of course.

Text #1: "Wow, thought I recognized you but wasn't sure as I hadn't seen you in a while (Note: I look exactly the same. It's been less than two months.). You look great. Fantastic. Didn't mean to me rude."

Response #1: "It's cool. I just figured you weren't speaking to me."

Now, I realize I probably should have just said nothing. But he was being sort of nice and I didn't want to be an asshole. Especially because we kind of tend to end up in the same places a lot, and I'd rather it not be awkward every time.

Text #2: "No, I realized from the girl after you I have some issues I need to deal with. I was prob a bit over the top in being mad at you. I am sorry."

Response #2: "It's no biggie. I'm not sweatin' it."

Honestly, what else am I supposed to say here?

Text #3: "Word. But I was still a jack ass (I'm not editing). But from our convos you expected nothing but."

First of all, you don't remember what I look like, but you remember our conversations? I doubt both of those are true. Second of all, I pretty much called him a jackass the entire time we were "dating."

Response #3: (At this point, I'm a little irritated that we have to continue this coversation) "I did actually try to tell you you were a jackass. You just weren't interested in listening."

I don't feel like I'm doing anything to encourage a continued conversation.

Text #4: "I was angry. Not an excuse but there are some things I need to get straight before I can deal with anyone else. I take small things very personally right now. Not sure how to get over that but at least know where it stems from and that is a start."

Response #4: "Like I said. No skin off my back. I'm good."

Read: I'm not a therapist, but maybe you should get one. Also, there's really no need to explain that you're a jackass, since I've known that for years.

Text #5: "That attitude was part of my prob. Needed somebody that gave a shit."

So okay, fuck you. Now I'm really annoyed. AND IT'S 1:00 IN THE MORNING. WTF?

Response #5: "I told you from second one that I wasn't interested in anything serious. It's not that I don't give a shit, but I barely know you. And I'm not really interested in taking on anyone else's shit right now and you have a lot of it. All I'm trying to say is that I didn't take your anger personally. If you want to make it personal, that's a different story."

Cheese and rice people. What the hell?

Text #6: "Sorry, anger slipped for a moment. All I wanted to do was say that you look great. I can tell that you stuck with working out and it shows. C'mon, I wasn't even sure it was you!"

What I wanted to say here: "And I can tell that your genius 'walk up and down the stairs' plan hasn't really panned out at all. Also, I looked good two months ago and I look exactly the same now. Feel free to grow up. Fuck you."

Response #6: "Thanks."

Lesson learned. Just don't bother to respond to text messages, even if they seem reasonable and nice on the surface.

Dear Men,

Please have less vagina. Be less dramatic. STOP BOTHERING ME WITH YOUR FEELINGS AND CRAP.

I don't care.

This does not mean that I don't care about anything. It means that I don't care about you. You who I barely know. You who I went out with a few times. You who didn't really do anything for me. You, holding on to all your anger and crap. You who felt the need to text me and be all fucking dramatic at 1:00 am. You who expected me to be all broken up that you were angry with me when I didn't want to go out again.

I. Do. Not. CARE.

Because you're not worth caring about.

But do NOT make that about me. If you were worth it, I would care.

Also, don't tell me you're a jackass and get mad when I agree. You're a jackass.

I am done. Save your drama for your mama.

TMI Thursday (not really) - My vacation hated me. Or at least the travel parts did.

Okay, so I know it's TMI Thursday, and I should be writing a gross or hilarious story to entertain you. But I'm not gonna. Today, you get to hear the story all about how my life got flipped turned upside down...oh wait, that's the Fresh Prince theme song.

You get to hear about my vacation. Or at least the travel portions of it. It was almost as eventful as my trip to Tennessee. But with less funny stuff and more almost crying. Mostly, it's just that I'm a dumbass. So you already know that:

1. I made my flight arrangements with the AM/PM screw up.
2. I managed to get food poisoning or some kind of bug two days before my trip.
3. The same day I was puking my guts up, all my sleeping arrangements fell through and I had to scramble around to get a hotel in Seattle. By the way, nothing is cheap in Seattle.

What you may or may not know is that on Saturday, after I went to work at my mom's, I was finishing up my packing. I went down to my car to get something and I...fell down the stairs and twisted my ankle. Not a sprain or anything, but still.

So I wrapped it up and kept on truckin'. (That's what she said! At least in my head, somehow.)

My friend Leslie took me to the airport and dropped me off. I decided to check my bag because when I'm traveling for nine days, I really don't want to have to worry about my liquid situation. Plus, I totally hate going through security anyway. The whole thing is getting a little out of hand.

When I checked in at the gate, the woman said, "Well, you got the last seat on the plane!"

Um, hi, excuse me. I bought my ticket on this plane weeks ago and you're telling me that I JUST NOW got a seat?!? Buying a ticket now means the same thing as thinking about buying a ticket, apparently. Let this be a lesson to all you smug bitches who think you've got a seat on the plane. YOU DON'T.

After all that, I figured I deserved a beer. I walked over to the bar and ordered a tall one. The bartender asked the usual questions, so I told him my story. And he totally gave me free beer! The woman next to me said I had "great style" (ahem, in my $15 Target dress, thank you). Things were looking up.

The plane to Denver took off and landed without a hitch, and my friend Bones was there to greet me at the airport. We decided to just stay and hang out in Denver with Joanna and Tony. Everyone had a good time, and on Monday afternoon, Bones dropped me off at the American terminal at the Denver airport for my flight.

Only my flight wasn't on American. Instead, this leg of my trip was on Alaska Air, something I totally didn't realize. So, off I went, across the entire terminal to find Alaska Air. Not that I don't enjoy a good scenic tour of the airport, of course. And this fit perfectly in with most of the other things that had happened on my vacation.

I got to Seattle and my friend Brian picked me up from the airport. We hadn't seen each other in five years, so there was much hugging and excitement. Seattle was wonderful and I promise to tell you more about it at a later date. This story, however, is all about travel hell. For this purpose, I'm going to skip to the end of my vacation.

My flight was at 11:30 pm on Sunday night, which put me back in Dallas Monday morning at 5:00 am. My friend Patrick (Don't blame me if you click that link and don't understand anything on his blog. I don't either.) actually agreed to pick me up. When I got to the airport in Seattle, however (after a day of drinking and hanging out by the pool), I found that my flight had been delayed for an hour. I called Patrick to let him know, and Brian hung out with me for a little while.

My flight was set to board at 11:50 pm, and take off at 12:30 am. They loaded us on the plane around midnight. But the plane went nowhere. At 1:30 am, the pilot's voice sounded in the cabin, "We're sorry folks, but we've decided to screw you all over. This plane is broken and it's not going anywhere. Please file off the plane and line up at the gate to change your travel arrangements."

Okay, so that's not exactly what he said, but it's the general gist of it.

Lucky for me, I was sitting in row 12. Which meant there were only about 40 people in front of me in line. At no point did they bother to call in extra American Airlines employees to help sort out their mess. I suspect that there are some people who are still standing in that line.

I thought maybe I would be sneaky and call to change my flight arrangements while I was in line. My phone had very little battery, but I whipped it out and dialed American Airlines.

First of all, technically, my flight had left the day before. So the system thought I was trying to make flight arrangements for the following year. Yeah, that's not annoying. Once I finally got a person on the phone, she said, "Well, ma'am, I can't really help you. They're not showing that flight as canceled in this system, so I can't change your reservations."

I said, "Okay, let's say I missed my flight."

She said, "Ma'am. As far as I know, you're on that plane. I can't do anything to help you."

Seriously?

So I gave up and hung up the phone. What else could I do?

A few minutes later, the women from the gate (who's supposed to be helping people change their flight arrangements) comes by to hand out the number for American Airlines, so we could all call and settle things. I let her know that they wouldn't help anyone until she pushed the little button for "Cancel This Flight."

She didn't seem to think this was terribly helpful.

I waited in line for almost two and a half hours before I got to the counter. And I was in ROW 12. At one point, someone got on the speaker and said, "We've rescheduled this flight for noon tomorrow (when really they meant the same day, as it was 3:00 am), but there will be limited seating for those of you in line." Really? Who the fuck else have you put on this flight? Shouldn't the people you just screwed over at least get the first chance at the seats on the new flight? No?

The soonest I could get to Dallas was 2:45 pm. My new flight was scheduled to leave at 6:00 am, with a layover in LA. I was so happy to have a flight, I didn't really ask any questions. And she never mentioned my luggage, which I had checked to be on this flight. She didn't even tell me what airline I was flying (Alaska Air...again). The thing about American is, even if you're flying a different airline, they don't really tell you. Nor do they give you the real flight number. You get the American Airlines version of the flight number, which has little to do with the actual flight number on the actual airline. And then you want to jam a pen in your eyeball.

I finally figured out the airline situation and decided that my best course of action was probably to go find my luggage and make sure it got on my new flight. So I went down to baggage claim, found my bag, went back up to the ticket counters. Alaska Air is, of course, on the opposite side of the airport. I had to pay to check my bag (AGAIN. I had just paid to check it on the American flight), which pissed me right off. Then I had to go through security again because they don't really care if you've been inside the airport all night and just had to come out of the secure area to get your bag because your airline is so jacked up that they canceled your red-eye flight and you just want to get back in there so you can possibly take a nap with the homeless dudes sleeping all over the airport. And then you want to jam a pen in your eyeball.

I made it to the gate, tried to fall asleep, didn't fall asleep, got on the plane and took off for Seattle. I had a middle seat, making it nearly impossible to sleep on the plane. I'm going to just make a new rule here. If it's a two hour flight, YOU CAN HOLD IT. Stop climbing over me to pee. Go before you get on the plane, and then sit there quietly for the duration of the flight. You're a grown-up. You do NOT have to pee every hour.

What? Everyone else is allowed to make rules, but I'm not?

Anyway, I get into LAX to discover...LAX is like the shithole airport of the planet. I don't know where anything is and there's no one to really tell me. I can only seem to find four other gates, but none of the televisions have things on them that are useful to me. I have no idea where I need to be, I only have an hour to get there, and my phone is almost dead.

I decided that getting to my next flight was totally worth killing the rest of the battery in my phone, so I looked my flight up online. It said I needed to be in Terminal 4. Great. Now where the hell is Terminal 4?

I found a little place for a "shuttle." I think bus would probably have been a more appropriate word, but whatever. I had to take two, TWO buses on the tarmac, WHERE THE PLANES FLY to get to my terminal.

This is when I discovered that it's not possible to get anywhere in LAX in under an hour. The good news (depending on your perspective) was that my flight to Dallas had been delayed for two hours. Not exactly comforting, since my last delayed flight was canceled.

After I made it to the proper terminal and even the proper gate, I realized I still needed to check in to get my boarding pass. BUT WHAT IF I DON'T HAVE A SEAT? There are 25 people in line in front of me and at this point, I was almost in tears. I had been awake for over 24 hours and hadn't had any food since the previous day around 4:00 pm.

It turned out that I did have a seat. And the plane did take off. So a mere 16 hours after I arrived at the airport in Seattle, my flight landed in Dallas. By the way, this was also only about 15 minutes sooner than I would have landed had I just stayed in Seattle and taken the rescheduled flight. Awesome.

I had already decided that there was no way my luggage had made the trip with me, but it rolled off the carousel. I thought I was home free.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

On the way to my place, having stopped to get some food and feeling much better about life, I stuck my hand in my purse to retrieve my keys. But there were no keys to be found. In a flash, I remembered using my bottle opener earlier in the day and tossing my keys on top of my bag. They must have fallen into the couch or something.

My apartment complex does not consider being locked out an emergency and the tears of frustration and exhaustion were threatening to fall. I won't bore you with the rest of the story, but I will say that there was a locksmith involved (and the stupidest man I've ever met in my life) before I finally found my keys in the bottom of my suitcase. WHERE THEY HAD BEEN THE WHOLE TIME.

Asshole keys.

Please feel free to share your traveling horror stories to make me feel better.

If this is really a thing now, someone please just put me out of my misery.

I was really craving a soda this afternoon, so I hopped in my car and drove over to McDonald's.

While I was sitting in the drive-thru, waiting, I saw something I'll admit that I've never seen before. Good thing I had my camera ready, eh?



Okay, I lied. I couldn't get my phone out fast enough. So I used MS Paint to recreate the masterpiece for your viewing pleasure. Since I'm a terrible artist, I'll explain:

This girl coming out of the McDonald's was wearing a shower cap just perched on top of her head. A SHOWER CAP*.

And not even over her curlers. Just sitting there. On her head. Like Little Miss Muffet. At least, that's where I went with it. She was like a poor man's Little Miss Muffet. I think she was on her way to sit on her tuffet. What the hell's a tuffet?

Please tell me I'm not going to have to start wearing a shower cap perched on top of my head to fit in with the cool kids.

*Author's note: The shower cap was indeed bright blue. Why?

It's a sad day...

Steve McNair, former quarterback for the Tennessee Titans was shot and killed on Saturday evening in downtown Nashville.

As I am a Titans fan, and a Steve McNair fan, I am sad about the loss.

Click here for the few details that are available.

Is it just me, or does it seem to be in fashion to be dead? That "if everyone else jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?" question kind of seems to make more sense now, doesn't it?

I would like a break from death, please.

Toilet Paper, Punctuation, Then and Than, and Why Things are Always Better MY WAY.

I'm pretty laid back. Generally speaking, I care too little about most things to get all worked up. Oh wait. I just defined "laid back."

There are a couple of things, though, that really just must be my way.

1. If the toilet paper runs out while you're using it? REPLACE IT. I really don't need pee dripping down my leg while I look for another roll. At work.

Contrary to popular belief, there is only one correct way for the toilet paper to be placed on the holder (which, you understand, doesn't involve sitting it on the back of the toilet). The roll must roll over the top. I don't want to spend precious seconds of my time chasing the end of the toilet paper down. I just don't. Then people will think I'm taking a morning poo. And I'm a lady (I use this term loosely. Like my hips).

2. I like to match up the silverware in the little cups in the dishwasher. With the used end up. That means big forks go with big forks, little forks with little forks, etc. It's just easier to unload that way.

3. Please learn about this crazy thing we call "punctuation." It's not just for English majors.

4. The words then and than are not interchangeable. Then is about time (And then he wanted to put ice cream on my toes!). Than is about comparison (My ass is so much better than Susan's face). I promise you can figure this out.

5. Apostrophes: They don't make things plural.

Just follow these simple rules and we'll get along just fine.

My way is probably better than yours anyway.

It's Friday, we should break up - The State of California and Every Social Conservative in Existence

Kim, over at repliderium.com writes a regular letter to a random asshole. She calls it "Dear Asshole." Which I think is pretty awesome. This week, she wrote a "Dear Asshole" letter to the California Supreme Court. Short, sweet, and to the point.

My comment was (longer than her actual post, yes I tend to do that) this:

But they let the marriages that were performed stand, too. Which makes no sense.

Wait, let me start over. Seriously, people, wtf? This is not okay. No one should get married, I’ll grant you, but if you’re going to let some people get married, you have to let all people get married. I understand not approving marriage between people and goats, even though some people truly do love goats. But allowing gay people to marry does not mean that next week people will be marrying goats. Even though they don’t talk back and I hear they’re very gentle lovers. One does not lead to the other. Nor does any of the other crap you’re so afraid of make any fucking sense. Please follow your Bible’s rules and stone me for eating shrimp, if that’s how it has to be.

But having said that, how does it make sense to say, “Yeah, this isn’t okay, I supreme courtly rule that you don’t have the right to be married. But…well, it’s okay for this small percentage of the gay population who got in under the wire”? Way to create strife in an otherwise, fairly united community. Assholes.

Can someone please please explain to me the fear people feel about this? I just don't get it. At all.

So I'm breaking up with you, California. Even if your beaches and your people are pretty.

And to all you social conservatives out there - watch out. Pretty soon, we'll all be coming after you. Just wait until we strip away your rights. Oh wait...you kinda like that, don't you? That explains the eight freaking years of George W. Bush. Maybe we'll force all of you to be in a relationship with a goat. I see a YouTube video in the making...

Everywhere I turn...

There are more stupid people.

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store for some cleaning supplies (because we still have no cleaning service at work...ugh). You may have already read my original rant about grocery shopping. If not, it's long, but I find it entertaining.

I decided to stop and get a sandwich in the deli while I was at the store. Stupidity ensued:

Me: I'd like a pastrami panini with cheddar cheese, please.
Deli Lady: Okay, ma'am, I'll get that right out for you, ma'am.
Me: (Internally) Ouch. Two ma'ams in one sentence.
Deli Lady: That comes with spicy mustard. Is that okay with you, ma'am?
Me: (Ouch) Actually, could I have ranch dressing instead?
DL: Yes, ma'am. That's no problem at all ma'am. Would you like to pay $1.50 more for chips and a drink today, ma'am?
Me: Sure.
DL: This sandwich look so good. Will you be needin' some dessert today, ma'am?
Me: No thanks.
DL: We got some good pastries now, before you just say no, why don't you go over and have a looksee, ma'am.
Me: No thanks. I don't want dessert.
DL: You say you wanted what on this sandwich?
Me: Pastrami, cheddar cheese, ranch dressing.
DL: What kinda cheese?
Me: Cheddar.
DL: And would you like to pay $1.50 more for chips and a drink with your sandwich today, ma'am?
Me: (Ugh) Sure. That sounds great.
DL: And you'll be wantin' some dessert. Go on over there and pick you out a nice pastry.
Me: No thanks, I don't need dessert.
DL: Now we got some good desserts. You need to take a look before you say no.
Me: But I don't need to look because I don't want dessert.

At that point, she started to put the ranch dressing on the bread (what she's been doing up to this point can only be described as nothing). I guess the bottle was almost empty because when she squeezed it, it gave that smoker's cough sound like squeeze bottles do when they're almost out of stuff.

She gave it an almighty shake and a giant mound of ranch goo plopped down on my sandwich.

DL: Well, now, let me go get a fresh bottle. That one didn't hardly have nothin' in it.
Me: That's more than enough for me. Thanks.

She didn't spread it around or anything. She just left it as a big blob in the middle of the bread. And proceeded to put the pastrami on top. The pastrami to ranch ratio was about 1:300. I'm not sure about units, but you get the idea.

DL: Now, do you want to pay $1.50 extra for chips and a drink today?
Me: Sure, that sounds great.

At this point, I feel like my 88-year-old dead great-grandmother has come back to life and I'm sitting on the couch with her that day in December when she thought it was June and she told me 37 times in as many minutes, "My, this is awfully strange weather we're having for June."

DL: And will you be wantin' an ambrosia salad for your dessert?
Me: (I don't even know what fucking ambrosia salad is, but as I've already told you at least three times that I don't want any variety of dessert, what do you think the answer is? Bitch.) No, thanks. I don't need any dessert.
DL: No dessert? Well, all right, if I can't convince you. Did you want to pay $1.50 extra for chips and a drink?
Me: (Goddamn insane fucking grocery deli woman, FUCKING YES I WANT TO PAY $1.50 EXTRA FOR CHIPS AND A DRINK. At this point I would pay $5.00 extra if you'd just stop asking me.) Yes, that would be wonderful.

I picked out my chips and went to stand by the register, as my ranch-o-riffic sandwich was on the pannini grill thingy. The deli lady was still talking incessantly about who knows what.

DL: Well, now, let's go ahead and ring you up, ma'am. That sandwich will be ready in just a few minutes.
Me: Okay.

I put my chips on the counter and she looked at me, blankly.

DL: Now, did you want chips and a drink? Lord, child, why didn't you say so? That's just fine now, just fine. Let me just go ring that up.
Me: (red face, smoke coming out of ears, about to explode into a cussing mess) Okay.
DL: And can I get you some dessert? We have a lot of tasty pastries in our bakery.
Me: (actually holding hands behind back so as not to punch the bitch) No, I think I'm okay without dessert today.
DL: Okay, here's your cup. Now, let me tell you about this soda fountain, ma'am. Them lids, they on the bottom. But the straws? They on the top. You just come get me if you have any trouble.
Me: Thanks.

Finally I got my sandwich and started running for the door. Literally. I just wanted to get out of the store before my head exploded. And that's when I realized that I forgot to get any of the cleaning supplies.

I trudged back in and gathered them up, only to discover that they have two lanes open and each one has about five people in it. Murder. Rage. Death. The lady who bagged my groceries asked me three times if I needed help carrying my purchases out. I only bought four items. She only has four teeth. I win.

A Shot in the Dark

A while back I had one of the more bizarre experiences of my life. Possibly the most bizarre, even. Some of my friends play intramural soccer, and it was the night of their last game. I met them at a bar for some drinks afterward. This bar has horrible parking, so I parked my car in the parking lot of a nearby Kinko's.

I had a couple of beers with the guys, and then had to meet some other friends. As I reached my car, a sedan pulled up next to me. The man driving had his window down. At this point, I had my car door open, and I was about to sit down. The conversation that follows is not embellished.

Him: "Can I ask you for directions?

Me: "Sure."

Him: "Can you tell me how to get to The Blah Blah Bar." (Sorry, I don't remember the name.)

Me: "I've never heard of that one. I have no idea where it is."

Him: "Can I compliment you on two things?"

Me: "Um, I guess, but I really have to go."

Him: "Are you Irish?"

Me: "No."

You can see where this is going, I'm sure, so I'll skip ahead and let you know that my hair is not naturally red. I know, I know. Now you're all disappointed. But that's the truth, and I am a truth-teller. Typically. At this point, I'm fairly amused with this fellow. Fast-forward about 30 more seconds in the conversation.

Him: "So I saw you walking to your car in your cute little skirt with your cute little walk, and I had to stop and ask you something."

Me: "For directions?"

Him: "No. I had to ask if there was someone waiting at home for you. Waiting for you to come home in your cute little skirt with your little white thong, so he can pleasure you all night."

Me: "Uuhhh…yeah, I gotta run. Lovely to meet you." Yeah, right. Perv. And I'm not wearing a white thong, but that's neither here nor there, I suppose.

Him: "Can I just ask you one question?"

Me: "You've actually already asked me several questions, and I really have to go."

Now, I know what you're thinking. Why didn't I just leave? And I should have. Half of me was pretty horrified, but the other half of me was so amused.

Him: "Is your lover well-hung? I know girls with your body type like a man with a big cock because it fits better. I'm guessing he's about 10 or 11 inches."

Me: Speechless. What?

So at this point, I was more worried about my safety than I was amused. So I reached forward to grab the door handle to close my door. As I leaned forward, I could see into this pervy man's car. Yeah, he's not wearing any pants. No pants. And his right arm is moving back and forth in fast motion. Holy crap. I don't want to be too graphic about all this, but…holy crap. He could have squirted me in the eye. Do they have pregnancy tests for that?

Today's blog is brought to you by the letter "D"...

And the word "Douchebag."

Have you ever gotten back in touch with someone you haven't talked to in over a decade?

With the social networking options on the internets these days, I'm sure you have. The question is, what was that experience like?

I've changed a lot in the last ten years. I would expect that most people would between the ages of 19 and 29. Those are some serious transition years. And yet...some people don't.

I've received communication from some people from my past lately. They don't seem to have changed a bit. And really. They should have.

Things that may have been amusing to my naive, self-conscious 20-year-old self aren't even remotely laughable to my 29-year-old self. I don't enjoy being called a "skank" for no reason at all. And using a myspace message to let me know that you'll gladly be my "rebound lay" is about as enticing as swimming in a tank of hungry sharks with an open wound in my leg.

Are there women out there who find this pleasant? Does this ever actually work for you? I find this approach similar to the construction workers who whistle and cat-call at women from their trucks. If it hasn't worked yet, try something else.

Mostly, I'm starting to think that "douchebag" is the only variety of man still left in existence. If you can't speak to me like a grown-up, I have very little use in conversing with you. Period. And your brand of humor is clearly lost on me.

I think the problem is that these guys still all hang out together. Just like they did in college or high school or whenever it is that they met. Some of them have managed to get married (though how these women deal with them is beyond me), but as far as I can tell, they're all the same. I would imagine that at home with the wife, each man's behavior changes significantly, but as a group they are as obnoxious and rude and disrespectful as they always were.

I went to a Halloween party with a whole group of them last year. It was the least fun I've ever had at a party. One of them kept going on and on (in front of the dude I was actually dating) about how he was so proud of himself for not fucking me back in the day when we knew each other, while all his friends were egging him on. Uh, no. You had no chance. Ever. At all. You smell and you're an asshole and I don't find you even the slightest bit attractive. You're lucky I didn't tell your wife about this little conversation.

Then someone else came in the bathroom as I was trying to get out and shoved his tongue down my throat and his hand up my shorts with the words, "Don't tell my wife." Gross. It was all I could do to not knee him in the crotch. I left immediately. And I have no urge to see or talk to any of those people again.

And the kicker? After the party, I got a myspace message from the guy who thought he ever had a chance with me that said, "Next time you come hang out with us, don't bring your boyfriend." Ugh. Fuck you.

I'm sure you're thinking that I'm just an uptight bitch and I should get over it. Maybe so. But maybe these men should grow the fuck up and learn to treat women with any kind of respect. I feel sorry for all their wives and all their children and really any decent human being who has to come in contact with them.