Old Bitches Want PLEASANT TV: a (Partial) Tale of Two Grandmas

 I’ve turned into my grandma. But mot the sweet one I was named after. No, I’ve turned into the grandma I actually take after. Solitaire-playing scowly owl-faced big-ass gunny-sack-tits-under-her-housecoat grandma.

The grandma I was named after decorated cakes, played piano for schoolchildren, and fried chicken at midnight for friends in need of borrowing Grandpa’s tools. I’ve got her middle name, but I inherited my actual bitch personality from the other grandma, the one who chain-smoked and went fishing (and drinking) alone, catching big fish and being pulled over waterfalls … reeling them in without her cigarette even getting wet.

But that was before I knew her. She’d aged out of fishing and drinking by the time I knew her. Playing cards in her old-lady apartment, collecting adorable knick-knacks my daddy bought her: birds, kitty-cat, Hummel figurines …. detailed little treasures I wish I could picture more clearly now.

This grouchy loner grandma I took after had tastes that didn’t line up with her bitchy personality; sure she read thick bestselling historical fiction by James Michener, but she also devoured romance novels. Thin cranked-out sexless “Harlequin Presents” titles. Her crackly voice sounded the most joyful (and least bitchy) when she called daddy by his little boy nickname … and somehow managed to make it sound like a guilt trip for him at the same time.

My sweet grandma I was named after got her silver-white hair set in bubbly rolls and wore housecoats that were soft cozy pink velour with embroidered pastel flowers appliquéd above her breasts. But the grandma I take after had peppered pewter hair chopped off mid-neck, sticking straight out like a greasy bird’s tail feathers. The drab powder-blue fabric of her housecoats was thin, like cheap sheets with skeletal white flowers reverse-tattooed by some cold kind of soldering iron freeze-burning all the blue out of the cloth leaving behind decorations of white scars serving as chalky ribbons denoting time served as a matron: the chest candy of an old woman.

I’ve turned into this grandma I remember barking at me in the care center where she went to slowly die of lung cancer, complaining about how there wasn’t anything good to watch on TV. When I suggested a riveting program to her, she acted like I’d suggested flaying her flakey skin with pus-coated razor blades for fun. “WHY IN THE HELL WOULD I WANT TO WATCH THAT DEPRESSING SHIT?!? CAN’T THEY MAKE ANYTHING ***NICE*** ANYMORE?!? EVERYTHING HAS TO BE SO VIOLENT!!!”

This from the same woman my dad and his twin sister would recall yanking Daddy out of bed as a child in the middle of the night just to beat him. When they asked her WHY she said just because she felt like it.

Fortunately I do not have any kids to test my worst genetic tendencies. What I do have though is a growing resentment of alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll the super-dramatic crisis-riddled conflict-heavy tears-to-the-eyes hyper-realistic “binge-worthy” “entertainment” we have to choose from. I’m so fucking sick of it, and how hard it is to just find something PLEASANT to watch. I want to relax, not be sucked into the tortured lives of imaginary characters just SUFFERING and being threatened and enduring frightening soul-sucking depressing PROBLEM after ATTACK after LOSS after INJURY after NAIL-BITING CONFRONTATION in ULTRA HD 4K SUPERMAX DETAIL. I don’t want to be on the edge of my seat. I want to watch something funny with someone familiar who wants me to have sweet dreams, not nightmares.

I am not one who appreciates the segregation of people from different age groups, but this desire for “pleasant” entertainment instead of stress-inducing media is, to me, something older people crave more than younger folks. And the bitch-ass irony of we old ladies reacting with such unhinged violent fervent cunty anger to even the mere suggestion of another UNPLEASANTLY upsetting tv show or movie … well … it’s pretty fucking funny. I DON’T WANT TO WATCH THAT NASTY DISQUIETING SHIT YOU DUMBASS MOTHERFUCKER!!! I WANT SOMETHING FULL OF SWEET SMILES AND SUNSHINE FOR GOD’S SAKE!!!! Isn't my preference OBVIOUS?!? Can't  you tell by my PERSONALITY?

S. Pellegrino: Wherever You Are (what about alone in bed? HUH?!?!?)

I like to watch escapist youtube videos while I’m eating. In bed. Alone. To pretend I am on a vacation, for example. And because I find TV shows and movies with plots and conflict highly stressful and too much to pay attention to when I’m trying to relax. So I watch videos about TRAVEL: trips that I will never go on, but I like the *idea* of the food that is served and the mode of transportation (cruise ships, trains, luxury VIP flight capsule-suites, Las Vegas buffet reviews, etc.). I will never go on them because I’m a bitch, of course, so the idea of being around people — stuck on a ship or plane or train or in a casino with them, half with their noses sticking out their masks or no masks at all — is a dealbreaker (on top of the lack of money, so it’s a moot point kind of but I’m enough of a bitch that I enjoy resenting people while I am taking IMAGINARY trips, so not *entirely* moot).

ANYHOO, I’ve been watching quite a few European cruise videos and this one short ad keeps popping up: an ad for S. Pellegrino (San Pellegrino sparkling water). It’s really short, but somehow after watching it half a dozen times it began to grate on my nerves. Not just because I have now seen it so many times, but also because this ad specifically represents a couple of elements that only a bonafide bitch would be in the HABIT of sneering at with irritable insecurity …

The ad has some kind of high-class Italian restaurant kind of music playing (like … a gently-strummed spanish guitar along with grapes falling from above onto another guitars strings making a festive-yet-sophisticatedly-muted plunky rhythm). The camera displays happy attractive people sitting around a big table, smiling and nodding at one another. Then this one actor I kind of recognize as being one of those elegant slender judgmental spies who thinks he can get away with espionage and embezzlement and eventually murder but isn’t young or muscular enough to play a heroic lead so he does NOT get away with murder instead even Phillip Seymour Hoffman nodding off at his fattest can put a stop to this snooty international maths-and-classical-languages-professor-turned-THEEEEEF enters the frame. You don’t know his name — god knows *I* don’t know his name even though I tried to figure out for the sake of this bitch rant — but you would recognize the thin but still elegantly salt-and-pepper hair-swoops and the know-it-all look of polite half-smirking disdain that is the guy’s signature LOOK.

He’s wearing a striped blouse with the top two buttons undone like they’ve just strolled through snootiest parts of the vineyard and are ready to dine on multisyllabic Mediterranean fare or tapas or whatever (is tapas Spain-ish or Mediterranean or is Espana part of the Mediterranean or ???) because they’ve worked up an appetite but not to a glistening sweat-level of ravenous sloppiness; his blouse is still CRISP, but not in a starchy way … in a high-quality-threads-have-stood-up-to-washing-so-as-now-to-be-quite-soft way. With the rakishly loosened collar imparting casual vineyard-strolling. I know men’s button-up shirts are not called “blouses” but fuck it man, the way the guy wears it so shapelessly, just lining his high-class privileged un-muscled healthy-svelte educated-and-wealthy-man privilege … anyway. When the camera pans away from the people at the table, this fucker is in the foreground in the lower right corner of your screen LOOKING at you, telling you how drinking this fizzy water is going to make your get-together CLASSY and upscale and exclusive and refined. He knows you don’t qualify to run in these circles, but since he is a soft-collar crook and he needs you to keep his secret yet still bow to his superior class … well, he’ll impart some wisdom to you on how to fit in: make the occasion feel rich and elegant with some of this S. Pellegrino bubble-water shit.

I don’t remember exactly what he says (even though I’ve watched it a bunch of times, all that sticks with me is the VIBE of this son-of-a-bitch), but it really rubs me the wrong way. It reminds me how much I *detested* the last part of Call Me By Your Name. Part 3: The San Clemente Syndrome. Ugh. And it all is really about not only feeling outclassed, but being an introvert which is part of why I am such a tremendous bitch (and why I am ill-suited to go on any of the vacations reported on by my favorite travel youtubers). Like … I just do not understand people prioritizing and celebrating traveling and dining together, and talking about literature and the people they know and remember that vintage and whatever-the-fuck.

I will take my S. Pellegrino in bed with my meal, where I can hear the fizzing of its bottle-green backwash fading out on my nightstand as I drift off to dreamland.

Bitch-Ass Bowl-Suction

That raging feeling when you're already pissed off that you have to do the dishes (by hand ... all the dishes I do are by hand, because I have never lived in a house with a dishwasher in my almost fifty years of life in the United States of America) ... and one of your plastic bowls gets STUCK inside another matching plastic bowl!

It would be funny to watch someone ELSE wrestling with and cursing at the obstinate thin plastic perfectly form-fitted to one of its siblings, trying to get it unstuck ... finally getting it unstuck and having soapy dishwater FLY THROUGH THE AIR and all over your shirt-front. But when it's you (okay, when it is ME, myself) it is not so fucking funny.

This is one of those menial fine-motor skill laborious tasks that do not require enough physical energy to RELIEVE some of your STEAM as it builds up pressure and more pressure and more pressure until you think you're going to blow. So you just ... BLOW. And it's all splashy and wet like some big bully in a swimming pool who won't stop "pretending" to drown you FOR FUNSIES. You are helpless. You just have to take it.

It's the kind of bullshit that makes you feel like inanimate objects are conspiring against you, fucking with you with such precision that the bowls MUST have wicked minds, or are imbued with some kind of justice engine to teach high-strung assholes LESSONS in PATIENCE (that we will never ever seem to learn, proving of course that we have seriously defective characters and are loose cannons who should never be trusted with anything breakable, let alone other human beings).

I think one of the problems is how often we underestimate household chores. We underestimate their complexity and how long they will take. We underestimate the variety of skills and strengths required to do these mundane repetitive tasks that are seriously devalued by the patriarchy. So we try to -- HAVE to -- squeeze them in between "important" work, viewing them as obstacles to completing the supposedly-more valuable work ... obstacles to being able to relax after that work is done, etc. They are these endless-feeling time-sucks that we fail to experience as intrinsically rewarding. Housework is supposed to be easy AND simple -- even a MACHINE can do it! But you know most machine dishwasher actually suck ass in my experience (albeit limited). We approach the dishes with resentment and disdain, failing to have gratitude, failing to find ways to accept the practice of cleaning up as opportunities to savor our resources, failing to acknowledge how much energy and intelligence actually is required to do a good job of keeping a clean, healthy, tidy, useful, reliable home and kitchen.

*****

I would like to wrap this up in a more polished manner, perhaps with some kind of wisdomful solution that puts my bitchiness to rest, but instead I have to just accept that doing SOME of the dishes is better than none of them. That no matter how much effort and anger I put into housework I, personally, am always going to have more shit lined up on the counter to grapple with, more crumbs on the floor, more dishwater-sopped and water-spot-stained shirts to try to patiently go through ... one. Dish. At. A time.

Pulling on the bowls when they're stuck inside each other makes it worse. You have to fucking FINESSE those bitches with a gentle side-to-side push-and-pull.

Ring-a-Ding-DING, Motherfuckers

 I think it’s fabulous – I really do – cutting down on traffic and carbon emissions and being ACTIVE and whatever-the-fuck-else by riding bicycles. I wish that the majority of people in America would stop viewing cyclists with contempt and mockery.

But come on … help us out a little. As a PEDESTRIAN we have good reason to fucking hate you two-wheeled assholes. I fucking hate you fuckers shooshing violently along on the sidewalk, for one thing, and even MORE so when you don’t even fucking bother to alert those of us that the sidewalks were MADE FOR by giving us the consideration of an audible warning that you’re zooming up behind us. DING-DING! It's JOLLY! Ring the bell! Did you not watch Mr. Fucking Rogers and learn some manners?!? It's cute, that bell! Why are you all so opposed to ringing it? I would ring one just for the pure fun of it without even needed an excuse like PROTECTING SOMEONE I'M VERY CLOSE TO CRASHING INTO FROM BODILY HARM (or even just the unpleasant feeling of being STARTLED). Do you think it makes you cool not to warn us? Like, is this supposed to impress people like you're one of those shitty waiters who refuses to write orders down because you want to demonstrate your supposedly-superior remembery-making skills?!?

Today this happened to me on a park road. I was walking doot-do-doot merrily along through the trees … kind of weaving around looking at the cedars and firs and madronas. Weaving because there were hardly any people around and I’m not paying attention to where I’m going on the smooth wide pavement so why the fuck not?

OH. Because some fucking jackasses are careening down the hill on their skinny-tired fancy-ass bikes towards me.

Fortunately my hearing is good enough that I could hear the sound of their wheels on the pavement in time, but WHY DON’T YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES SHOW SOME FUCKING CONSIDERATION FOR SOMEONE BESIDES YOURSELVES?!? LIke … a lot of people are hearing impaired. The onus of being hypervigilant should not be on people walking, it should be on YOU with the deadly hurtling meat-bags-full-of-bones on fast-as-hell fancy metal machines, you fucking skinny stringy-muscled motherfuckers. RING A FUCKING BELL to let a fucker know you’re close to mowing us down.

I wouldn’t be so mad about this particular duo of goggle-faced mofos if it weren’t such a common occurrence. So even though there was quite a bit of room today on the path (okay, really basically a bonafide road of like … a car-and-a-half wide) THIS TIME, my anger is cumulative AND I have experienced this enough to know these self-centered speed-freaks wouldn’t have let me know even if the path were 1/10 the size of today. They don’t care. They don’t care about people walking or have any concept of the extra care that should be given to people with hearing impairments, mobility issues, dizziness … whatever. Give people a wide berth and give them some fucking NOTICE before you’re whizzing by our elbows. I swear to god I fantasize about having a spike strip for bicycles specifically for teaching these cunts a lesson.

It grated on me even worse today when I had to endure these privileged shitholes headache-and-nausea-triggering flashing red tail lights as I walked behind them. It’s the middle of the fucking day and you need those on? You can afford every fucking bell and whistle for your cycling *except* the actual BELLS? It’s such a blatant show of them only caring about their OWN safety, and not the pedestrians they could knock down and cause gross bodily harm to.

And don't even get me started about skateboarders. Or even worse: BICYCLE COPS.

Accepting Help as an Introvert - TOO COSTLY PT II

Follow-up to this post / another example about how introversion makes accepting help too costly.

Or let's say your mom offers to come all the way from one city to drive you all the way to another city for a doctor appointment because she would "do ANYTHING to help". But riding the bus alone even if you get coronavirus for it is more helpful because the COST of your energy being drained for a stressful ride where you have to TALK and LISTEN and FEEL THE ENERGY of another loved one and BE VIGILANT of them getting stressed out and needing reciprocity etc (when you're already a bad passenger and car crash PTSD is triggered by the mere unavoidable sight of brake lights any distance ahead).

Even just having to text back and pretend you're grateful for the offer instead of fatigued by having to read and figure out how to respond to anything unnecessary and fueled by emotional needs is distinctly UNhelpful. It costs too much to accept these offers of "help" that require so much and many types of fuel. I don't know why people cannot appreciate how much easier it is to pick from a limited number of departure times, get on the bus with strangers, put on headphones, and just RIDE. Next bus. RIDE. Ferry. RIDE. Get off. Walk. Walk. Walk. I would rather have those four hours of relative silence and knowing exactly what to do next with drivers who are trained to do what they do where I am only one passenger of many. Than alll of the communication and updates and back and forthing for 24 hours then fucking Jesus Christ how many hours? 6 hours minimum of the travel and how can I thank you enough and now I'm worried about you getting home safely too and do we want to go out to eat together too and all of that bananas.

When you spend time with people, you want it to be high-quality. Not squandered on this stress where you will no doubt snap and, intentionally or not, behave in a manner your mom doesn't like or approve of or that hurts her feelings IT IS TOO MUCH. No fucking thank you!!! All of that energy squandered just stifling the screaming is too costly.

It is a logistical nightmare that ruins even fun shit just making sure everybody pees and poops when and where they need to and feel comfortable. Constant fucking compromise, people "helping" each other out. I have to poop and now you have to pee and oh wait now we have to stand in line for freshening up makeup and now we missed the ferry and have to wait here in the car together for another hour and you won't just let me read you have to talk or listen to your talk radio.

I just want to look over there out the window and not look at anyone else's face for a month. Not have to try to summon up a response designed to be loving from the one billion muscles in the face that if I don't twitch them correctly will break your heart and what's wrong what's wrong are you okay what's wrong. I understand I do that too but I can't give a shit RN please understand. Just leave me alone.

Of course, I am trying to (and I do, naturally, which is part of what makes it such a struggle to just make the healthy decisions and try to respond -- or resist responding -- in a way that reflects love and reduces the suffering for all of us) temper these feelings with empathy for people wanting to know how they can help and just offering anything that comes to mind and is in their power. Your mom knows the journey is hard, and she is not trying to make it harder; she genuinely (thinks she) is attempting to make it easier (even though I've explained this to her multiple times, and when I do she says she understands, but somehow it just must not stick in there and I should not take it personally she is just doing her best and has competing motivations, etc.). We all often forget though how much of a burden COMMUNICATING is. Especially for introverts. Especially when it is unnecessary and fraught with emotions: the need to reassure, to be grateful, to be loving. I don't have any of that right now. I am busy. Please don't drain my fuel tank. Please I am begging you.

It just never feels right to say "the best way you can help us right now is to leave us alone and not bother us and not ask us for attention or communication or responses." Because when you do that, you are telling them: you are bothering me. You are being needy. You are asking for our help when you do that, not actually offering help to us. Unfortunately that is the truth, though. Figuring out how to respond that does not increase the suffering is a dilemma, and extroverts constantly gore you on those horns. Life force just shooting out in blood-red pulses splashing all over everybody. What the fuck are you supposed to? It's like you have no choice but to expend the energy on this job that they forced you to accept when you are already working triple-time trying to just survive and get through the crisis. How is that helpful?

Accepting Help as an Introvert - TOO COSTLY PT I

Introversion often comes across as bitchiness. Being "aloof", a "stuck up snob". When usually it is that we are fucking tired and can't afford the eye contact. This is extra true for femmes with big tits on their chests. Especially if they also have some ASD or other non-neurotypical ways of processing information (like I didn't hear you or know your words were meant for me to put together / was looking at something bright and shiny / am trying to just move my body through a doorway without shoulder-tackling the jam).

It sucks when you are, say, painfully sleep-deprived while, say, trying to help your loved one through a health crisis exacerbated by them being even MORE sleep-deprived than you are, and extroverts offer to help or advise you to seek help from "a friend", but the help would cost more energy (leaving you even more exhausted and fatigued) than it is worth.

Let's say you have a sleep deficit of 35. I don't actually know what numbers you use to represent a sleep deficit but let's just say 20 is bad 50 is terrible 90 is you're going to die from sleep deprivation). A helping professional asks if you have a friend or someone you trust nearby that could give you a place to sleep if it is impossible to sleep in your one-room apartment with your loved one who *definitely* cannot sleep & will keep you awake all night with her. But you are introverts so you while you know people and they would probably do their best to help if you asked, you haven't cultivated friendships with other introverts that are that close and familiar where you'd be comfortable and natural and truly wanted in that situation. Because introverts tend to have just one or three close friends. You and your loved one are married to each other, so that's what you've got: comfort and love and closeness of that kind just with each other. So while you could try one of your other friendly contacts, the oddness of asking for the place to sleep and explaining the stressful private reasons why you need it and the necessity to interact and also demonstrate gratitude and submission to their (usually extroverted) home & ways and figure out the logistics with that person of getting to and fro (plus the energy and expense of to and fro-ing) actually requires so much energy (that you don't even have) that it would add between an 8 and a 12 to your sleep deficit in exchange for at best a reduction of 6. It's not fucking worth it. It would be more helpful to try to get a nap on a bus or in a public library or on a bench at the train station or in a piss-dripping doorway outside. Nothing against your friends; they are great which is part of why inflicting yourself on them would be extra stressful. You'd just have a better chance of reducing your sleep deficit on a park bench or down on the waterfront while one of the piers is breaking off and sinking and construction goes on all around you than if you have to do phone calls and smiles and all of the stuff.

If I had any room left on my credit cards I would just get a room. Which is why I do not have any room left on my credit cards. Because regardless of mafia-level interest rates, as an introvert it is still far far cheaper to get help from the plastic than negotiate and pay for getting help from friends and loved ones. So that is what I have been doing when I have needed help since I was eighteen. You don't have to tell anyone why or what for, you just slide it or give the security numbers. Much. More. Efficient. Leaves more room for resting and sleep.

It Hurts Me Too

When I bitch, it's not just unpleasant for other people; it is unpleasant for me too. This is especially true when I bitch people out directly -- confrontationally. Especially in real life.

Like yesterday.

I confronted a stranger in a members-only space who was not a member. Part of a group of people who flouted numerous rules (in place to keep members and our assets safe), but she wound up getting the brunt of my frustration.

The stress (felt in my body and mind) and bad feelings I got from it were much worse AFTER I said something than before. You could measure the consequences of those folks actions on me against the consequences of me saying something and it is measurably objectively true that yesterday my bitching hurt me much more than what I was bitching about hurt me (yesterday, anyway; it is unknown what pain I will experience in the future because of my bitching, or may have averted by doing the bitching).

I wasn't a bitch in the classic sense of the term; I did not go on and on in a shrill voice lecturing. I was direct and to the point. I showed absolutely no empathetic or emotional response to her (probably[?] fake ass) apologies and excuses. But still. My heart rate went up, I couldn't concentrate on my work, my hands were shaking. And afterwards -- for many many hours -- I kept returning to thoughts about it. Adding in worries that I had been too harsh. That I should have been kinder. That the member who brought them in was the person I should be confronting, not this young woman who may not even be aware of the guidelines.

When I do these righteous confrontational bitch-ass things, I often think shit like I am not the asshole by saying something, THEY are the assholes for doing the bullshit they did. I am not the asshole for saying words in an unkind-sounding way, THEY are the assholes for behaving in a way that clearly demonstrates they are unkind and don't care about anybody but themselves and are untrustworthy and don't think rules apply to them and clearly don't value me or the space we're sharing or any of the other people who come here. But the truth is we can all be assholes. There can (and usually are) assholes on both sides of a conflict.

If you would just follow the rules that are posted and emailed to us and you agreed to then I wouldn't have to act this way.

Wiser people might point out ... I do not actually *have to* act this way. They didn't force me to react in this manner. I do not actually have to react at all. And I would be happier if I didn't.

More peaceful people would point out that maybe there are not two opposing sides to these conflicts. That we are all part of the same body; if I focus on how I am connected to these people I fearfully perceive myself in conflict with, I can feel we are not on different sides. Being a bitch is always going to cause me more pain.

In hindsight I was able to envision how confusing and hurtful my smackdown may have been to this person so much younger than I am who is doing their best (as we all are; I truly believe that and want that belief to guide my actions more than fear/anger/ego). And since I am more than just an asshole -- I actually do care about people and do not want anyone to experience pain, let alone be the cause of it -- that just led to more suffering for me.

*****
I want to work more on this blog focusing on alternatives and solutions to bitching, healing for assholes and bitches, and tools to work through why we do this. I want to examine and reflect on the efficacy of bitching and ranting, and recognize when it's counterproductive.

Because I didn't start this blog to create a proud poison-slimed barbed rainbow of bitching; I started this blog to try to channel that shit and keep it from infecting how I express myself everywhere else. I started this blog to be less of a bitch, not more of one. Because ultimately I am the one who suffers the most from my habit of being a bitch.

But I Have More Than Fifteen Items!!

 Don't do me any "favors", cashier, inviting me into your express lane when I have a basket full of 59 items. Especially if I tell you ONLY IF YOU DEFEND ME AGAINST ITEM-COUNTERS WHO MAY FOLLOW! Like you better tell them it was YOUR decision to put me in your express line, not mine. I know my place in this world, and I had no intention of expressing myself inappropriately.

Of course she did not say anything to the grumpy old man with his ONE silver-wrapped baggette-length hot sandwich. I know how grumpy your mouth looks under your mask. And I am so fucking sorry. I really am. SHE MADE ME DO IT!

MISIDENTIFIED TREES, MISPRONOUNCED TOWNS & DUMMIES

We don’t have cable or regular TV, but we do have access to our local live CBS affiliate, KIRO (aka channel 7 as I grew up knowing it) via our Paramount subscription through Amazon Prime Video. So every so often I try to watch the news that way to see what mainstream priorities and coverage of stuff looks and sounds like these days. There are a couple of super hot blondes on it. Like I think I’ve got it bad for the weather”girl” (man I grew up with some bullshit, didn’t I?). But I digress …

Here’s the thing; I hate it when the local news doesn’t know local things that every local person should know. ESPECIALLY if they want any credibility as a source of reliable, factual information.

Growing up the thing that would drive us nuts was when they’d pronounce “Duvall” (a small town neighbor just north of our even smaller town) incorrectly. They’d pronounce it like the actor Robert Duvall, with the emphasis on the last syllable (doov-ALL). But people who grew up in Duvall and Monroe and our town all pronounce it DOO-vall.

That wasn’t the only one they’d mispronounce (and we do have some doozies in Washington, like Seiku, Sequim and Puyallup) and maybe they’ve gotten better about it (and/or enough new people from California have taken over and overruled everyone pronouncing things the old local ways), but yeah … annoying.

So anyway, I’m watching the news the other night about our big windstorm(s) and apparently it’s a news-worthy phenomenon these days that LEAVES COME DOWN off trees in the fall, especially when the wind blows (who knew?!?). And when you overdevelop land like people have been doing and cut down so many trees that only a few are left exposed to the brunt of the wind, TREES FALL DOWN.

So the news people visit houses that trees have fallen on, like this one guy in Woodinville, and they show a downed FIR tree, and with an ominous voice say “... like this PINE TREE” (emphasis is my own) but it’s a fucking FIR tree not a PINE TREE omg why would anyone trust any shit that you’re saying.

We do have pine trees in Washington, but mostly in Western Washington they are FIR trees. People just -- ugh. It’s like the only evergreen tree they know the name of is PINE but man they are so different. You can’t learn to identify and distinguish between even the top three or five (fir, cedar, spruce, hemlock, pine)?

How do these people GET these jobs?!? Like oh “your source for LOCAL news and nonsense” you don’t even know what the most common plants are here and you can’t tell the difference between one kind of salmon and another, one kind of crab and another, a mussel from a clam? How is anyone supposed to trust your expertise in local matters?

Oh yeah, it’s not about expertise or reality or truth … it’s about spoon-feeding people what the most people want to hear: that nature encroacheth on your little enormous senseless grotesque immodest poorly-built boxes of ticky-tacky. That rain ruins your alcoholic weekends on the water terrorizing orcas with your sea-doos and destroying any peace and quiet with your reckless motorboating.

No wonder these dumb fuckers are always on TV and social media complaining about the rain like ohhh wow what a disappointment PRECIPITATION instead of sunshine. Move back to California. Set yourselves on fucking fire. Go to that shithole of corruption and brutality that is Arizona. Get the fuck out of here, dummies. The FIR trees need RAIN, not more houses to fall on. The trees aren’t the ones threatening your houses … your houses are threatening the trees. Get some birth control. Leave some forestland. Go away, you lazy simple-minded non-learners.

Sorry I got a little off track here. I just kind of lose my mind when I think of neighbors who are like "I hope we cut all the trees down around here so our gutters won't be clogged anymore by pine needles". Except they are FIR needles, and you are a dumb ass regardless.

Fisting Tarantino with Righteous Fury

 I actually loved Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. I'm one of the few people who did. Except for that shitty scene shitting on Bruce Lee. And the super limp Playboy Mansion party scene. Overall, though, I felt there was a lot of heart, redemption, and cathartic kindness served in the movie by rewriting one of the most brutally sad true Hollywood stories of all time. I didn't even mind that Tarantino, like the foot wanker he is, had an Aussie portray Sharon Tate, and of course jammed her luscious feet in our faces. I still felt like it really humanized her in a way the obsessive and gross tragedy porn surrounding her murder since then has always made even worse. So much sick wanker salt in the Sharon Tate wound.

Still, I was glad to see Kareem Abdul-Jabbar express how shitty Tarantino's insulting depiction of Bruce Lee was. Glad to see SOMEONE set the record straight for people who are too young to remember him and what an enormous hero, teacher, entertainer, and more he was (and still is) for so so so many people. Hopeful that people recognize that Tarantino might know a lot of trivia and have stolen a lot from kung fu movies made by actual originators, but he isn't a fucking authority on every single thing that ever happened in film and on TV. I hoped fans would know that some people (ex. BRUCE LEE) were making movies decades before he was, and under much more pressure from all kinds of crazy scary directions and with less bankrolling than some snot-nosed video store clerk got through complicity with the serial rapist we know is Harvey Weinstein. SOME people were making movies they also starred in where THEY actually weren't just some shit-acting ugly-faced foul-mouthed cameo, but WERE HOT, PHYSICALLY IMPRESSIVE, AND HAD AN AGENDA OF LIBERATION.

When my friend and I talked about this troubling aspect of Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, my friend said he believed that Tarantino wasn't really disrespecting Bruce Lee, but just depicting him through the eyes of Brad Pitt's jealous character immersed in a fantasy.

But nope. Here we just found out via Tarantino trying to impress shithole Joe Rogan that ... nah. Quentin says we should all "suck a dick" if we have a problem with his treatment of Bruce Lee, insisting that his portrayal was ACCURATE. He insists,

"Bruce had no respect for American stuntmen, he was always hitting them with his feet. It’s called tagging when you hit a stuntman for real. He was always tagging them with his feet and his fist and it got to the point where they would refuse to work with Bruce. He had nothing but disrespect for American stuntmen. It was probably just like, ‘Oh they’re just not good enough. They are pussies. I want to make it look real!’ But stuntmen don’t like that. That’s unprofessional."

Hey, Quentin ... you want to know what's "unprofessional" and DIRECTLY RELATED TO ACTUALLY SHITTING ON STUNTMEN ON SET??

YOU ALMOST KILLED UMA THURMAN, making she (who is NOT a stuntman) do her own stunts in a totally unsafe car on an unsafe road while your stunt coordinator was suspiciously not even aware it was going to happen, and for years was complicit in covering it up. But you're shitting on Bruce Lee for "tagging"? In, what, the sixties and early seventies? But you did this to Uma decades later when the whole industry KNOWS BETTER? You can do more than suck a dick, shithole ... you can take a big fist up your ass straight out your mouth, asshole. If you want to talk with expert authority about someone doing "unprofessional" stunt shit on set, talk about that. And don't ever open your fucking mouth about anything else when you weren't even there until you've made amends for that. Which you never have, you rich SHITHOLE bastard.

Tarantino bad-mouthing BRUCE LEE as having "NOTHING BUT DISRESPECT FOR AMERICAN STUNTMEN"? Pretty sure Tarantino is using the word "American" when he really means white. Tarantino who put DAVID CARRADINE -- the white guy who knew zero martial arts but was given Kung Fu and the role of a Shaolin monk instead of Bruce Lee -- in those ass-of-Carradine-kissing Kill Bill movies.

I am actually grateful for Tarantino clearing up any doubt we had about his fetishization of people (and feet, which is pretty hot and not problematic but SUPER RIDICULOUS how he denies it and shows he does not have the capacity to be honest about his motivation when it's harmless sexy fun OR when it's actually a really big fucking deal like when traumatizing actors so he can wank to extreme caricatures of the BBC/big black dicks and N-words he's obsessed with); the man is dishonest. Amazing movies, but he is dishonest and puts people in extreme life-threatening jeopardy, traumatizes and injures them.

It is SO IMPORTANT to him to perpetuate his fantasy perception of Bruce Lee as LESS than the great (and good) person, athlete, and legend that he was / is willing to shit on his survivors. It would be bad enough if it were "just" his daughter, but IT IS NOT. You cannot pretend to have respect for "American stuntmen" and the movies and true real life tragedies or even the whole fucking WEST COAST of this country when you shit on the legend of Bruce Lee in such a disdainful, selfish, hypocritical way REPEATEDLY. So unnecessarily. Because you want to climb inside Joe Rogen's hateful ass for treats and approval?

When faced with this obvious truth (everything Tarantino does is done FIRST AND FOREMOST for his own self-serving wank, and for sure is not in service to healing a wound in the American psyche) I have to accept that the things I defended in and celebrated about Once Upon a Time are just my fantasies of wanting to be able to enjoy Tarantino's movies on the big screen without acknowledging how he really only cares about himself.

So yeah .. GREAT ... I hear where you're coming from, Quentin; you like Kung Fu just enough to steal from it and to not pay any respects but to actually TEAR DOWN the man who brought that here -- the whole REASON you got to see any of that on TV growing up -- it was HIM *NOT YOU*, but NOT AS MUCH as you want to be Brad Pitt's bitch boy cocksucker. There is a hierarchy of dicks Tarantino's mouth gets wet for, and the real reason he puts Bruce Lee down is because in his richly detailed land of of dearly-beloved stereotypes and fetish fantasies, Bruce's Chinese cock wouldn't be able to stretch out Quentin's thirsty BIG WHITE BITCH MOUTH. That's his real problem right there.

I may be in the immediate throes of very black and white thinking here so soon after reading his shitty words and may soften up SOMEWHAT to accept ... it can be both black and white (although it is never EVER just a muddle of fucking GREY IN THE MIDDLE with Tarantino no matter what your scorecard looks like after the final bell ... the best will be BOTH black and white).

NOT THAT GUY When I'm PMSing

If the internet was wise, it would NOT show me Jimmy Fallon's face when I have PMS.

Blake Shelton is NOT Sexy

Okay, I can understand that there might possibly be newer up-and-comers (ahem) who might be sexier than or AS sexy as The Rock.

But Blake Shelton is not even fucking close to being one of them.

Here's where I caught wind of this proof that the majority of people cannot be relied upon to vote for people who are qualified for the position:

The Rock comments on no longer being the sexiest man alive

I suspect this is part of of our country's mad regressive rush into an insane white-lives-matter mentality. NEWS FLASH: if this is your poster boy, he's not proving your point with his piggy close-set eyes. He is much closer to ugly than sexy. Like ... anybody who wants to make a good mating choice would rule him out. Unless you are a fucking inbred moron.

Also? Most country music on the radio is not "country" or even "music" anymore; it's formula-driven commercial basic SHIT and straight-up propaganda.

I don't have a problem with loving guys who are as unattractive as Blake Shelton, or coming to find them attractive based on other factors. If you're married to someone who looks like Blake Shelton, I think it's super sweet if you post how he's The Sexiest Man Alive on your facebook wall. And I do not support people calling people ugly (the way I'm doing here) except in a situation like this. But objectively speaking, this is not a guy with sexy genes. Just fucking NOT. Gross. What the fuck is wrong with people????? Why is everybody so fucking stupid???????

It's frustrating, the ridiculously high(?) standards of beauty & sexiness women are held to, while THIS ugly tiny-featured average-at-best jackass is crowned The Sexiest.

Pretty sure the reason bitches voted for him is BECAUSE he's an insulting, stupid, proudly simple-minded shithole:

People's "Sexiest Man Alive" Blake Shelton Has Apparently Tweeted Some Very Problematic Things

Have fun making America "Great Again" ... aka totally destroying everything good about it and creating a flammable cesspool and forcing us all to live in it with your dumb fucking hateful shit-for-brains asses.

BitchRants.com

I finally bought the domain: bitchrants.com

If you type it in, it redirects you here to the blogspot.

Nothing fancy about it right now, I just wanted to have it. Because THERE IS SO MUCH TO BITCH ABOUT THESE DAYS. Know what I mean?

Regression of Civilization

We are not becoming more civilized. With alllllllllllllll of the advancements, all of the access to information, all of the TOOLS ... we are becoming LESS civil. Accomplishing less. Squandering more. Advancing not towards more beauty, more kindness, higher qualities, more wisdom, better health, more wealth FOR ALL ... instead we're advancing into dark, stupid, hateful, ugly territories of decayed values, inconsideration, disrespect for ourselves AND others, and absent morals. Missing a sense of responsibility to be WORTHY of pride,

I already knew it, but ... I didn't really want such ugly proof I was right.

It's NOT 2016 Yet, Assholes

I live on the WEST COAST. The PACIFIC NORTHWEST coast.

It's only fucking 9:03 PM here and some shitholes have been blowing up fireworks for the past three minutes like they don't know where the fuck they're at.

Go back to the fucking east coast if that's the way you want it, dickstains. And you better pack up all your fear-of-nature noise-polluting New Yorker bullshit and take it home with you. I don't want to hear it, and I don't want to see you wearing ballcaps and jerseys supporting your fucking east coast sports teams, either.

Happy fucking new year, assholes.

Barking & Bitching

I'm *really* excited about the dog barking in our neighborhood. At THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MOTHERFUCKING MORNING.

Oh ... nice. It just stopped AFTER, LIKE, FIVE MINUTES or whatever as soon as I typed that. I guess five minutes isn't a really long time. UNLESS YOU WERE FUCKING SLEEPING.

I wasn't. So it just gave me something great to exuberantly bitch about!

*****

I've got a lot of bitch drafts in the hopper, just waiting for the right time to post them.

One of these days ...

Splurging on Dinner Out with YOUR FUCKING BABY

Dear assholes who take your fucking babies to fancy restaurants: PAY FOR EVERYBODY'S MEAL.

When you bring your crying infant or noisy child to an expensive restaurant YOU ARE EFFECTIVELY RUINING PEOPLE'S NIGHT OUT. One they may have saved for a month for. That they are not paying $17-$50 a plate to eat accompanied by the sound of you trying to baby-talk your child out of screaming, or train them how to sit in a high chair ("sit your bottom down :: sit your BOTTOM down :: SIT your bottom down :: SIT your BOTTOM down! :: SIT YOUR BOTTOM DOWN!") or endure the drama of your precious toddler choking while you throw it over your knee and whack it repeatedly in the spleen.

What kind of a fucking asshole are you? You're a shitty self-centered fuckwad with too much money. I'd be happy to relieve you of all of it minus cab fare to get you the fuck home and away from everybody's else's grown-up dinner.

There is a difference between The Old Spaghetti Factory or a family diner and a pricey restaurant with walls lined with drugs (aka alcohol). Your little fucking child does not belong there. If the average price of an entree is over $15, YOUR BABY SHOULDN'T BE THERE. *****ASSHOLES*****

This is for you, mouthbreathers at The _____ Grill on this Friday in Seattle tonight. I don't know if it was the parents' choice, or the grandparents perhaps insisting NO IT WILL BE *FINE* KIDS! OUR TREAT!! LITTLE FUSSY HONEYPANTS WILL BE JUST FINE THERE!!

Actually I really blame restaurants for this. You have no fucking business allowing barefoot people, dogs, folks with their dicks hanging out of their pants or wee ones into a restaurant where you charge those kinds of prices. Your food is delicious and worth it, but you should comp everyone or give the whole house deep discounts if you compromise the entire dining experience by letting morons in with their noisy little creatures.

Now that I think about it, I would MUCH rather sit next to a barefoot dog with its dick hanging out of its pants in a nice restaurant than a baby, okay?

FUCK PEOPLE IN RESTAURANTS WHO BRINGS THEIR BABIES AND/OR TALK ON THEIR PHONES. FUCK YOU. FUUUUUUUUUCK YOUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!

No. You DO NOT actually REALLY REALLY LOVE Books

I just saw this stupid fucking headline and clicked on it:

11 Incredible Bookcases For People Who Really, Really Love Their Books

It's stupid as fuck, like every "incredible" list of bullshit Huffpo & other shitty "news" & hack click-monkey page-view-driven sites concoct is. Let me explain three reasons why:

• *People who really love books don't fucking waste space arranging them into minimalist flower and treble clef arrangements- they have entirely too many books for that kind of pinteresting bullshit
• *People who really love books PUT THEM IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER, or have another system which works best when not forcing the books they love into ridiculously ornate geometric patterns on little tiny stupid shelves
• *People who really love books usually know better than to write shit like REALLY, REALLY!!

But just for the record, I really love the reclaimed ladder the best. Though it's totally annoyingly impractical because the "shelf" isn't deep enough to line up the DIFFERENTLY-SIZED books (nobody who loves books has books that are all the same size) so that their spines are smoothly faced; you can't do that when the books need to touch the wall in order to rest normally rather than balancing just on the ladder. Also: tiny books won't work on that.

So yeah. Totally fucking STUPID. If I see this in your house, I will know you DO NOT, in fact, LOVE BOOKS. Not yours, not anybody's. Fuck off.

Try Saying Thank You, You Self-Absorbed Entitled Fucking Bitch

I just held the door open for a lady walking out of a store carrying a big box.

I did not hold the door open IN ORDER TO receive praise, I did it because it's the nice and right thing to do when someone has their hands full.

She acted like I wasn't even there. No eye contact, like I was put on earth simply to pave her way towards the smooth and easy life she deserves.

Even worse, she had two little girls following her so was teaching them how to be inconsiderate pieces of shit.

I know she is endowed with the gift of speech because I heard her finish a sentence to someone else. And it wasn't like her kids were talking a lot to her (they weren't talking at all) or she was multitasking or carrying on conversations with other people - she wasn't. There was plenty of time and opportunity and silence to fucking say THANK YOU.

*****

She was pretty. With long blonde hair.

I wonder if I'd have felt more or less disgusted if she hadn't been attractive, wearing glasses and pricey winter casual-country wear that seemed like movie props to make her seem crunchier when you know if she were in the city she'd have on a cashmere sweater and contacts. She was dressed like a character on Frasier would dress to go to the cabin with him and Niles, and she put her box and children in her environmentally-sensitive car.

I had a rebuke on my lips (a snotty "you're welcome - have a nice day!" or "don't even say thank you, huh?") but I didn't say anything. And I wonder about that, too. Was I intimidated because she looked "high class"?

Since we started living part-time in Seattle I've been struggling a lot as I see more frequently how fucking shitty people with money are. Like, seriously fucking subhuman.

I know I shouldn't get so mad about things like this, but THIS IS WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE WORLD! Isn't it? At least part of it?

Shitty Receipts with USELESS Information

So we're in an era where

1. we pay for things with plastic (and we have LOTS of different cards)
2. STORES PRINT OUT "RECEIPTS" THAT ARE AS LONG AS SANTA'S FUCKING NAUGHTY LIST and you need a special trapper keeper to file the fucking things

So how is it that these fucking stores can spew a mile of tape with all kinds of info on it at you BUT NEGLECT TO INDICATE WHICH CARD YOU USED TO PAY FOR YOUR PURCHASE???

Seriously??? What the fuck is wrong with this stupid world? It makes NO MOTHERFUCKING SENSE.

I shouldn't need to log into every single one of my credit card and debit card accounts online to try to cross-reference every fucking purchase in an attempt to figure out which account was charged or debited for my motherfucking  tampons and new shoes and wart removal and what-have-you.

GAH!

I could throw a fucking ticker-tape parade with the vast quantities of yards of receipt-ribbons and coupon bullshit cashiers have handed me in the past month BUT I CAN'T GO TO THE PARADE. Because I have to sit here reconstructing every fucking shopping trip like a super sleuth just to balance my fucking checkbook.

FUCK YOU, stores.

Also: handling those receipts give you fucking CANCER.

Oh god you fuckers please SPARE ME the bullshit about how fucking thankful I should be about how much shopping we get to do and I'm so LUCKY to have so many worthless receipts and there are children starving in Detroit who'd give ANYTHING for my binders full of receipts. SPARE ME. If  you want me to do penance and mortify myself before the blessed virgin saints of poverty FINE but this is NOT the way. I'd rather go make cheese out of monk-smegma in a monastery, and that's saying A LOT considering I'm lactose intolerant.

Your Friend Lost Your Customer

I spot an AWESOME quirky fantastic magical-looking little fortune-teller's cart. It's the end of the summer tourist season, so I go to ask her how long into the future I can find her here.

She's great and magical-fantastical-looking herself,  personable, and answers my question saying, "for sure today and tomorrow but I'm having problems with the city issuing me a permit . . . "

:: insert her friend or sidekick or whatever looking bored with me and steampunk-stylish beside her, fiddling with phone, and trying to get her attention, prodding her with the phone ::

"Oh wow," I say, "they should totally issue you a permit! I've been wondering . . . "

:: friend or sidekick or whatever keeps nudging her with phone and trying to make her look at the phone ::
 
" . . . for years why there isn't an old-fashioned fortune-teller or psychic with a sign up or shingle in town."

:: distracting phone nudging continues ::

As the fortune teller encourages me to write a letter to the editor or something I am pretty much backing away and trying to just leave before I say something to the friend or sidekick or remark on the whole phone business. Knowing that walking away now IS actually a remark on the whole rude phone business.

Seriously. TOTALLY FUCKING RUDE! It's not like I was standing there wasting her time for ten or even five or even two minutes. Not more than thirty seconds and this asshole was basically telling me to go away, and/or couldn't figure out how to say, "I'm sorry to interrupt but you have an important call/text coming in" or "I'm so sorry but you told me to tell you when it's blank o'clock" or "shuttup lady because we have an amazing dick pic to look at". It was like I walked up to the popular exclusive snobby goth table at lunch in junior high to talk to someone cool while her insecure cunt of a friend glowered at me and pantomimed my unimportance. I would far rather she just SAY something rude or tell me to go away rather than having to endure that bullshit.

It's possible the person just has no clue how behavior like that comes across / is perceived and/or is mentally not up to the challenge. I hope she learns to cut it out if her IQ allows for such growth. It really spoiled the magic for me, and I'm glad I didn't have my heart set on getting my fortune told because that rude presence would have totally wrecked it.

One possible explanation that occurred to me as I was walking away was that maybe rude girl recognized me from my porn site or a dating site ad or something, and really wanted her fortune-teller friend to be able to compare the picture to the person (me) standing before her. That's a long shot, though. And still a super rude way to handle it if so.

YOUR Feces in MY Garbage?

I commend you, asshole, for picking up your dog's shit. But it's not okay to put it in a stranger's garbage can, you brainless, selfish jackass.

I guess this is the punishment I get for not immediately bringing the garbage can in from the side of the road on garbage day. A bag of FECES at the bottom of the can that we have to pull out, set aside and save to put on top lest the weight of OUR garbage smash it leaving a stranger's feces to soil and stink up our garbage can.

Who are you? Why are you such a fucking asshole? Where's your car? I'd like to shit in a plastic bag and put it in there.

There is no such thing as civilization. I'm telling you. People think nothing of littering the world and other people's spaces with feces. You're disgusting!

A Midnight Clear NOW WITH ADDED CHEMICALS!!!

Just after midnight. Christmas day comes to a close. Nearly-full moon.

I step outside to enjoy the stillness of this night, AND SMELL YET AGAIN THE HORRIFYING SCENT OF LAUNDRY CHEMICALS PERMEATING THE ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD. Like I walked into a giant chilled box of dryer sheets.

I cannot fucking live in a land of vaporized douche powder. It's disgusting. I hate people. I want to get away from them. I don't want to smell you. You sicken me.

The lack of appreciation for clean backyard air, the inconsiderate freedom people have to needlessly, unproductively pollute each others' outdoor homes perplexes, alienates, depresses, poisons and angers me.

I don't want to be near any of your shitty all-night bright lights, your noisy leafblowers and lawnmowers, your desires to febreeze every inhabited tract of land. Fuck off. Go pitch a tent in the detergent aisle of your nearest discount or grocery store if that's what you want your world to smell like and be lit up by a thousand migraine-inducing fluorescent lights. I hope you sanitize yourself until your skin melts off.

Breaking Down

It's a beautiful day in November - the gloom is gone, making way for bright sun. But I know it won't last long.

While I'm washing the dishes I smell a dead oily fish smell. Something by/near/in the sink smells fishy. It's gross. The opposite of clean-smelling. Where is it coming from????

A month or two ago we cleaned out the fridge. Very thoroughly. That was awesome. And then right when we had a couple of weeks under our belt of preparing food in advance and being very healthy and efficient (which relies upon the fridge), the fridge stopped working. Yes, we rent, so don't have to BUY it or pay for the fixing ourselves, but it's this weird off-brand fridge, that is the biggest thing that will fit in a weird, custom pantry-hole slot thing, so despite calling an appliance-repair place they couldn't help us and is going to require a lot of calling and looking around and even if someone else were to do it all for us, it would suck because that would require being IN OUR HOUSE bugging the fuck out of us. So I've procrastinated on following up on it. The freezer still works and we borrowed our landlord's mini-fridge for the rest of it.

Before that my partner fixed a problem with the washing machine. She also fixed a problem with the sink. TWICE. But anyway, back to the washing machine. So it turns out it's not really fixed. When draining, It ejaculates water all through the laundry "room"/closet, wetting the wood floors, making everything smell of mildew, potentially causing electrical problems as it sprays onto outlets. She thinks it's got a clog in the pipe.

Somehow it's really hard for me to tell our landlord ANOTHER thing is wrong, that some OTHER person will have to fix . . . all the calls, all the management, all the people swooping in but never telling you EXACTLY when, trying to manage and plan everything (that's already hard to manage and plan) around it for work and nakedness and privacy and cleaning up. So I haven't told her about that and am planning to just do laundry at the laundromat so I don't have to think about it, to give some space between the THINGS GOING WRONG, to just do one thing at a time. Except I don't really have time to go hang out at the fucking laundromat. On the other hand: HOT WATER. Even when our washing machine is useable, we don't have hot water in it. Which sucks. Don't ask . . . it's a weird homemade house, which is mostly awesome but sometimes stupid.

*****OMG my long nails are so annoying trying to type and trying to housework ALSO so annoying because of trying to preserve the long nails so annoying just want to cut them off AND not do housework and not try to exploit every interesting thing about my body but still I want to what the fuck gahhhhhhhhh *******

And then today our pilot light on our propane fireplace went out. Twice. And has just been going out for no reason. SIGH. This is too much stuff. I'm sick of it. I hate it.

My phone needs to be charged WAY TOO OFTEN. We have two chargers. BUT WHERE ARE THEY?!? I have to climb way too many stairs and ladders to HOPE to find them.

I'm hungry. But I had to stop and bitch.

*****

And then I felt better after doing this bitching and organizing my medicine cabinet and doing the dishes. Even though it sucks with my long-ass nails. And my back hurts from it. And there's still so much to do. And and and. Fuck it.

OH. And in spite of having bleached/washed out the fridge? There's something new and stinky growing in the clear produce drawer in bottom!!! WHERE DID THIS COME FROM??? Not even using it and it's making a mess.

Dirty Attitude

My butthole is dirty because I pooped four times today (plus a wet fart) and haven't had time to take a shower or do a million other really important things. I tried, but I just kept having to POOP! And the special things take time and I don't just want to plop them out. So I've been a grouchy asshole all day.

I got a fucking SLIVER in my ass from sliding across our wood floor to get under her to take hot pics. IN SWEATS I still got a sliver! I'm afraid it's going to get infected and ruin my life.

The drawing and the romance and the personal importance of it all, the fear of not presenting it carefully enough. The guilt of not presenting anything at all as a wrestle with trying to make it special. The guilt over sharing feelings but not ENOUGH of them so then I feel I've misrepresented people I care about.

I both want to do my job more and do it less. Just when I feel like things are BURSTING with excitement and potential, the next day I feel like quitting. I don't feel like I can do a good enough job and be fair to myself and to other people.

Spring & the Scent of Dryer Sheets

It's a beautiful fucking morning with birds and freshly cut green grass in our backyard.

I'd be out there eating breakfast and enjoying it, except when I step outside I'm assaulted by the noxious mucous-membrane-piercing chemical burn smell of a neighbor's nasty fucking drying laundry being blown out of her house and broadcast throughout the neighborhood.

The smell of fake poison spring has sprung.

Oscar Night

I don't understand all this love for Angelina Jolie's leg when all I can see are her scary skinny bony fucking concentration camp arms.

We're not actually watching the Oscars, I just am noticing all of these raves for her plunked-out leg posing.

I hate being a bitch like this. But the good thing is I decided NOT to tweet this, and instead am filing it here. In its proper place.

I like lots of things about Angelina Jolie, but HORRORS!!

Free Shipping

If I see one more email subject line advertising FREE SHIPPING! only to discover it's only free if you spend $50 or more or order the special white elephant product or whatever, I'm going to freak out!

Good Vibrations and Babeland: you are the worst for this. If there's a caveat, put it in the subject line. I need some lube but I don't want to buy $50 worth of it to get free shipping. Gah!

Sick of Trying

I'm totally fucking sick of trying to be a fucking Pollyanna every time something goes wrong. "Oh! THIS just went wrong / broke / fucking interrupted my flow, but let's look on the bright side . . . I can still switch gears and do THIS other thing!!"

Yeah, while trying to fix the broke thing, while plan B goes up in smoke too, while I have five different things I'm trying to juggle and not-a-fucking-one will work.

So utterly fucking sick of it. Going to throw all six computers out the window and go work in a warehouse boxing dildos or something. And have insurance and when shit goes wrong it's like, "AWESOME . . . a great excuse to sit around scratching my ass while the fucking COMPANY has to pay for it."

Sometimes I just want a brain-dead job where nothing's my fault or my responsibility and I don't need to try to be so fucking awesome because I'm fucking not, I'm fucking stupid and easily frustrated and I cannot put up with this motherfucking bullshit anymore.

Old Lady Perfume Stink

Ahhh, FALL! We have a fresh wind and damp ground, orange maple leaves against blue sky . . . and the hideous stench of old-lady perfume coming from one of our neighbors' dryer vents. It's FILLING our entire backyard.

That should so totally be illegal, being able to blow noxious nerve gas stink all throughout the neighborhood.

I don't want to hear you, I don't want to see you, and I definitely don't want to fucking SMELL you and your scary haunted-mansion talced-up dusty-pot-pourri underwear scent.

Take the Plank out of your EYE!

I find myself really irritated when a customer writes a nitpicky hypercritical email and then I waste a whole SHITLOAD of time replying to the guy who doesn't appreciate us as much as the members who are HAPPY with our work who I rarely spend as much time writing to. Then what really REALLY annoys me is when their fucking email addresses are wrong or they have some stupid-ass email service or internet provider that refuses to deliver the email.

SO. FUCKING. LAME.

Discontinued: Redken Blonde Glam Pure Pearl

WHY did Redken discontinue their Blonde Glam Pure Pearl treatment? It worked, it made my hair feel good, and it SMELLED LIKE HEAVEN IN A SEXY TAN COCONUT.

I'm not the only one who's pissed and bitching about it being replaced; check out these reviews on "Pure Platinum":

Horrible replacement: This product is so bad in comparisson with PURE PEARLE. I don't understand why it was discontinued. Unlike after using pure pearl you now need to use the conditioner. I am not buying this one any more. It is horrible.

And

BRING BACK PURE PEARL: Why discontinue a product that was so good and replace it with something sub-par. BRING BACK PURE PEARL. If I knew it was going to be discontinued and replaced with this I would have stock piled.

And

Terrible compared to the discontinued pure pearl: I started using this after Redken discontinued the Blonde Glam Pure Pearl Color Activating Treatment, which was phenomenal. It doesn't make my hair feel nearly as soft or shiny as the Pure Pearl, and the smell of this compared to the Pure Pearl - sucks!

 You don't even know how fucking hard life can be for blonde bitches. SO FUCKING HARD and full of product disappointments. I'm about to shave my head. But don't worry, I'm leaving the rest UNGLAMOROUSLY HAIRY!!

Queen Size THIS, motherfuckers!

One of the biggest petty banes of lower-middle-classdom has got to be ill-fitting "fitted" sheets.

Dear Target & JC Penney: we're sick of being woken up at night by the "thwunk" of elastic as the corner of the sheet by our heads comes loose off of the mattress and bounces into our faces. Pulling and tugging TO NO AVAIL because YOUR FUCKING SHEETS ARE TOO SMALL.

I can live with sleeping on cheap sheets that feel like burlap sacks -- we aren't asking for softness when we buy low-price sheets -- but DON'T FUCKING CALL THEM QUEEN SIZE IF THEY'RE NOT. Do not skimp on the AMOUNT of fabric.

Man, I hate your fucking guts motherfuckers. Pulling and tugging OVER and OVER. I wish every time we tried to pull the corners back over the mattress that whoever is responsible for this cheapness would feel the same tugging on his or her tongue and/or balls and/or hemorrhoids.

Enjoy nature AND GET OFF YOUR FUCKING PHONE!!

Taking a walk on a woodland path -- no power lines, no electricity, supposedly peace and quiet -- some fucking bitch is YAPPING ON HER FUCKING CELL PHONE. Why the fuck don't you stay home and get on a treadmill? The sight and sound of you disgusts me. I know that's a hideous thing to say and even worse to truly feel, so I'm working on it and trying to be kinder.

Then we encounter a cunt who is not only talking on her phone, SHE HAS IT ON SPEAKERPHONE!! So *EVERYBODY* gets to hear some damned fool yapping in that electro-microwaved amplified lo-fi way. YOU INTRUSIVE INCONSIDERATE CUNT!!!

I hate people and I hate their out-of-touch device addictions. Get in touch with your surroundings and the people present in your physical space and GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE, shitholes!!

Out of Sale Items

GodDAMN it!! I hate it when I go to the store for ONE THING that's on sale -- only going to the store to stock up on that one thing BECAUSE it's on sale -- and they're fucking low on it or out of it so I invested time and gas in the journey for nothing!!!

STOCK UP ON YOUR FUCKING LUNA BARS, ASSHOLES!!!!

Same goes for motherfucking emergen-c!!!!

I won't even go into detail about the tragedy of a month-long sale that suddenly DISAPPEARED mid-month and I waited around to talk to a manager to found out why. Her answer gave me no satisfaction, let me tell you.

And rainchecks seem to be a thing of the past that only annoying old ladies ask for, apparently.

The 5th of July???

Who celebrates the fucking FIFTH of July? Cinco de Julio? What the FUCK? Never heard of it.

But the post office is taking that day off. Give me a fucking break. The holiday is on Sunday, not Monday. SUCK IT. Do you think credit card companies are going to call it a holiday? No, they'll just say our payments are late.

I guess I should have planned for this in advance, but seeing how it makes NO COMMON SENSE, I thought the mail would be delivered as on any non-holiday on Monday the 5th of July.

I was wrong.

More Bitching about Neighbors

I even feel bitchy about our mostly-GOOD neighbors. Because the truth is that I do not want to have visible neighbors at all.

I don't want to see my neighbors, I don't want to hear my neighbors, and I don't want them to see or hear me.

I don't want to see their dog, or see/smell/step in their dog's shit, especially in our own fucking yard. I don't want to live close enough to a neighbor's yard that wherever they throw their dog's shit or direct their dog to squat that the smell of it drifts over to my life in my yard. Especially if they have a black lab or large dog with soft, wet, giant shits.

I don't want to HEAR my neighbors' dog(s), and especially do not want to hear that low, persistent woofing for sometimes hours without ever once hearing my neighbor say "shuttup" to the pesky motherfucker. I also don't want to hear any neighbors' tiny dogs and their chirpy, anxious yip-yip-yipping.

I do not want to hear my neighbors at all. Not his daughter's boyfriend parked in the driveway talking on his cell phone like a little bitch, not his worker bees, not his friends, not his cunt of a lazy ex who honks when she pulls up instead of hauling her fat ass out of the car.

I do not want to hear my neighbors' power tools or hammers or engines starting up or car doors slamming or VOICES. I don't want to hear any of that EVER.

I don't want to hear my neighbors' engines revving or cars warming up. And I don't fucking EVER want to hear the sound of a large vehicle's back-up warning system, those brain dead beeps you can hear from blocks away. I am glad that I learned this because now I know never to ever live within a mile of any place any sort of dump truck, loader, pick-up & delivery vehicle, or garbage truck visits regularly. No carpet store, no nursery with landscaping materials like bark, no city facility with large mounds of gravel.

I don't want to see my neighbors' friends. I don't want to know who they are, and I certainly don't want them thinking they can cut through my fucking yard to get to his.

I don't want to see or hear my neighbors' kids or even know they have any, whether they be screaming infants or sullen teenagers. I don't want to wonder whether or not I should call them cops when they have a party or a fight. I don't want to fucking KNOW if they're having a party or a fight. I want no auditory or visual or olfactory evidence of those things to penetrate my peace and quiet in the center of my property.

I don't want my neighbors animal shit or dead-car fluids or septic tank seepage or lawn and garden chemicals to sully any of my own groundwater or picturesque streams.

And if a cougar ventures into my yard I want to be able to kill it. With a gun. I guess that's a little off topic.

I don't want my neighbors to know whether or not our lawn is mowed or whether or not we even HAVE a lawn. I don't want them to know whether or not there's moss on our roof or if I'm standing paralyzed in the morning dew feeling wet grass tickle my ankles. I don't want them to know what I'm wearing or not wearing when I'm inside or outside. I don't want them to gawk when my girlfriend absent-mindedly sticks her hand in her bra and fondles her breast while standing at the kitchen window.

I want to be able to shoot anybody who trespasses, and for it to be obvious what is mine and how you should fucking keep out. I don't want any fucking public trails inviting strangers to mosey on by or through, way too fucking close for comfort. I probably wouldn't ever shoot someone, but I at least want to be able to look at them with extreme hostility and tell them they're not welcome, not now and for their own safety, not ever again.

I need a buffer. A deep, wide, green, dark buffer no one can see through. I want to make believe that I am untouchable by people surrounded by a thick denseness of forbidding nature. I want to have chickens, but I don't know about roosters because they are loud, and they are loud in the morning, which is the worst.

I understand how mean and unsociable it is to not want to get to know your neighbors. To pretend they don't exist and avoid making eye contact with them. I do think that is missing out on something good. But I feel in my bones that I'm missing out on more by not having quiet wet growing places all around me to explore and get to know intimately, like I and my closest family are the only ones to smell and touch and investigate and hear them in all the decades that I live there.

I'm sad that the possibility of having this kind of freedom from others and privacy is nearing impossible. IS impossible if even a small percentage of the people in the world demanded it. That this place is just overrun with people and their sounds and their dog shit and their own shit.

I feel sort of petrified by the fear and likelihood that I'll never have this. That there will always be neighbors in my peripheral vision. That I'll never be able to melt into green invisibility.

Even if you're able to afford a few acres out in the woods or country, sound carries farther where it's quiet so you just need more. And you have to be constantly vigilant everywhere now for where they'll put the next landfill or development or resort or border patrol station. People are everywhere and most of them show no regard for maintaining a big space cushion between each other. They show no shame over their sounds and growling oversized useless pickups and stupid fucking mobile phone conversations. I SHOULDN'T KNOW THIS MUCH ABOUT YOUR STUPID LIFE!! Not without using stealth, anyway. Or reading your stupid blog (like this one).

I don't want to see the headlights of the cars pulling into my neighbors'. I don't want them to be able to penetrate the gloom that should surround me.

Unplayable BRAND NEW DVD's!!

I only buy brand new DVDs of things I've already seen and know that I love and will want to watch again and again. BUT NOT RIGHT AWAY!

The problem is then I only find out MONTHS after purchasing them that they are defective. Happened to us with Firefly that we got them brand new and at least one of the discs is totally fucked (the one where Kaylee gets her pink froofroo dress!!) with a huge rub-out scratch area.

Then it happened to me AGAIN!! Only the third tv show dvd pack I bought, and on the FINAL EPISODE of Twin Peaks, there is some kind of defect where there are no scratches or visible flaws on the disc, but it keeps skipping, getting green chunks of pixels, and crapping out entirely so you lose your place. Seriously, TWO OUT OF THREE dvd television show collections with defects?

Blarrrrrr! I'm angry!!! It sucks so hard to be watching shows that are like SACRED RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCES/RITUALS and have them RUINED like this!!

To Paint a Fucking Toenail, First . . .

I don't know what the fuck is wrong with women who love painting their fucking toenails themselves. It's a BORING FUCKING TORTURE JOB that's impossible to get right.

First of all, do you realize you need to vacuum every square inch of your house first? Because if you don't, you'll get a fluff of pet fur or one stray hair or god knows what stuck in your polish unless you have someone to wait on you hand and foot for the hours it takes for the sticky shit to FULLY dry.

I'm also guessing bitches who love doing it aren't actually whores like I am who plan to take pictures of the painted toenails or have people actually suck them so maybe perfection isn't vital to them.

But perfection is vital TO ME, and I cannot fucking paint them perfectly myself. AGONIZING, bending over with my fat fucking belly in the way and trying to see. On top of that I have extremely tiny little toes and nails so the brush splayed out is way bigger than all but the nails on my big toes so it's really hard to stay on just the nail.

And you're just fucking dumb if you think you only need one layer of polish. NO. You need basecoat, two layers of color AND a topcoat if you want that shit to look yummy.

And of course you need to actually pamper your feet in between polishings so they are soft and moist without nasty peeling white flaky gross cracks and flakes and bubbles of skin. You need to scrub and saw at the soles of your feet with abrasive stones, brushes, sponges and more. And you have to clip and file and shape the nails and push back and trim your cuticles like you're a motherfucking sculptor of dead tissue and do a good job so they all look uniform. And shave your legs and tan and be perfect in every other way because what's the point of having beautiful feet if your hair is a greasy blob of dirty blonde?

My point is, decorating yourself in a "feminine" way is a shitload of work connected to OTHER work, all stacked up on top of each other and consuming more fucking time and requiring more patience and skill than is popularly acknowledged. You get the impression from societal attitudes and pop culture that painting your toenails is the same as lying around eating bon bons but LET ME TELL YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!! IT IS NOT!!!!!!

******NOTE: I have really really bad PMS right now and seem incapable of getting anything done because NOTHING IS EASY!!! Even the shit you're led to believe is "fun" and "simple" . . . even a stupid GIRL can do it!! That shit is a fucking lie that degrades the beautiful art of self-decoration that so many women practice and master all for the reward of being dismissed as superficial. I feel like stomping on people's heads right now.

Mini Water Heater

We have this stupid mini water heater; it's not even half the size of a regular one. It fits under the kitchen counter.

I'm not big on personal cleanliness like most overzealous Americans, but I *do* like to take a hot shower after spending hours housecleaning. This is, however, impossible since all of the hot water has been used up on cleaning.

Tonight, because I have PMS, this makes me feel like crying. I *hate* when my body smells like I'm a fucking maid. I hate my hands being all destroyed from hot water and bleach and stuff (and I can't WORK with gloves on my little hands . . . I need to feel what I'm doing in order to do it right).

After I clean up dirty stuff I want to get it all off of me, especially before I go to sleep at night.

PMS

I had almost zero desire to blog here while I was on the pill (hormonal birth control).

Now that I'm taking a break from it? BOOM!! I can't stop thinking about stuff to bitch about. I feel just incredibly irritable, paranoid, cranky and unable to cope.

Cleaning GARBAGE

Okay, I pretty much hate housecleaning in general, but the absolute worst kind of housework is cleaning GARBAGE. You know, like prepping the recyclables by washing tin cans, plastic containers, etc.

There is no worse use of my time than WASHING something before I THROW IT AWAY. Fucking HELL!!!!!!

Of course, what I really hate I suppose is how much disposable shit is in our lives and the accompanying guilt. It's a weird and horrible conflict, the desire for convenience and supposedly less work (or less of the boring, soul-sucking HOUSEwork) versus the desire for, you know, a beautiful world. I wonder at the end of the day whether or not any of the conveniences DO result in less work at all. Sometimes I feel like I'm just drowning in garbage-shit.

In a way I wish I'd have grown up learning/being forced to cook, can, garden, etc. so that those things were second-nature to me as an adult. My grandma did can and stuff but I never LEARNED any of it and I'm not someone who figured out how to cook just by watching women do it. Still, I really don't think that's what I was put on the earth to do (cook, clean, and just try to sustain myself).

Mostly when I feel this way my outlook is bleak; the only alternative seems to consume next-to-nothing otherwise I don't know how to lead a sustainable life without losing every morsel of freedom to do the things I find most pleasurable and creative. No, I could never be fulfilled leaving behind a legacy of "had an okay garden some years, eventually mastered salsa-making and cooked soups reasonably well once she hit her sixties".

Wet Shirt Sleeves

I need to get some fucking wristbands, you know, the kind that collect SWEAT for when I'm washing my face or basically doing anything at a sink that involves putting my hands in running water and taking them out again.

Washing my face: you know that wonderful feeling of putting a hot, damp rag on your tired eyes? Bliss! UNTIL DROPLETS OF WATER STARTS RUNNING DOWN YOUR HANDS, WRISTS, AND TRICKLING DOWN YOUR FOREARM eventually being absorbed into your pajama sleeves, the ones you choose for warmth and comfort but are now going to be soggy, cold yuckiness around your wrists.

And now I don't even know how this happened, that when I washed my hands and put in my contacts my left sleeve got soaked. I fucking LOATHE that sensation. Sitting at the computer with a damp SLEEVE softly bouncing on and off my wrist.

And don't EVEN get me started about wet socks. . . . oh jesus CHRIST!

Disappearing License Keys

You know how when you spend your money on software they issue you a registration or license key?

Yeah, well I have one of those for a piece of software, and it entitles me to a year of free upgrades. So what happens when I try to install the upgrade? It *uninstalls* the old version ALONG WITH THE LICENSE KEY, and then the NEW version wants me to key it in, but of course, I don't know off the top of my fucking head where it's at.

So now I get to waste a shitload of fucking time trying to unearth the code. God I fucking hate this crap. What a goddamned waste of my time.

And don't even say that I should have that shit organized; I fucking *do*! I'm sure I have three versions of it saved safely away, but they are eluding me, probably because the emails don't say the NAME of the software, but some mysterious and completely unguessable company name so search, and scanning my "important reference" and "receipts" folders yields fucking nothing. I want to fucking SCREAM.

More Gravel Raking?

What the fuck is that sound on a pleasant windows-open September weekend? Someone raking gravel again? Someone stroking a very long tube of cardboard with very dry, calloused hands? Someone brushing metal with sandpaper in three foot long strokes? Oh, it's someone sweeping their driveway.

Schhhhhhhhhwwwwwwwwwwwwwiiit! Schhhhhhhhhwwwwwwwwwwwwwiiit! Schhhhhhhhhwwwwwwwwwwwwwiiit!

I would like to stick that broom handle straight up that motherfucker's ass.

Oh god. Now someone is striking up a conversation. Two BOOMING men's voices. HIIIIII. Blah blah fucking blah. I hate the sound of people. When I'm at home, I don't want to be reminded you exist within earshot of me. Go inside and watch some football or something.

Browser Updates, Java, Flash, Windows, WP -- FUCK!!

I am so motherfucking sick of every fucking time I turn on a computer or try to open a browser, having to wait for another fucking firefox or windows or WHATEVER THE FUCK update to take place. Or having our computers and webcams go down in the middle of the night in order for such automated bullshit to take place.

I understand the necessity of it, I'm just sick of it being such an obvious and continuous part of my life. When you have seven or eight machines and need all of them to PERFORM NOW, it feels so repetitive and never-ending. Which I should just accept, because IT IS. It FEELS that way because it IS that way. I just hate it. HATE IT. Sick of the tech treadmill.

Maybe I'm particularly irritated by it because we just got home from spending an AMAZINGLY FABULOUS three nights in a cabin without running water or electricity or cell phone coverage. And now we're back home to all of this intrusive SHIT. The sound of neighbors' car doors slamming, the hum of these fucking computers, the constant bullshit of software telling me it needs to update now! It just updated! Oh wait, needs to update again! Oh, hahaha -- you thought you'd have a break from that but EVERY FUCKING DAY ON ONE COMPUTER OR ANOTHER, there's something that needs to be updated! Let me just snatch a few moments of your time to make you sit here and wait for some bullshit or make you restart everything . . .

I could cry right now, I want to be back in the woods so fucking bad.

YES I want you to bag my fucking groceries!

The hippy-ass food coop. There are so many things I love and HATE about shopping there. The limited hours. The narrow aisles filled with snot-nosed kids and stoned, oblivious slowpokes standing in the middle of everything you want to get at.

I especially hate it when the cashiers don't even move a muscle to bag your groceries. Happened to me today on my horrifying second trip there (one trip a week is too much, two trips in one day? NIGHTMARE) to get the cilantro and coffee I forgot. At the end of our little exchange, the cashier looked at me and feebly ASKED, "do you want me to bag your groceries for you?"

YES. YES I FUCKING WANT YOU TO BAG MY FUCKING GROCERIES. I wouldn't be standing here if I didn't. I want you to bag my groceries just like I want a farmer to grow my vegetables and a butcher to kill the cows I eat. The only way I would want to bag my groceries myself is if THE GROCERIES WERE FREE. But as long as I'm paying for them and you're a cashier and ostensibly have some experience at packing shit properly into those floppy fucking reusable bags, then I fucking want you to finish your fucking job.

I know I'm being crazy about this. I know that it would make just as much sense to me to be the kind of person who realizes customers who pack their own groceries are just helping the line be more efficient and not treating the hired help like slaves. I guess. I mean, I think it's great that some people are into packing their own groceries. Good for them! That's so nice and maybe preferable to them than just standing around while someone else does the work. NOT FOR ME THOUGH.

I *did* my work when I tortured myself SELECTING all of the groceries and PAYING for them. I guess what really pisses me off is getting the message that I'm somehow being unreasonable or lazy or something for thinking that self-bagging should be the exception, not the rule. If I didn't run over to the end of the counter to pack my fucking groceries then clearly you should DEFAULT to what SHOULD be the STANDARD OPERATING PROCEDURE of bagging my motherfucking groceries! Don't ask me just to make me feel bad. Don't ask me if I *want* you to do it *for me* like you're doing me a fucking favor. You're not. That's part of your fucking job. Yes, I know the word "co-op" is part of the store's name, but you are still getting paid. It's not a fucking volunteer position.

Granola cunt in line behind me got all agitated and grim upon witnessing my lazy-ass refusing to bag my own shit. She shoved past me like I was holding her up so she could grab a paper bag and show me how it's done. Listen, bitch; I brought a REUSABLE bag instead of using PAPER so stick your little lesson straight up your ass. My reusable bag trumps your pushy helping hands.

Fuh-huh-HUCKING hate that shit!!

Dryer Sheets

It's bad enough having to walk down the PERFUME aisle (laundry detergents, fabric softeners, etc.) at the grocery store -- a fucking migraine waiting to happen, but at least you can kind of avoid that aisle with a little planning.

What you CAN'T avoid are the people in your neighborhood who use those products, especially scented dryer sheets, and are equipped with blowholes in the sides of their houses to disseminate the cloying aroma of their laundry drying so it can be smelled as far away as three blocks.

Woe is me with my office window facing our idiot neighbor's garage where her washer and dryer are located. I can't open my window to get REAL fresh air; I have trademarked APRIL fresh air foisted upon me like a toxic gas.

That shit should be against the law. It's a fucking health hazard for a lot of people with allergies, migraines, asthma, chemical sensitivities, etc.

I don't mind when I can smell the smoke from their marijuana, just please don't make me smell that ghastly laundry perfume, mkay? NASTY.

UNsubscribe!

Somewhere along the line I got signed up to a healthy-eating newsletter. I mean, I definitely signed myself up for it, I think because they had good recipes. No complaints there, I just got tired of my inbox having five emails from them (that I never felt like reading) every week and decided to get off the list.

When I finally found the teeny-tiny link to unsubscribe and clicked on it, it took me to a long-ass list of a billion newsletters, each with their own radio buttons to either subscribe or unsubscribe. I had to SEARCH to find the one newsletter I was subscribed to so I could unsubscribe.

Of course, it could've been worse, but still -- really shitty/not-simple, and this annoys me because it's always us pornographers who get the bad rap with this shit, yet mainstream/non-adult gets away with it constantly. Fucking people, wasting their time, high-pressure bullshit.

Deaf Fuckers & Their Dogs

After an agonizingly long, snowy (for Western Washington) winter, we had our second day of spring today. Yes, this is only the second beautiful, sunny day we have had. Tonight it's lovely and the frogs are croaking. I'd love to hear them and enjoy the silence. Maybe open a window for some fresh air.

EXCEPT EVEN WITH THE WINDOWS CLOSED, SOME FUCKER'S BARKING DOG IS INTRUDING ON THE PLEASANTNESS OF THE EVENING. For a fucking hour or so. What the fuck is wrong with these shitholes who let their dogs yap ceaselessly? I'm seriously about ready to get in my car and find the source, pull up to their house and lay on the horn until someone comes out. And just keep laying on it, staring at them, and BARKING madly at them out my window.

Get the picture you inconsiderate festering fuckheads?

DVD Cases

How the film industry makes up for money they lose to piracy: by making their discs impossible to extract from their cases and super-breakable. I know! Let's get people to buy their favorite movies and television shows at least TWICE! How? By impaling each one on little plastic rosebuds with kung-fu grip strength. When they enthusiastically try to remove them, they bend, crack and/or break! AWESOME!

Fuckers.

Ding Dongs & Better Desserts

My birthday was on Tuesday so I've allowed myself a few disgusting treats, namely chocolate susans (those white cookies from Safeway with turd-swirls of chocolate frosting on top) and a box of Hostess ding dongs. Oh, and some Russian Caravan tea sweetened with sugar (I normally try to steer clear of caffeine and, lately, simple sugars).

Aside from the normal guilt (and discomfort up-to/including migraines) I get from eating total crap, I feel horrid about buying SHITTY desserts. I mean, if I'm going to splurge I really would prefer to get really high-quality desserts. There are a number of good bakeries in town, two of which SOMETIMES have Pain au chocolat. The problem is they only have it in the morning, are closed before dinnertime, AND MY WILLPOWER IS AT ITS LOWEST WHILE MY DESIRE IS AT ITS PEAK AT NIGHT.

Pastries and warm bread and chocolate aren't things I want to schedule in advance into the loathsome morning (not that I don't enjoy eating those things in the morning, I just don't *crave* them then / am thoroughly capable of resisting them at a time of day when swallowing food sometimes makes me want to vomit). I want doughy, gooey, sweet, melty and chewy deliciousness AT NIGHT. When I'm in bed with my girlfriend watching overwrought BBC dramas. When it's dark out with no light to distract me from the flavors in my mouth. When I'm setting the stage for my favorite part of the day: the time when I SLEEP.

Sigh. Food is the *only* thing that makes me wish we lived in Manhattan. Seriously.

Hairy Socks

Screech!

Nothing sucks harder than discovering AFTER you've donned socks AND shoes that there's a long hair inside your sock. And it's wrapping around your toes like a tight strand of twine, or simply wedged in your toe cleavage and sharply cutting into your tender flesh each time you take a motherfucking STEP.

Pain and irritation (and anything I have to BEND OVER to remedy) are things I bitch about often.

Motherfucking Phone Books

I get so fucking sick of seeing those yellow pieces of shit and those extraneous other weird off-brand bullshit phone books, assloads of new ones every year, stacking up in the fucking house, wrapped in plastic laying in your yard, blah blah blah. I want to stick those fuckers right up some advertiligious buttfuckers ass. We should be able to opt out of getting those things or press littering charges against them or SOMETHING. They should have a kiosk or something for people to pick them up IF THEY WANT THEM. If, you know, they're living in a world without the internet.

I'm ready to go crazy and find all the stupid phone books lurking in our house, taking up space, gathering dust, wasting paper and just go shrieking out of the house throwing them around, ripping them up, freaking the fuck out.

I'm so sick of being a garbage receptacle/processor in my home. SICK of it. Waste of my time, waste of my space, calling card to robbers that we're not home when you toss them onto our porch . . . I don't want your yellow fucking pages foisted upon me.

I should wipe my ass with a page of telephone book every day and mail it to the fucking shitholes. Oh! You didn't ASK me to RSVP my feces to you? TOO FUCKING BAD. When you quit, so will I.

Fucking Tampon Wrappers!

Natracare organics: do you sit around and laugh at how fucking impossible it is to get the plastic wrapper off your fucking organic cotton tampons? Or are you so totally fucking stoned like most hippies that you think you're doing us all a favor, giving us a puzzle to contemplate while blood drips down our thighs? Around and around and around you spin the tampon, attempting to determine where the wrapper begins . . . or is it where the wrapper ends? Wow, that's deep!

Seriously fuckers -- your natural pussy pellets need a more practical wrapping, not this endless line of yellow with no way to figure out where to try to unpeel the little fuckers. I stood in my bathroom scratching my nail against the plastic trying to find the place to start ripping it off until I fucking screamed. If I could have brained myself into oblivion with your stupidly-packaged product, I would have.

Absolute crock of shit.

PMS

Having an EXTREMELY difficult time with PMS today. I don't want to look at anyone or hear anyone or be bothered by anyone or anything.

MY COMPUTERS ARE MOVING SO SLOWLY. I want to throw things, rip my hair out, and just freak out. Total tantrum welling up in me and just hugely irritable energy.

Everything my body needs to do is driving me nuts/feels like a major interruption. Oh, you need to PEE again? Fucking stupid body, interrupting me. Hungry now, are we? I'll shove some food down your throat, asshole body. Label itching my side needs to be scratched makes me want to shred my skin and rip the shirt to bits.

I've been working on one thing for three days now and I am so fucking sick of it and want to SCREAM. But I want it to be better, not totally half-assed. I know it won't be perfect, but yeah. And every. little. PROCESS involved is taking so much time.

When I forget something and need to go into another room to get it so I can do whatever I'm trying to do, I want to scream and throw things.

So yeah -- PMS means wanting to scream and throw things a lot.

Silencio, Por Favor

I've been up for an hour.

The feeling I have right now of not wanting to talk or interact or look at anyone or listen to their sounds is absolutely painful. I can feel it in my crotch, like screaming tension.

Jesus, send me some fucking medication. I wish I didn't feel this way. But even more than that I naturally, intuitively wish I could cushion and hide myself from the stimuli when it's driving me fucking insane.

I know if I went for a brisk walk/got some exercise I'd feel better BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT I WANT TO DO RIGHT NOW. I just want still, quiet peace.

Since I went off the pill a year ago I've gradually gotten to a state where I feel like I have pms ALL THE TIME. I suspect I have a hormone problem that involves too much testosterone and too little estrogen. God I want my estrogen back. Pleeeeeeeeeease.