My Angry Rant against Comcast

Everyone has days where things go wrong.  Today I had one.  It wasn’t big stuff.  No one was gruesomely injured.  We didn’t lose our house, our dog, our children.  Nothing burned.  Still, my day just sucked.  I put all of the blame squarely on Comcast, my mortal enemy.

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I believe that Comcast, married to Obama, could power a universe with their evil.  Set that to the music of Kenny G and it would form a trifecta from which Armageddon could be set into motion.

My family had been wailing daily of the slowness of our internet.  To me, it was fine.  I’m not running any power plants or controlling mutant dwarfs through imaginary lands, though.  I’m just tracking my calories, my steps, checking Facebook, ordering stuff and writing crap.  What do I know?

So, I got sucked into the Comcast myth.  The myth that it would be zippy fast and we would, indeed, be ushered into the world of the future.

This is its insidious path of destruction:

Since its installation I have seen The Goose shoot smoke from his ears.  I have seen him throw things that make the dogs run and cower. He has clung to our neighbor, begging for help.  The man has utilized his mighty powers of obscene swearing to the utmost.  Comcast shut his entire office down.  It has caused his printer (which is also my printer) not to accept things from me.  Apparently my sweet obedient Macbook is making romantic overtures, but the printer is in flannel pajamas.  Like an unhappy marriage, they can no longer communicate.

Our TV picture is now made of little squares, through which I must only imagine what is going on.  Our DVR doesn’t work.

Image To call Comcast, one must call the 800 number.  Oh, there’s a local number, but it routes one to the 800 number.  Sneaky.  Once answered, there is a series of digits that must be pressed to get to an operator.  This takes a good 45 minutes, if it indeed ever happens.  This is all done to the accompaniment of Kenny G.  It causes the equivalent of ice picks to my eardrums and goes on for eons. Dishwashers get unpacked and repacked. I stripped four beds, washed the sheets and remade them during one wait.  I think one day I drove to the grocery store, shopped and was putting away groceries before a human being answered.

When the operator comes on, the fun begins.

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I have no problem with India.  I loved the Marigold Hotel movie.  I liked Eat, Pray, Love.  I like my Indian orthopedic doctor.  I have a real problem, though, with someone six million miles away telling me they understand, could I please calm down.  When I hung up from the last call The Goose said “The man on the other end of that call is thanking Vishnu you’re not his wife”.  Damn straight.

I got so frustrated, I cried.  Not from sadness, but from sheer rage.

Three times I’ve managed to get a service person out here. It took 11 calls and 3 full man hours waiting on hold to accomplish this. In 30 days, three service people.  Each time, they have told me the last one didn’t know what he was doing.  Ya think? Yesterday, I was told my equipment, which was installed 30 days ago, was old.

My bill, my first bill, has a mysterious $125 extra charge on it.  I still have not reached anyone to ask about this but feel if I just ignore them for a while, someone will eventually contact me about it.

So, in the midst of this misery, I needed to mail stuff.  Stuff I couldn’t print.  I’ll take my laptop to the UPS store, thought I.  On the way my phone died. This probably was not the fault of Comcast, but one never knows.  I think the very presence of that unholy entity in our home could be sending poison throughout each and every electrical appliance as well as my brain.  I dropped my phone in with my dry cleaning and figured that out about an hour later after numerous panic filled searches through my car and purse.  Had to go back to the cleaners and try to explain that. In Korean.

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The UPS store couldn’t print my stuff. I still don’t understand why. I blame Comcast or Obama. I couldn’t call anyone and whine about it, though, because my phone still wouldn’t work.

Came home, tried to use the little printer that came with my computer two years ago.  Doesn’t work!  Keeps telling me it is out of paper.  I have told it, in a fatal move with a paper weight made of rock that it did, indeed, have paper after all, but that won’t matter to it where it’s going. I do blame Comcast here because I couldn’t use my regular printer because it is out, lost in the new internet stratosphere.

Image Why, you ask, do I waste time writing about this?  Because all of this started because my home office is FUBAR, all due to the inadequacy of Comcast. I’m hoping an angry mob will form.  A group that will complain loudly enough that someone will listen.  A sound loud enough to be heard all the way to India. Or even a group that will band together with me to systematically spray paint every truck and sign that says Comcast and change it to Combastard.

It’s 4:00 and I’m calling it a day.  I know when I’m beaten.  I am waiving the white wine, I mean white flag.  I find that these days are most often followed by a day where everything works beautifully.  I’m counting on one of those tomorrow and if I don’t get one I’m finding the first Comcast truck I see on the road.  You’ll read the headlines.

 Middle Aged Woman, in Cute Sparkle Boots, with Fabulous Necklace, Holds Comcast Employee Hostage.

Man is Made to Listen for Hours to Intense Whining and Bitching Set to the Tune of Kenny G.

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Divine Wine

ImageThe Goose said the other day that, truly, alcohol was the cause of most of the trouble in the world.  I was shocked that he would say that to me.  I felt personally offended.

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I sound like a bigger lush than I am.  I would say I am low to medium in the world of 45 – 55 year old women who love wine.  I feel like wine ranks in the top ten list of things necessary to a good life, but not in the top 5. I think most women my age feel wine is what KEEPS trouble from happening. I’m sure that during those scary mid-winter evenings, when my child announced he had a project due the next day, his father was working late and our printer was out of ink, a small tipple is what kept me from committing a harmful crime upon a child. I have no doubt the Wright Brothers mother, after watching her children take to the skies, turned to her best friend and said, “well, I think I need a little something”.  I feel certain the reason so many marriages stayed together in the 50s is surely because of that golden slice of time, “the cocktail hour”.  How many women would have made it through visits from mother-in-laws without a little help?

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That said, it HAS caused problems.

The Goose’s and my favorite thing is the crime blotter from the little paper from the town near our lake house.  Each and every one of these brilliant crimes is alcohol fueled and causes us no end of mirth.

Here is just a sampling of some police blotter incidents, not all from our town:

  1. Man said ex-girlfriend broke into home when he was not home and stole all the sheetrock from his house.
  2. Police responded to a report of a drunk man who had broken into a store.  Upon entering the store, the officer shouted out “Marco”, to which the suspect, who was hiding, responded “Polo”.
  3. Police responded to a man who claimed someone was in his bedroom, standing in the corner and looking at him.  When officers turned on the light, it was discovered that it was a cardboard cutout of Arnold Schwartzenegger.
  4. Surveillance cameras showed a man weaving through the pet store and shoving a baby alligator down his shirt.

And my favorite of all time:

5.  A woman on 37th street called 911 and reported that her boyfriend refused to BRING HER A CASSEROLE.

Okay, we’ve all been hungry and number 5 might be understandable.  I once cried because The Goose would not leave work to bring me dumplings when I was pregnant. Clearly, though, each of these perps was out of his mind, most likely on MD 20/20, that low rent standby.

It’s true that alcohol does make some people fight more (not me, I love everyone and by that I mean, everyone) and it has caused countless mad bouts of slurring karaoke at office parties that has made millions call in sick to work to avoid embarrassment the next day. But, on the flip side, it has caused billions and billions of mothers, throughout history, to glance at the clock while toddlers drool on their pants leg, puppies poo on their floor and husbands call to say they’ll be late shudder with glee that 5:00 has come again and they can sit quietly and sip a glass while Mr. Rogers plays softly in the background.

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It prompts stories to be retold, year after year because someone does something stupid involving jello or shaving cream.  It allows us to know deep dark secrets because someone belts out their inner desires at a party.  Someone I know, but will not name, once went back into a bar, at closing time, went into the bathroom and fell asleep on the toilet not to awaken until she was found locked in the next morning.   That’s a good story, years later, that wouldn’t have happened if she’d been pounding diet Coke.  She grew up and became, guess what, a fabulous, stylish and respectable attorney.  See?  It all turned out just fine.

Yes, it does give false courage and cause self respecting women to pour dish soap into neighbor’s tacky fountains.  Okay, it pushes some women to call up ex-husbands while their good friends egg them on.  (I’m sorry.)  It whispers to some idiotic ladies, while lingering over a glass at dinner, to tell their children that one of them was conceived in their grandparents’ swimming pool.  Geez. It’s possible The Goose had something there.

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Like the saying goes, no good story ever started with “hey y’all, want a salad?”.  I’m not promoting booze, and I’m not talking to folks that truly have a problem.  I’m just musing about it and repeating the conversation I had with The Goose when he uttered his proclamation.  I agree, it’s not for everyone.  It causes beaucoup problems for many, but most of us keep it in its place and in perspective. I’m sharing with those women who call each other up right in the middle of helping with math homework and say “Hey, wanna come over for a quick glass?” and the response is “Oh, thank the Lord in Heaven!”.  Speaking to those of us who have sometimes wrapped a waiter in a snuggly hug when he arrives and announces that he has La Crema by the glass”.

In any tee-totaling argument I always pull out the trump card when I whip out this doozy:  The first miracle was water into…what’s that?  Oh, yeah, wine.

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Ugh!

Ugh,

I am not whining, I promise, but this weather simply won’t work for me.  I heard a man at the store yesterday say “oh, I don’t do cold”.  Well, what the heck do you think we’re doing, Mister?  What did he mean by this?  How is he getting around it?

We all know this is coming every year.  I have gotten better at it but the lack of outdoor exercise, absence of sunlight, vitamin D, green trees, flowers, lawn mowing, absence of the smell of grass just gets to me after a while.

ImageSaturday, the unthinkable happened, and that beastly, feces throwing mammal, General E. Lee, our Georgia groundhog, predicted another six weeks of this limbo. I love groundhogs, have raised them, honk and wave at them when I pass them on the road and never wish any animal harm…except this one.  I think his stint of fame is done and it’s high time to usher in a new one.  His “wildlife sanctuary” is a particularly horrible place I’d like to see shut down as well, but I won’t get on my soap box. But don’t give them money.

I have certainly bemoaned  this season before and won’t be redundant and complain about it again.  So, constructively, this is what I’m doing to keep from crawling under the bed and crying:

  1. I ordered chicks.  This is really going to piss off the Goose, who feels we should be scaling back on all things animal.  I ordered top hat babies, sure to thrill and delight all.  The thought that they will be mailed to me on February 27th and, once more, the very proper man from the post office will call me and tell me I have a package that is making noise, this makes me happy.  I want chickens who strut around like they’re proud and look like David Bowie.  I want rock stars.Image
  2. I cleaned out my pantries and put in fabulous wrapping paper as shelf paper and I feel that if a surprise inspection by Martha Stewart should happen I would feel proud of my self before I ushered her rude self out of the house. (When reading back over this without my glasses, I thought I had written that I had cleaned out my panties, not pantries.  This has caused me to want to make a trip to Victoria’s Secret, which might just cheer me up, so hooray for poor eyesight.)
  3. I am looking at greenhouse catalogues.  This is a yearly ritual wherein I make the Goose drive me past several great greenhouses I know of and I say “gosh, her husband must really love her” and I sigh.  So far, it’s not working but I am adding the bonus pressure of telling him that Tortellini could live in there in the winter and save all that money we spend heating the barn.  I think if I could root around in there in the dirt I’d be happier.   images-7
  4. I go to Pikes and walk around in their greenhouse and just smell things. I do this because I do not have one of my own…
  5. I bake.  I can’t cook but I can make a cake.  Pink ones with pink icing, lemon pound cakes, chocolate with coffee icing.  I don’t even like cake, I just like to smell them and see them sitting on the counter on a pretty cake stand.  Somebody should probably stop me.  Cricket’s boyfriend commented yesterday that I was sure baking a lot and Cricket told him “she does it when she gets sad in the winter”.  She said it like one would say “poor ol’ Memaw, bless her heart, she likes to make puppy noises at the dinner table”.  Like I was pitiful or something.  All this baking really doesn’t help because I then feel grouchy that I have to clean up the pans and the entire mood is broken. Maybe I’ll just remove this one.Image
  6. I bought a shirt so bright that the Goose refused to be seen with me in it. It WAS an ugly shirt so I braved the cold and returned it. That didn’t help that much either.

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  7. I keep “birdsong radio” going at all times.  I am starting to whistle back and have been craving sunflower seeds.
  8. I am eating pills, rubbing on cream and keeping tablets under my tongue of mass quantities of vitamin D.  So far, I just smell like old person cream.
  9. I made jello shots in happy summer flavors like mango and lemonade.  This turned out so terribly that I can’t comment on it here without someone calling AA and turning me in as a suspect.  Let’s just say I’m on the wagon for a month or so and will never partake of jello again …

10. I’d like to come up with something else, but it’s cloudy and it’s cold, and, as happy a person as I am, I am definitely in a winter funk. I’d like to figure out why this number 10 won’t line up with the others, but really, does it matter in this dark and dreary world?

Even in my brightest sweater and even with the “year of the scarf”, I’m sick of this mess.

I know there is an army of my friends who will give me a good amen. I’d prefer they give me airline tickets to somewhere where the sun actually shines. Ugh.

All Aboard to Ladytown and Boobyville (not a men’s blog)

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My daughter is a modest child.  I cannot conceive of where she gets this trait.  Even as a kid, I would whip off my clothes to swim or run through the sprinkler.  My mother caught me showing off my parts to the little boy next door and I was summarily sent to the “switch” tree to choose a limb with which I would be whacked.  There was lots of skinny dipping as a teen and in those college years came the advent of the hot tub.

Today, at my ripe old age, I would need at least two weeks of prep time before I could even begin to think about getting into a hot tub with others.  No carbs could be consumed, there would need to be a good bit of epilation and it would have to coincide with a “good booby day”.  In other words, it might not occur except during a comet.

It occurs to me that I require a lot of prep in general now.  I have scheduled these two weeks as my doctor weeks for the year.  Doctors?  Yes, plural.

I was married 8 years before my first child came along.  In those years, our insurance company was laughing all the way to the bank as neither I nor the Goose made one doctor visit.  Upon having a baby, I was gobsmacked to learn all that’s involved with body maintenance.  After my babies, I again drifted into no man’s land for years with no medical upkeep.  When my mother died, I figured out that she had not visited a doctor in 43 years.  She fully believed that once you let ‘em in, you never get away and I’m beginning to find this is true.

Today I’m at the breast doctor. Driving down here, I was listening to a Kanye song that starts out “weeping and a moaning and a gnashing of teeth” and that refrain has been playing in my mind while I wait.  This is a three hour ordeal where lots of woman are sitting around in blue robes, like at the spa, and waiting to be called for a squeeze and a picture, NOT like at the spa.  Sometimes there are strangled screams from behind closed doors. This is not as fun as it sounds.  There is a drink machine, but not the right kind to make it okay for a stranger to  wrestle with me while feeling me up.  I keep thinking this is NOT a good thing going on here and I feel kinda resentful that I was  told that my breasts were dense.  I have a snappy comeback, but it just seems downright rude, and I got a “look” when I giggled at the nurses cold hands, so I’ll keep these things to myself. Apparently, there is no humor in boobland.

ImageTomorrow’s appointment is with my dermatologist, who will remove a small part of my facial expression for a lot of money.

Next comes the gynecologist who does things to my Ladytown that any other man would need at least two drinks and a bracelet to try.

My point, ladies, is that it takes a village to just stay even now.  Remember just rolling out of bed, in last night’s mascara and pulling on jeans off the floor that were baggy because you just lost weight as you slept?  Remember partying at night and waking up without a face as puffy as Mayor McCheese? I hate it that I’ve had to break up with french fries and nachos.  I want to tell them I really miss them and never stopped loving them.  I dream of them.

All my life, I thought I would get to a “certain age” and stop having to worry about it.  Our mother’s generation did.  They went to get their hair done once a week, wore a girdle and ate whatever they wanted.  Like a donkey following a carrot on a stick, I’ve been following this dream.  Now, it looks like the reality IS the carrot, not the carrot cake.  There are no girdles for us, no wash and set perms.  Where are our turbans?  Our mumus?  Gliding through middle age trying to look like a teenager, feel like a 20 year old and think like an adult is not all it’s cracked up to be.  Somehow, I’ve exchanged my spring breaks for doctor’s week.  Not a fair trade at all!

Hey, Move Over, Will Ya?

I know I’ve ranted about this before.  This blog is bound to offend lots of people, but it needs to be said. There is something wrong with women driving minivans.  Their rage knows no bounds. 

I’ve been a runner for years.  I’m not fast, but I can go a long way for a long time.  I love it.  It keeps me sane.  Sometimes, I’ll be running along and the sun will break through the clouds, something really spectacular will shuffle through on my earplugs and I will have to try very hard not to break into song and dance right there on the road.  When I run, my heart, like the Grinch, grows three sizes.  I love everyone. I become euphoric.  I love the transvestite on the corner.  I love the old men watering their lawns, fat lazy beagles by their sides.  I wave at women waiting by their mailboxes for the school bus to bring their babies home.  I love that the UPS lady always grins and yells “you’re crazy, girl!”.  I grin like a fool at passing cars.  I find my brain works faster and I think about a million things at once.  In other words, I get happy. 

The one thing, other than pitt bulls surprising me on the road, that really harshes my mellow, is women, usually driving the dreaded minivan.  

I know they’re pissed off by this.  Surely they are in transportation hell.  I sympathize with them because this cannot be a good environment.  These are angry women, late to girl scouts, with pads of paper stuck to their dash boards, mom jeans and sensible haircuts.  Their vehicles are decorated with those most hated little stickers on their windows, you know the ones, with the little stick figures depicting the entire family, what sport their kids play (dear Lord, most likely Upward sports where no one loses and there is no score) and mouse ears if they’ve been to Disney World.  For some reason these women refuse to share the road.  I know this must surely be a documented fact that other runners have noted.  

Several times I’ve been forced to jump into a ditch because one of these mommys believes the road is hers and hers alone.  They refuse to budge and inch. Happened again just today.  Their mouths set in a grim line, their backs hunched over the steering wheel, whirlwinds of papers, worksheets and wipes whipping around their heads in a tornado created by the air conditioner cooling them in their overheated PTA sweatshirts.  

This doesn’t happen with any other demographic.  A man, for instance, would never do this.  Southern men, especially.  A southern man is usually driving a truck for one thing.  He’s driving slowly and looking for any good excuse to waste some time.  The average southern man will slow down and do an exaggerated double take.  Not getting a good enough look, he will then examine a female runner through his side window.  He’ll wave, shout something, and move as far over into the other lane as possible to give her room.  That’s because, even if a southern man is trying his best to get a glimpse of a side boob, he will remain polite because his mama taught him how.  He will then continue to check out the rear view all while ensuring the runner is safe.  How many times has a man stopped when I’ve been in a tight spot with a dog that won’t leave me alone and he’s gallantly stayed until I was safely by?  Lots of times.  Not too long ago I was really in a bad place and tried to wave a woman down to help me.  She slowed, observed my situation and then just drove on.  What the heck?  

A southern man will usually give a good wave, a whoo-hoo, or even a damn, baby, all while smiling and wishing you well.  Since I’ve gotten old, I don’t get the whoo-hoo or the damn, baby all that much.  I’m sorry for all the times I looked disdainfully at someone hooting and hollering.  It’s kinda sad when it’s over. 

My point here is that someone should be looking at these minivan driving moms for unsolved crimes.  I can see that they’re furious.  They’re pushy and they darn sure don’t want any other women exercising or feeling good about themselves.  They have formed an army that uses the innocuous titles that slip by unnoticed.  PTA, Homeschooling Moms Association, Team Moms.  Don’t be fooled by this.  They’re out there, they’re angry, and they already own the roads. 

The Scary Hag in the Kitchen

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This morning, after the cleaning massacre in three part harmony that occurred here yesterday, I laid around in my jammies and made a doctor’s appointment or two.  Or six.  

 

All my life, except for one small event, I’ve been super healthy.  I eat right, I exercise, I take a giant handful of vitamins everyday, twice a day.  I drink only water and, just a tad of alcohol.  No milk, no sodas, I never have. I juice kale, for crying out loud.  I have a LOT of energy.  Lots of it.  I know my family wishes I had a bit less. 

 

I’ve also been someone who scoffs at those with allergies, those with nasty, rashy skin, those complaining of aches and pains.  I am now shouting to the universe “I’M SORRY!!!!”.  I take it back.  All of it.  I’m sorry I made a mean high school girl’s face at people covered in pink calamine lotion.  I’m sorry I laughed at those with poison ivy woes, those with inhalers.  I really and truly apologize.  Please, karma, don’t let it be wine to which I’m allergic.  I promise to send in my St. Jude’s donation.  I promise not to swear at slow drivers (when they can actually read my lips and hand signals.  I feel that’s a good compromise.)

 

This summer, coming home from the lake, I developed a weird rash that covered me in pink camouflage by evening.  I went to a doc in the box, had a shot that hurt WAY more than it should, plus the added injustice of showing my spot riddled tee-hiney to a doctor half my age.  All was fine.  Then, months later, it happened again, out of the blue.  Again, I did the same thing but picked an older, less attractive doctor.  This Christmas, it came back with a vengeance.  This time, on my FACE.  My left eye swelled so that I resembled Marty Feldman.  I produced a bright red flush around my mouth that looked like I had forgotten to wash off Halloween makeup.  

 

So now, it’s returning.  This morning, I called an allergist.  I also called my breast care specialist, my gynecologist, my hormone doctor, my dermatologist because all this frowning has caused me to be able to form an expression and that, at least, I know can be remedied for four months with a shot!  I need to see the eye doctor, because I never have and I find that the world has taken on a fuzzy look but I found a really cute paisley pair of reading glasses at the dollar store and I’m just going to stick with that.  I’m scared of what I’ll see if I really can see.

 

Most of all, I called my hair dresser, who really can make a difference. 

 

The Goose was dilly-dallying around in the kitchen while I was making these appointments, waiting for his magic work pill to kick in, and I realized he was giving me serious and concerned glances.  Not the glances that say “hey, you’re looking kinda good here in this gloomy kitchen light” or “gee, I have never loved you more”.  It was more of the kind of glance Dorothy gave the Wizard when she pulled away the curtain.  

Girls, I realize now that I negligently made a classic mistake this morning.  Never, never, never let them see what keeps us propped up and looking like we’re 25.  Okay, 35.  Well, looking a little less like Mrs. Doubtfire.  I might as well been sitting there in a girdle and curlers with a cigarette hanging from my lips.  

 

I have no answers for how to remedy this.  I am scared of this old age thing. I was sure it would never find me.  I thought I was exempt since I still think I’m 16 inside. I’m going to work on it today, though. I will be braving the cold day with my top down (my car, not my shirt, dear God no), I am going to listen to rap. I might have to reach back into the knowledge of “What Would Doris Day Say?” and buy an actual negligée, I might have to wear gold lame, a push up bra and heels.  I know that I will not be bending over, with a giant swollen eye, in flannel jammies, picking up the poo Matilda left under the piano when the Goose comes back in tonight, though.  That probably wasn’t me at my best.  

 

10 Things that Confuse Me Today

 

  1. Why a dog will stand and bark for 20 minutes at a napkin ring that has rolled under the table in the dining room until I come and tell him it’s okay, I see it.  Then it is, apparently, fine. 
  2. Why the Goose can drink six Mountain Dews a day, a sleeve of cookies and three giant meals and remain slim while I exist on two celery sticks, one saltine and one chardonnay.  Seems downright unchivalrous. 
  3. Why people are interested in celebrities.  I don’t get it.  When I have been forced to watch TMZ, I don’t know anyone except Donny Osmond and Cher.  How do people keep up with these HoneyJerseyHousewifyboo people and WHY? Isn’t life interesting enough right outside our doors, if not quite as trashy? 
  4. Why anyone enjoys Christmas at all.  It seems like a big ol’ mess to me.  
  5. Why a woman, with H1N1, a throbbing ovarian cyst and a mortal shaving injury can still do six loads of laundry, find tights that match her daughter’s outfit, mentally located her teen aged son anywhere in the cosmos at any given second, run five miles, uphill, and still keep her home smelling like lemons while a man can sneeze and take to the bed, moaning and crying for soup like he enjoyed, from a dented, discounted can, when he lived with his mother, and no one even questions it. 
  6. Why someone can’t find an earth changing use for those “silk” ficus trees from the eighties.  Everyone had one, some had two.  No one has them now.  There must be a giant “silk” ficus forest somewhere.  Could they be used in prisons?  I think this is a thought for our representatives. 
  7. Why do we continually allow everyone to think for us?  My car tells me when and how to back up, my appliances tell me what they’re thinking, 20/20 tells me how large my meal from McDonalds should be, my government tells me everything else.  My inner rebellious princess is getting pretty tired of it all.  Am I normal? Isn’t anyone else feeling like they want to be a little, I don’t know, deviant?  I may have to roll someone or something. Graffiti anyone? 
  8. Why do strangers sometimes call me “hon”.  Sounds snippy, I know, but it makes me really cranky.  The Goose gets nervous when a waitress directs a “hon” toward me.  My gentleman neighbor calls me “little princess” and I’m good with that.  “Hon”, however, makes me want to snap my gum and order chili and black coffee from a woman named Flo.  I just don’t like it. 
  9. Gravity.  I include this for my daughter, who worries about me and my Dekalb County education.  As evidenced in a conversation with her recently,  “gravity, it just don’t make sense”. 
  10. How is it a house that looked sparkly and clean in the morning can look like a crack house by 6:30 in the evening?  In a direct link to number 9, is it possible there are small gravity deposits under the floor and on the bench in the mudroom, under the counters, under every surface within 30 feet of the door that would cause people to throw down their mail, books, scarves, jackets, cups still full of red colored drinks, shoes, bras (!?!) or anything they wanted out of their cars and LEAVE them there until   they are put away.  Bowls and plates of food, NEXT TO THE SINK!  Does anyone every wonder how they get put away?  People today are too soft, brought up with fairy tales and elves. I think family members need to be sat down and told the truth about the chore fairy, shown a picture of her haggard self, low on botox and hair color, pajamas held up by one remaining strand of elastic, swollen eyes from wine and salty food consumption.  Show them the real truth, the crime scene photos, the haggard mess the chore fairy has become, and maybe, just maybe, we can save the chore fairy.  Every time a cup is placed in the dishwasher, a chore fairy loses a wrinkle.  I do believe, I do. 

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