Category Archives: Quit bitching

So it begins

Here we are in 2009.  As you may or may not remember, this is my very least favorite time of year.  I look at everything, shrug, and think “Meh.  Whatever.”

I am only writing this much because I feel like I need to make some sort of post.  Any post.  Even if it’s just to bitch about having nothing to write about.

There you have it – my first unremarkable post of the new year.  Enjoy.

I like these cold, gray winter days.  Days like these let you savor a bad mood.  ~Bill Watterson


Fumbled Friday

Dear front end folks at the grocery store,

I am really sorry about the mess I made.  I should know better than to try to “help” so early in the morning.  On the upside, who knew a 12 pack of Pepsi One hitting the floor looked so much like fireworks?

Seriously though, the fact that you all did not treat me like the loser I am,  made my day.


Your worst customer today

Dear Wal*hell patrons,

There are a lot of us in the store lately – you know, with the holidays and all.   A little consideration for your fellow shoppers is all I’m asking.   Perhaps moving your cart off to the side while you are looking at the Beer Can Chicken Cooker would be appreciated by most other folks trying to get around you and get to the important stuff – like haircolor.   Which I need to cover the gray casued by jackasses like you.

Merry Christmas!

The One who colors her hair
Dear teller at the bank,

You seriously pissed me off today and you were the start to the rest of my fantastical morning. (See above).

You know me.   You know my account has enough money to cover the check I was trying to cash.   You know I have cashed those types of checks every two weeks for as long as I’ve had an account with you and they HAVE NEVER NOT CLEARED.   Never.   Not once.   Why today did you decide that you would not cash it for me because “it’s not a local check”?   You knew I couldn’t really make a scene at the drive through window, so now I’m going to have to go back down there this afternoon when the lobby is open. After I’ve taken care of the gray which you have contributed to.

The One who is coming back to complain this afternoon
Dear folks at Dunkin Donuts,

You don’t always make me happy.   But today?  You got it just right.   I am thankful for that because then I didn’t have to kill you.   Since you were my last stop, one more issue might have pushed me over the edge and I’m really glad that didn’t happen.   You rock.   For today.

The Medium French Vanilla regular

Like crack, only not

I had to give my date of birth to purchase Ny*quil.

Ny*quil, y’all.

Not even the GOOD Ny*quil.  The stupid reformulated Ny*quil.  And, AND…the stupid capsules, not even the good eleven million percent alcohol liquid version.

Here’s the ingredient list:  1.) Acetaminophen.  I buy Ty*lenol without giving my date of birth. 2.) Dextromethorphan.  Ditto Robi*tussin.  3.)  Doxylamine succinate.  Ok, not the same antihistamine as Ben*adryl…but still, I buy Ben*adryl without my date of birth.

So what exactly is the need for my date of birth?  The D&C yellow No. 10?  The glycerin?  The gelatin?

I’m not exactly sure why this annoys me so much, except that I look around at everything we CAN buy and smoke, or drink, or ingest with no question.  But I want to buy cold medicine and I have to give my date of birth?  And what IS the age limit?  What if, in a few years, I ask one of my kids to run to the drugstore to buy me some Ny*quil and they are not allowed to buy it because they are not 18?  Seriously?

Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys.  ~P.J. O’Rourke (or cold medicine, apparently)

Bad mood

Dear Jackass,

The handicapped spaces at the post office are for HANDICAPPED drivers, or people who are driving handicapped persons.  Their cars are registered with plates or hangtags making it clear who needs those spaces.  Parking in one and staying in the car while your wife walks in to the post office is NOT OK.

If a driver needs that space while you are sitting there in your airconditioned glory listening to NPR, what are they to do?  They can’t exactly get out and ask you to move, now can they?  I know you saw me stop, look at your plate and then look through your windshield to see if I spotted a hangtag – which you know I did not.   Next time I will walk up to the window and knock and tell you it might be nice of you to leave those spots for people who need them, because you know what?  It’s just not right.  And you know it.  I know you realize this because you hung your head when you saw me looking at your car.


The person you pissed off today.


Dear Captain and Diva,

I am really glad I’m going to be seeing you today, but I am dreading it also.  I have to tell you something and I know it is going to make you very, very sad.  I will try to hold it together when I tell you – I have cried every day since last Thursday and now I will let you be in your grief while I try to comfort you. 

I love you both very much,



Dear Postman,

I know you have been very sad yourself, but you turn away or choke it down before I see too much.  No sense both of us being hysterical, right?

Nonetheless, you are a gigantic puss for bailing on me.  Staying home while I pick up the kids is a chickenshit move and you know it.  I’m not telling them in the car.  Going 65 down the highway is not going to be condusive to comforting them in the backseat, now is it?  So I will tell them when we get home before we come in the house and you will probably have to deal with us anyway.

So there, jackass.

I love you more (even though you are not as tough as you’d like everyone to believe),


Do not teach your children never to be angry; teach them how to be angry.  ~Lyman Abbott

19 Minutes

I just started reading Jodi Picoult’s novel, Nineteen Minutes.  It is terrifying.  Not in a Stephen King: ohmygodthereisaclowninthestormdrain kind of terrifying, but rather: oh my god…this could (DID) really happen.

Peter is a boy who has been bullied for his entire school career.  At seventeen years old, he has had enough and goes on a shooting rampage in his high school.  The attack lasts nineteen minutes.  It’s becoming clear that he targets specific people in his spree, having used his yearbook to “mark” them.

I have read maybe four or five of this author’s books, and I do enjoy them – the twists and turns they seem to take.  The first one I read was My Sister’s Keeper and I SO did not see that ending coming.  So I read a few more by her and have a list of “To Read” that includes even more.

But this one book has me thinking more than any other so far.  I think of my own children, crying because a friend was mean to them, or because they have felt bullied.  For the most part, these events are limited and nothing more than “kids being kids”.  But where does that end?  Where does it stop?  When does it turn into real hardcore bullying?

I believe is starts with adults – parents.  Adults have our own form of bullying, a lot of it unspoken.  It revolves around money, material items, status, and privilege.  Here in Podunk, I’ve seen it in action.  Parents converge upon the sports fields with our lawn chairs and blankets.  We form pods near the dugouts or the benches and we chat amongst ourselves while cheering on our kids.  There is a fairly large contingent of SAHMs.  Sometimes a child on the team will be late and in hushed tones I hear “Well, you know, his mother has to work and can’t get him here on time.”  Or a child will act up and again:  “Well, you know, her mother works so she doesn’t get enough attention.”  All it takes is for a sibling or another child to overhear that, accompanied by the tone of disgust, to know that they are above that other child.  How long do you suppose it takes before that child is targeted with comments like “Your mom has to work”,  like it is something to be ashamed of? 

When I first got divorced, and for some time afterward, things were tough financially.  We went to a birthday party at a friend’s house in late fall.  The hostess, a friend of mine from school, was taking our jackets when I saw her oh-so-subtilely glance at the tag inside my daughter’s jacket.  I am sure she was surprised to see the Gap tag.  I was humiliated.  I never admitted that that particular jacket was a hand me down from another friend.  Isn’t that a form of unspoken bullying though?  She HAD to know where I was buying my kids clothes.  Why?  Did that make us better in her eyes if they were wearing clothes from the Gap?  Unfortunately, I believe it did. 

School shopping has been tough for me this year.  My kids want the cool stuff:  Etnies, Nikes, Abercrombie, and Gap.  The stuff isn’t cheap – it’s not like going to Walhell and stocking up on Wranglers and Hanes tees.  And I know they want it all because that’s what everyone wears to “fit in”, to not stand out, to prevent them from being teased – or at least have one less strike against them.  I understand.   I don’t like it, but I understand.  So I will buy the “right” clothes and shoes and supplies for them.  But I will make damn sure they know they are not above anyone else just because I am able to buy those things now.

Food.  Water.  Shelter.  Air.  Sleep.  Societal inflation has expanded need into greed.  Suddenly the basic survival needs also include a cell phone, cable TV, and French manicured fingernails…. We’ve become the absolute biggest whiners of all human history with the absolute smallest justification for whining.  ~Charlie Diekatze