Best gif ever?

Basically.

Related: I miss you, Goog Reader. NEVER FORGET.

Just...no.

That is what popped up on my TV this morning.

I thought to myself, "Lisa, you have never seen an episode of Jersey Shore. I know your initial reaction is UGH HATE, but maybe give her a chance."

So I did.

And now I hate myself.

But not as much as I hate the word "guidette."

Apartment of death

Tonight, it rained it Chicago and everyone forgot how to drive.

I don't know why. I don't make the rules.

After sitting in traffic for about an hour, I finally got home to my apartment. As I walked up the back stairs, I heard a faint beeping...

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP...BEEP-BEEP-BEEP...

That's not coming from my place, is it? I thought.

Okay, it definitely is.

I threw my key into the lock and pried it open (janky old door), wondering just how long the beeping had been going on and how bat-shit-crazy-insane Rocco probably was after hearing it nonstop.

That's when I realized it was my carbon monoxide detector.

And my place smelled like gasoline.

OH MY GOD WE ARE GOING TO DIE.

In one fluid motion -- that's what it felt like, but I bet I looked more like an epileptic on meth -- I grabbed Rocco by the collar, swiped his leash from the couch and hauled ass outside.

Standing in the rain, I frantically called Dave and told him about how our apartment had turned into a beeping deathtrap. He told me that carbon monoxide doesn't smell and that I needed to call our neighbors to tell them what was going on. I demanded that he come home immediately and marched upstairs with my confused dog. We hug out with our cool neighbors while trying to describe what that smell was. Gasoline? Poisonous gas? GASOLINE? Totally gasoline.

We also brainstormed the source of the problem -- no question there. It was our "handyman." He sets up shop in our basement and makes random shit for our landlord. The latest project has been a pair of doors. Whatever.

Anyway, Tony soon decided I should go downstairs and open the windows while Lindsay decided she would call our landlord and give him a piece of her mind. I did, and also took a time out to put on some sweatpants and grab a few beers because, duh.

By the time Dave came home, our place didn't smell as bad and he decided it was safe to head back down to our floor. Also, he determined that the weird smell was clearly spray paint that our "handyman" had been using on the doors he was building.

So here we are.

The apartment's been aired out, I don't think I'm high and our dinner just arrived. All is right with the world, but just in case we don't wake up tomorrow, it's been nice knowing you.

Renegade

Renegade Craft Fair has its pluses. It's close enough for me to walk to, it takes place during a glorious time in Chicago and it even has some cute things for sale.

But it's also overrun with hipsters, some handmade trash and high price tags, and THAT is super-annoying.

So when I see posts like this (Missed Connections), I can't help but smile.

Hide yo' kids, hide yo' iPods

J recently had a break-in to her apartment. Thankfully, she wasn't there when it happened, but good lord that's freaky. Someone else. In your home. Taking your stuff. I kind of wanted to move her into my second bedroom for a while, but anyone who knows her knows that the offer would be met with a genuine smile and a "no thanks, you're being insane" eye roll.

Even though I've been locking all the doors I can possibly find ever since I heard this news, I don't think anyone would have an easy time getting into my particular apartment because of my gigantic dog...

As much of a lover as he is, he sounds like he could do some serious damage to your bones if he hears you outside.

Like my own little murdering alarm system.

But I realized something this morning.

If we ever buy a house -- like, with more than one story -- he'd let anyone in, as long as they break into a floor that he is not on.

Burglars above us, on the roof? "No biggie," he'd think.

Thieves below us, in the basement? "They probably belong there."

Roly-poly kleptos stealing all the food from the kitchen (while Roc rests in MY bed upstairs)? "I wonder if they'll drop anything for me..."

FAIL DOG.

(Yet another reason not to buy a single-family place.)

Anyway, stay safe out there, people. Lock your doors, lock your windows and let me know if you ever need to borrow The Roc.

My bad

Sometimes I really suck at driving. I mean, not in general, but we all have those momentary lapses when judgment and reason fly out the window and we do something completely dumbass -- which I did today.

After work, I ran to Walgreens and picked up a few things before heading home... like, 50 ft away.

I turn down my street and start to pull into the alley behind my apartment. And, of course, a huge white minivan (DIE, minivan) was coming down the alley without any hope of two of us fitting through there. I sighed and sat there for a minute making sure I could actually back up before getting out of their way.

Finally, I get a clearing and I slowly back up... and then someone hits my car with their fists.

Fists!

I stop short and immediately turn around to see who this asshole is. It's some tiny, middle-aged woman who was trying to get my attention because I was, ya know, about to hit her. Guess the asshole's me!

But instead of this little mishap ending there, she looks right at me and shrieks the most idiotic thing one could possibly say in such a moment.

"DID YOU SEE ME???!?"

Are you kidding? Yeah, lady, I saw you, but it's just one of my little quirks to try to plow down folks in the neighborhood. Come on! Also, you're two feet tall! I gave her the oddest look and yelled back, "UH, NO, OF COURSE NOT!" And then I did some flailing hand gestures that Italians so often do, pulled out safely and let the minivan (ugh) get out of the way.

And then I was really glad I had just picked up another refill of my Lexapro.

The end.

A relationship rant for Thursday

Just once, I would like to see an article on relationships/marriage that doesn't take cheap shots or use passive-aggressive (uh, or straight-up aggressive) language for the other side.

Two examples...


Why You're Not Married
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/tracy-mcmillan/why-youre-not-married_b_822088.html

• "The problem is not men. It's you."
• "You're a bitch."
• "Working around a man's fear and insecurity is big part of what you'll be doing as a wife."
• "You're shallow. / You're a slut. / You're a liar. / You're selfish."
• "A good wife, even a halfway decent one, does not spend most of her day thinking about herself."

Message: You're single because you're kind of awful and no man wants someone like you. (He wants a smiling, perky little thing to do his laundry, feed his ego and put him first.)


An Open Letter to the Women Who Are Telling Me It's My Fault I'm Not Married
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/brienne-walsh/an-open-letter-to-the-wom_b_829378.html

• "As I was leaving, she said to me, with a great deal of kindness: 'You're pretty, and you're smart. It's a curse. You'll have a lot of difficulty finding a man.' It could have been crushing, if I wasn't aware of it already."
• "In essence, in order to participate in the ritual custom of marriage, we have to become shadows of our best selves."

Message: You're not married because you're too awesome, too pretty, too educated, too powerful and too much of a fucking delight. (Those empty married folks? They didn't have much else going on in the looks or career department, so they got hitched instead.)


Sigh. Do you really know why you're not married? Me neither. And neither do these authors. And neither does anyone else. Except maybe Jessica Ravitz, who sums it up with a no-nonsense: "Sure, you might be a bitch, a slut, a liar, shallow, selfish or not good enough. Maybe, though, you happen to be 41 and single because life, real life with all its complications, has just worked out that way. So far."

That goes for everyone, married or not: life just worked out that way.

I believe I'm married because my life worked out in a way that I found Dave when I was young. It feels more like dumb luck than anything I planned, did or didn't do. And I'm getting annoyed with articles that ignore the role of luck while simultaneously taking a shit on women on the other side of the marriage line. I know women who are happy being married and women who are happy being single, and I also know that it's absurd to shove us all in the same box, toss around a bunch of labels and draw black-and-white conclusions based on little more than insufferable superiority.

So stop it.

/rant

The Facebook Four

I don't spend too much time on Facebook. And last night, I think I realized why: I am "friends" with some really, really annoying people. Like these four folks that seem to invade my newsfeed every time I log on...


The OMG MY LIFE IS AWESOME Friend
This is the person who updates Facebook every time he/she is at the bar, a club, a boutique, a restaurant, a trip, a date -- and, apparently, these things happen multiple times a day. I had no idea life could be so exciting.

Example statuses: "Digging my toes in the sand. I luuuuuuuv the beach and I luv my life!" "This new restaurant is kick-ass. My city rocks!" "Out with the crew. I have the best friends EVER."

What's really going on: Overcompensation.

What you should do: Feel pity.


The Creepy Parent
As someone who doesn't have kids, I can only handle so many status updates having to do with diapers, poop, babbling, baby bodily fluids and mundane "mishaps."

Example statuses: "My sweet little 'Picasso' strikes again, but with a Sharpie on my white walls! Good thing I love that kid!" "Sarah is 48 weeks, 6 days and 3 hours old right now! YAY!" "Grocery shopping alone and I miss my baby." "Joey just pooped in the bath for the third time this week, omg. So much poop. Look, here's a picture of the poop."

What's really going on: Uh, parenthood.

What you should do: Submit to STFU Parents and move on.


The Religious Fanatic
I've lived in the Bible Belt and been around tons of Southern Baptists who think all Jews (and especially halfsies like me) are going to hell. So if anyone should be accustomed to the incessant proselytizing, it's this girl. Still, I just can't.

Example statuses: "Looking at the sunset. Heavens declare the glory of God!!!!" "When God answers prayers, my faith is increased. Praise Him!" "So thankful for the Lord Jesus Christ, who blesses me each and every day." "The very air in my lungs is evidence of God's grace upon me."

What's really going on: I still don't know.

What you should do: Prepare yourself. Christmas is just a few weeks away and the status updates are about to get super-duper righteous.


The Bandwagon-er
It feels like there's always a meme of some sort floating around Facebook, often with the goal of "raising awareness" for some sort of cause, illness or tragedy. Recently, we saw it with the whole change-your-profile-to-a-picture-of-a-cartoon-character in order to... Actually, I have no idea what it was supposed to do. Something about child abuse. You know what those kids and organizations really need? Money. Time. Not a picture of a Care Bear.

Example statuses: "I like it on the kitchen table, lol." "Red." "I drink tequila!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

What's really going on: Idiocy

What you should do: Hide them from your newsfeed. Because this shit isn't gonna stop.


I'm not saying updates about your awesome life, awesome kids and awesome God should never exist. If anything, I'm guilty of the parental one because I'm obsessed with my dog. But to write these things over and over and over again, to the point where you talk about nothing else, well, that gets you on My List.

Who's on your list?

The Douchiest Neighbor of All Time

Oh my god, you guys, have I got a story for you. A story all renters can relate to.

So, I have this neighbor. He lives on the second floor of a three-flat with his girlfriend/wife/whatever. They moved in just a few months ago.

Facts about this neighbor:

• He drives an Escalade.
• He parks a band trailer in our driveway.
• He is covered in tattoos and thinks this makes him badass.
  
• He does not work during the day, as far as I can tell.
• He has 2 tiny, yappy dogs that pee all over.
• He is an angry, angry man.

I found out that last part this weekend.

You see, this douchey neighbor of ours brought the party back to the apt. after a late night out at the bars. Around 2am, loud music and shouting filled the whole building. This is NOT the first time this has happened, but it is the first time we decided to say something about it.

We woke up early the next morning for Dave's bike race and left the neighbors a note telling them how loud they are. For perspective, we wrote about how we can even hear their phone vibrating. We wrote about how a loud party at midnight or 1am isn't a big deal, but 3am? 4am? a regular basis? Not okay.

What we got back was this:






Fuck ourselves? Fuck our mothers? OH NO YOU DIDN'T!!

This morning, I was in a blind rage, ready to march upstairs and give that tool a piece of my mind. Dave, ever the sane one, would not let me. He said we were going to handle this like grown ups. (Slash bitch about it on the Interwebs.)

While I've been at work, Dave has continued to go upstairs to try to talk to The Douche. The Douche, though he is certainly home, will not answer the door.

Plan of action: Continue knocking on the door every few hours until he answers. Keep the landlord in the loop by copying the absurdly aggressive note in with our rent check. Call the cops next time a party ensues. Keep calling the cops every weekend, if needed. Hope and pray that they don't renew their lease.

Happy Monday.

I'm a parent to a teenager

Rocco's family reunion was this past weekend, so we threw him in the car like good parents and took him to the crazed event.

I say "crazed" because there were, oh, 20-something dogs running around like maniacs, sniffing each other's butts, barking loudly and generally spazzing out. There was even a hump or two. For Roc, it was heaven.

Pups everywhere

Sitting contest -- we're on the right

Me, surrounded by dogs

With all that stimulation, I guess it's not reasonable to expect your 18-month-old pup to be on his best behavior... and he wasn't. Yes, he almost won the sitting contest, but good lord, does my boy have a mouth on him. He kept barking every time another dog barked and even when everyone was silent.

In fact, during the raffle announcements, they announced the winning ticket for one prize and whose dog decided to bark? Mine. "No, Roc, you didn't win anything," I told him. He slumped down as if he understood English. But I know he doesn't because otherwise he would understand "GET THAT SLOBBERY TOY AWAY FROM MOMMY BECAUSE IT'S GROSS AND I DON'T PLAY."

Anyway, he was a bit of a hellion at the reunion, but so many other dogs were too. Seeing his behavior, we cornered the trainer who was there and bombarded her with questions to help figure out why he is an ass.

"How old is he?" she asked.

"About a year-and-a-half," I told her.

"Oh yikes," she said. "Worst age ever."

"Yeah... Wait, what?"

"Yep, this is a HORRIBLE age for a dog. You're basically raising a 15-year-old."

Oh. My. God. I hate teenagers so much. I don't want one! As I was absorbing this info (and some of her great training tips), I kept an eye on my little monster. Of course, he behaved like an angel when the trainer was near. Go figure.

When we got home, it was a different story. He did something that he has NEVER, EVER done. Something I never thought he would do in his lifetime.

He peed on my bed.

On purpose.

Right in front of me.

Fucking teens! I just know it was a spite-pee. I wouldn't play with him while I was eating dinner and when I went to go fold laundry in the bedroom afterward, he came with. He sat next to the bed, waiting for permission to come up.

What a good boy, I thought. Permission granted!

He got up there, started pawing and kicking the covers to create his own little "bed" and then promptly started peeing. Peeing!

I screeched, startled him enough to make him stop mid-pee and threw him off the bed while shouting obscenities. (My neighbors love me.) Roc knew he was in deep shit. He crawled out of the room with his ears back and his tail between his legs. I continued to rage. I told Dave what happened and he joined in on the rage with me. BAD BOY, ROCCO.

And to top off the evening, he decided he didn't want to go in his crate. Oh, sure, Roc, why don't you just sleep with us, since you've been soooo good. Guess again, jerkface. It was a bit of a battle, but he eventually accepted his fate.

But seriously, where is this behavior coming from?? I will not tolerate it in my house. I used to only have two house rules: No biting and no rapes. He obeys those. But it looks like I'll have to amend the rule to: No biting, no raping, no peeing.

Gah, I thought that was a given, but I guess not.

Welcome to the teenage years. They suck.

I'm not above fighting with old men

I have what's called a "short temper." Some days, it's shorter than others. I know this. You know this. It's just a fact.

Today, my short temper reared it's ugly head and I got into a fight with a 70-year-old man.

Don't judge me.

You see, I was walking my DEADLY MURDEROUS PIT BULL KILLING MACHINE through the neighborhood after work. As we passed one of the small parks, a child almost walked into him. Rocco halfway glanced at the kid and we kept walking... Until the kid's grandpa grabbed him and said, "That dog almost got you!"

Uh, slow reaction time aside, Gramps, I assure you, your kid was in no danger. So, because he's old and I'm trying to control my temper, I let it go.

But he didn't.

He said to the child, "That's a pit bull. That's a dangerous dog."

OH, NO YOU DIDN'T.

I whipped around and walked back to him.

"Excuse me, what did you say?" I asked in that tone.

"That's a pit bull," he said.

"Yeah, and?" I challenged.

"That's a dangerous dog, not a pet."

Well, folks, I kinda lost it on this old man. I mouthed off about how this is most certainly NOT a dangerous dog and threw in a few are-you-KIDDING-me's and dramatic eye rolls every time he tried to correct me. However, you'll be pleased to know that I did not say bad words because the kids were there. That said, it was still not a pretty scene.

He even told be how back in Mexico, he saw a pit bull attack a German Shepherd.

"That's great," I said snidely, "but you know chihuahuas and tiny dogs attack like that too. All dogs can, not just pit bulls! It's ridiculous to think otherwise, come ON."

Our exchange went on until I walked off calling him an asshole under my breath.

Meanwhile, my dog? Sat down and waited until Mommy was done arguing with an old dude.

For the rest of the walk, I was ranting and raving about the ignorance of some people and how absolutely disgusting it is that adults actually TEACH their children to fear a dog because of its breed. I was in the middle of my not-so-quiet rage when I heard a tiny voice.

"Hey, can we pet your dog?"

I turned and saw three young children behind their fence, smiling eagerly.

My heart softened and I walked The Killing Machine over to the kids. He sat down while they pet him, asked his name, giggled and single-handedly erased my anger. They were so sweet to him, blissfully unaware of the stereotypes and prejudice that we face nearly every day we walk. They made me smile, too. I almost didn't want to leave.

As Roc and I turned around to finish our walk, I was happily gearing up for Round 2 with the old man, but, alas, he had departed. (No doubt whisking his grandkids away before they had a chance to be murdered by my dog on our return route.)

Oh well, I shrugged. Can't win 'em all.

So, when enraged, go find some cute neighborhood kids to hang out with, grab a much-needed beer, cuddle with your pup and thank God you are so lucky to have such a well-behaved, gentle creature in your life.

My dog is not a killing machine

Never in a million years did I think I would get a boy dog, much less a boy pit bull. But here I am, a happy mommy with the sweetest pup on the planet, full of cuddles and love.

Those of you who know him know that he will hurl all 55 pounds of himself onto you as soon as you sit down. He'll rest his head right in your lap while we talk. He'll give you kisses if you want them. He'll nudge closer and closer until he's practically on top of you. He is the very definition of sweet.

Yet, whenever I walk this people-loving, dog-friendly pit bull, people act as if I'm walking Hannibal Lecter on a leash.

They cross to the other side of the street to avoid him.

They plaster themselves against a fence to stay out of our way.

They stare, wide-eyed and terrified as they pass.

It. Is. Infuriating.

Most people don't even give him a chance. One girl, while waiting for her bus, actually walked into the street so she wouldn't be too close to us. Seriously. She'd rather get hit by a car than risk getting sniffed by this obedient, leashed dog.

On that same walk, an old man didn't even give us the opportunity to move out of his way; instead, he immediately started walking on ice to avoid Rocco. In case you don't know, old man + ice = DANGER. But again, he'd rather break some bones that risk getting a glance from my pup.

Now, I understand that some people are scared of dogs. But this happens far too often for that many people to have a canine complex. No, this is pure, unadulterated pit-bull prejudice.

It really disgusts me how many people give us that "look," the one that says, "Ugh, how dare you bring a vicious, fighting beast into this neighborhood and have the nerve to walk him within 20 feet of my personal space." Is Rocco stronger than most dogs? Yes. Is he aggressive? Absolutely not. You'd know that if you didn't sprint into oncoming traffic to avoid us.

But because he's a pit bull, he is deemed dangerous. And it's bullshit.

I don't know every single pit bull in the world, so yeah, there are some shitty pits out there. (Just like there are shitty labs, greyhounds, poodles, etc.) There's even one pit bull in my neighborhood that always tries to attack Roc for no discernible reason. It's true that these dogs were originally bred for fighting, and, unfortunately, some ignorant people still follow that tradition, giving all pits a bad name.

That said, stereotyping every pit bull you see as a murderous killing machine is just wrong. Not just morally or ethically, but logically.

According to the American Temperament Test Society, pit bulls have an average temperament score that even beats out the "ultimate family dog," the Golden Retriever -- not to mention many, many more. Generally speaking, they are not the carnivorous little devils that you see in the media.

Speaking of the media, if you want to read some stories about heroic pit bulls, click here.

I couldn't be happier that Rocco is in our lives and I don't know what we did to be lucky enough to end up with such a well-trained, kind-hearted little love machine. What I do know is that I keep hoping we're helping change the unfair stereotype about pit bulls. And in the meantime, if you live in Chicago and want a little extra puppy love, you know where to find us.

Welcome to the 'hood. Now get out.

I have new neighbors.

I haven't technically met them yet, but I'm pretty sure I hate them. This is why:

• First off, they have two cars. Two large, white cars. This means they will be parking on our tiny patch of asphalt, hogging most of the room so that we and our other neighbor have to constantly play musical chairs to let each other out. Fun.
  

• Second, one of their massive cars is a minivan. A minivan! I know I'm prejudice against these things, but really, there is nothing more obnoxious than a childless person driving one.

• Third, that minivan has a vanity plate that says SQRPNTS. As in SQR PNTS. As in Square Pants. As in fucking Sponge Bob Square Pants.

• Fourth, they like to play Ke$ha's music really, really loud. This is how I know they don't have children.

Soo, we'll see how this mess goes. The assholes live on the third floor while we're on the first, so the noise level isn't even as bad for us as it is for our poor second-floor neighbor. But I'll be damned if I don't throw a tantrum about it anyway.

Make me feel better: What's the worst neighbor you've ever had?

Let's all shit on AT&T

Believe it or not, I have several things I'd like to post about right now. There's the Lulu experience, a video from Drunk Grandma, my new bond with my mom's stupid dog... yeah, all real gems.

But my whore Internet has an upload speed of SO-FREAKING-SLOW-IT'S-LIKE-DIAL-UP, so none of my photos that go with those posts have been taken off Dave's camera yet.

Once again, we can all thank AT&T for being an asshole.

Stay tuned.

Stay in school, kids

And don't watch Wife Swap.

How Dave Matt Lauer'd it

People who know me (even a little bit) know that I'm generally unpleasant to be around in the morning. Almost unreasonably so.

I just have my morning routine and I don't like to get thrown off. So when Dave calls me in the morning, the first thing I think is, "Don't you KNOW better?"

This morning was no different.

As I was just beginning to straighten my hair around 7:45, the phone rang. Caller ID showed that it was Dave.

"Hello?" I said, already a little exasperated.

I heard him talking to someone else instead of responding to me. Cranky and annoyed, I tried again.

"WHAT? What do you want?"

"Hey," he said, sounding shaky. "I just got into a bike accident..."

Fuck. Now I feel terrified and guilty.

Apparently, Dave was riding into school down the Lakeshore trail at the same time some dumb whore woman was walking her dog without a leash. The dog darted in front of Dave and he crashed into it at 20 miles an hour, flipping over his handle bars and smashing into the concrete ground.

Both he and the dog were pretty effed.

After our phone call, Suz -- my total HERO -- immediately jumped in her car to go pick Dave up and bring him home.

When I saw him, I cringed. The left side of his forehead had big red scrapes, his right hand was completely torn up, his left ankle was cut, and his left shoulder was more scratched and damaged than anything.

At this point, I should let you know that I am NOT good with sights like that...

Once we were inside the apartment, Dave announced that the wounds needed to be cleaned. I had already made two ice packs, gotten out towels, poured him some water (because bike accidents make you thirsty?) and thrown his pillow onto the couch. What I had not done was prepare myself to clean any wounds.

Since I started to get a little faint looking at his hand, Dave had to clean that himself. It was sick. I recovered a bit and worked up the nerve to clean some other wounds, apply Neosporin and add band-aids. The only thing I couldn't fix was his shoulder.

Because Dave was in so much pain, we decided to go to the hospital. I packed magazines, iPods and water into my purse because everyone knows hospital visits take millions of hours out of your life.

Not Northwestern, though!

We got there at 10:30am and were out of there shortly after 12:30pm -- incredible.

The resident's official diagnosis was that "this is gonna hurt like ASS for a bit," but the x-rays didn't show any fracture, so Dave just got a sling to wear and we were sent home.

Phew.


So now he's focusing on loading up on Tylenol and icing his shoulder while I'm focusing on getting him to settle the fuck down. The boy has already left the apartment for his evening French class, sling and all! And I'm pretty sure he's planning on going into work tomorrow.

Ah, well. All that matters is that he's okay. Thank god for his helmet, thank god for efficient doctors and thank god for SUZ!

I know the economy is shit, but seriously?

In case you can't read it:
Experienced web administrator with writing and editing experience. Full responsibililty for site development, production,content, usage and design. Responsible for design, layout and format for all in and out of house communications.


Translation:
I have unreasonable expectations and no real idea of how creatives work. Please be a talented graphic designer, site developer, writer and editor all in one, and please be idiotic enough to overlook the fact that those are four separate positions. But don't be so idiotic that you'll forget to proofread my emails and job postings -- that YOUR "responsibililty." Oh, and rather than paying you a significant salary that reflects the significant burden I'm placing on you with no real opportunity for success, I'm just going to give you $40k. Maybe $45k, but only if you're really, really good. Any takers?

Reason 5,394 why I'm an asshole

I know I will never live this down. It was just a tiny, insignificant moment in my life, but somehow, Dave has turned it into a life lesson that I cannot get away from. If you don't want to read it, just know that the moral of the story is that I'm an asshole and Dave is not. Shocker.

Anyway, in 2007, Dave and I were visiting my parents in Memphis when we had some flight trouble. We had trouble making it in to Memphis and had to be put on a different airline for that leg of the trip, so when it came time to check in for our return flight, that original airline (American) wouldn't let me -- they said we were not confirmed on it. Since we HAD to get back to Chicago, I had to call the airline to find out what the hell was going on.

This was my conversation:


Me: Hi, I'm trying to check in for my flight tomorrow and it's telling me that I don't have a seat on it, which is simply wrong.

Her: Okay, ma'am, I'll check.

Me: Okay.

I give her the flight info.

Her: Okay, ma'am, I'm showing that the reason for this is that the flight has already taken off.

Uh, the flight is tomorrow. Are you fucking kidding me? Does that seriously make sense to you??

Me: Well, I don't QUITE understand how that's possible because I'm looking at a confirmation email that clearly says that the flight is for Sunday. And today is Saturday. So, that can't be the issue.

Her: Hmm, okay, ma'am, just a minute.

I mouth "WTF, these dumb whores" to my mom.

We go through a lot of annoying shit where the woman continues to be an idiot and I continue to be impatient, reminding her of how her crap airline effed us on our original flight to Memphis. FINALLY....

Her: Okay, I see. You're actually confirmed on the flight, ma'am, but you just need to check in at the airport.

Me: Kay, thanks.


WHY did I accept that answer? I guess I wanted to be done with the conversation as much as she did. However, I decided that Dave needed to call back and go through the same routine just to make sure she wasn't lying to me.

She was.

Dave's conversation:


Dave: Hi, I'm trying to check in for my flight tomorrow and it's telling me that I don't have a seat on it..? I just wanted to see if we're still confirmed for our flight.

Her: Okay, sir, I'll check.

Dave: Great, thank you very much.

I roll my eyes.

Dave walks away to have the rest of his conversation. Next thing I know, he's off the phone and he has already confirmed our seats and printed our new tickets. No waiting at the airport, no shitty customer service runaround.

Uh, what?

To this day, I have no idea what he said on the phone, but I know he was a heck of a lot nicer than I was. I get it, I do. Dave was nice, so he was helped. I was a bitch, so I got nothing. Fair.

Even though I get it, Dave reminds me of this every chance he gets. For example, I once said, "Okay, House is over, give me that remote." He held the remote captive until I said please and then he chose to remind me of this story, along with his whole "you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar" lecture.

Yeah, yeah. I think the real lesson here is that I should drink a teeny, tiny bit before I make any customer service calls, since I'm obviously much nicer when I'm a little buzzed.

See? I'm a fast learner.

Twits

I'm in a weird mood right now, so I figured I'd whine about some of the twits on Twitter. These are the people I simply don't have the patience for. I'm not pointing to anyone specific; actually it's more of a categorization. So, even though this has been done before by others, here's my list of Twitterers to avoid.


The mundane
You ate another turkey sandwich for lunch again, huh? Oh, you took the mayo off this time? It's because you RAN OUT of mayo?! Good god, man, this is getting intense! ...Or it's getting really, really boring. I can never remember which. To save myself the trouble of sorting through these thoughts, I'm just going to stop following you. Problem solved.

The oversharer
Sometimes people get just too personal on Twitter. We're talking bodily fluids or drunken daily parenting fails. Sometimes is fine, but when we're constantly hearing about your life's very intimate details, it feels like you totally thrust our relationship to a whole new level without seeing if I was comfortable first. I wasn't. And the worst part about the oversharer is that after he puts it all out there like that, he'll actually get mad when someone responds. "WTF, mind your own business and keep those thoughts to yourself!" You first.

The drama queen
The drama queen will fly off the handle about something minor and will MAKE SURE TWITTER KNOWS IT EVERY SINGLE TIME. There's a heavy use of CAPS lock, exclamation points, "omg" references, etc. Sometimes the drama queen puts herself into situations where it's obviously going to end badly, and then she bitches or whines when it actually does. It's draining and exhausting to keep up with this type, since every tweet is pretty over the top.

The self promoter
This person focuses solely on the shameless plugging of all sorts of blogs, articles and projects that he/she is working on without giving two shits about what anyone else is doing. I'm not saying it's unacceptable to point to your own stuff (I mean, I do it, so clearly it can't be wrong), but when that's alllll that's happening in those little status updates and you're constantly begging everyone to retweet, well, it gets old.

The narcisist
Similar to the self-promoter, the narcissist doesn't talk so much about what he does as much as how simply awesome/cute/funny/talented/amazing he thinks he is. The tricky thing here is that he won't always come out and directly say how awesome he is; instead, he may tell us a quick story about how someone else thinks he's awesome. Sneaky! He can be hard to spot at first for that reason, but after hearing the fortieth story about how he's practically a god, you start feeling annoyed enough to unfollow.


Okay, end rant. Just so I don't end this on a totally sour note, I've also go a quick list of people who are awesome to follow. My loves:


The hilarious
Funny = I love you. 'Nuff said.

The insider
I love following people who seem to know everything before the rest of us, who share great links and who seem to say something interesting/insightful in nearly every tweet. I have no idea how they do it.

Shaq
Shaq gets his own category. He is by far the absolute best person to follow on Twitter, so if you're not already keeping tabs on him, go follow now. You'll get gems like "Cant sleep after a loss, watchn maury povich, i am not the father schwwwww" and "Twitter me this, twitter me that. Hello to all my twittereans, This is the shaq Love u guys." Best part? He quotes himself constantly. Amazing.

My first confrontation of 2009

Well, folks, safe to say that I started off the new year with a fight with a creepy man who I wanted to strangle with my bare hands.

After arriving home around 3am with my brother and Dave, we hopped into a crowded elevator in my building. In there was a group a Indian girls, a lone girl, a super creepy guy and us. As soon as the doors closed, the creepy guy, who I will now refer to as Fucktard, made the Nazi gesture over an Indian girl's head.

You've GOT to be kidding me, I thought. HELL NO. I might only be a half Jew but I was 1000% offended and wanted him to know it.

I completely turned my body to him and shot daggers at him. It was the shittiest, most evil look I could muster. (As I'm someone who gives shitty looks on a daily basis with little to no effort, you can imagine how brutal this one was.)

Apparently, Fucktard noticed. Just before the group of girls got off the elevator, Fucktard sways a bit and slurs, "Whahy is eyyyone so pisssssed? I've nee'er seen such pissed people."

Dave, oblivious to the antisemitism (and my "I WILL KILL YOU" glare) says, "No one's pissed here, man."

I elbowed him.

Fucktard continued, "Nu uh. You're pissssed and she's DEFINITELY pissed." Me.

I said, "YEAH I am," as I continued my glare. I also muttered "asshole" under my breath.

Fucktard rolled his eyes. By this time, a group had gotten off the elevator so it was only us and the lone girl. She was wearing a super short dress and Fucktard noticed.

"Oooohhh, heeeey," he said, eerily. "What's thaaat? I liiiike that."

The girl smiled nervously as we exchanged glances.

"Whaaat, man?" Fucktard said to Dave, for absolutely no reason.

"Nothing," Dave said, still oblivious. "I'm not mad."

"Well I AM," I blurted out. "This is fucking bullshit, this guy!! I mean, what the fuck?"

Thank you, the girl mouthed to me.

The elevator doors opened and Fucktard got off with all of us. The girl hurried to the apartment she was visiting and knocked frantically. My brother and Dave kept walking past her, but I stopped and waited with her because Fucktard was lingering behind her very creepily.

"Elle," Dave said. "What are you doing?"

"This guy is being a fucking creepy asshole so I want to make sure this girl gets in to the apartment okay," I said.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," the girl said, as the door opened and she ran inside.

I turned to go back to my place with Fucktard right behind me.

Dave said, "Get the fuck outta here man, you don't live here. You need to go back down that elevator and leave NOW."

We walked up to my door and Fucktard rolled his eyes again. "Can I at least come in to pee?"

Seriously?

"NO!" Dave said.

"FUCK THIS," I said. "Dude, I'm calling security. You're a creepy fucking bastard and you don't belong here."

"That was my girlfriend," he mumbled, as I grabbed the phone.

"Give me the phone," Dave said to me. I did and we shut our door.

Security asked for a description of Fucktard, so Dave opened the door again only to find this moron trying to get into another apartment! He was jiggling the handle and, of course, looking creepy.

"He's got a red and black striped collared shirt on," Dave said, "he's about 5'11" and he's kinda balding."

"Um, and he looks pregnant with his huge ass gut," I added, but Dave chose not to relay that piece of information.

By the time security arrived, the guy was gone. I have no idea where he went or what happened to him, but I was definitely shaken up. I never would have mouthed off like that if Dave and my brother hadn't been around, but I'm glad I got the chance to.

Dear god, I hope this doesn't set the tone for 2009.