The hoodlums in my hood

At least twice a month, I would say, the hoodlums flock to my neighborhood.

I say this because at least twice a month (at least), I am assaulted by helicopters circling and circling with their high beams on, pointed near or directly at my little slice of heaven. Today they came armed with backups -- more than a few cop cars illuminating my dimly lit streets with their vibrant red and blue swirly lights. How thoughtful of them.

I'm driving home from the gym (like a good little marathon-trainer), when I see the first cop car at the entrance, parked by the security guard (Yes, we have one. No, I'm not sure what he does... except shoot the shit with his budding and simply wave people in.). I assumed he had pulled someone over. I didn't yet know he'd unleashed no less that four of his good bad-guy hunting buddies into the "luxury" apartments at Tivoli Park.

Luxury my ass. Unless you like fake rims and 13-inch Wal-mart spinners.

Anywhos, this show happens probably twice a month. I hide out in my apartment because I just don't know who their searching for. Surely it's just some guy who drove through Popeye's and kept it moving instead of paying, but you just never know.

Countdown till my lease ends and I move to within WALKING DISTANCE TO THE BEACH: 59 days. :)

Cackling

Something I can't stand:

Unnecessary cackling (including, but not limited to: loud fake laughs, ear-piercing outbursts, deep forced chuckles, blatant kiss-ass guffaws, hellified hoots, ridiculous girly giggles that should have been let go 30 years ago, uncalled-for chortles at entirely inappropriate moments, overemphasized low-self esteem driven whoops, random honks, absurdly drawn out titters when no one else found it funny, hyuckhyukhyahhyuk, howling at something that was slightly funny last week, heart-stopping hollers, building-rattling bellows, etc.)

Worst. Run. Ever. Bugs, high steppin' & a rubber

It was all I could do to take a shower before I poured myself a glass of wine.

Out the door, I knew it was going to be bad, but this was ridiculous. First, it's summer here in Florida and it gets humid and we get these swarms of gnats. Those nasty clouds of those little bugs that you can't even swat away.

So I'm running and eating bugs. Mmm. And I'm trying to get them out of my eyes (there's one that I know is there because I see a little blurry out of the corner, but I can't seem to "find" it). They're in my nose.

I've been running for a few minutes now and I'm starting to sweat. I look down at my chest at all my freckles -- wait a minute... I don't have freckles. Those are more freaking bugs.

OK. So there are bugs. I'm over it. But then I run up on three kids on my sidewalk. They're exercising (bless them for combating childhood obesity), BUT as I'm catching up to them, they start running -- so now I can't pass them. Then they slow down and start doing this high-stepping thing, so I figure I can pass them now.

I pick back up the pace, and they start running again. I'm annoyed. I stop for a minute. They start high-stepping. I run again; gonna pass. They start freaking running again!

I'm not about to run in a pack with these three, and I think it's incredibly rude of them to keep this crap up so I can't get past them. Thanks for crapping on my run. So I turn around.

I'm almost home. At this point I'm not even running anymore. Now I'm just totally defeated and just strolling with my new buggy buddies, looking around at the neighborhood.

Which is when I notice the used condom on the edge by the grass where I'm walking. Well that's just lovely. At least we know they were safe.

I wish I was safe from shitty runs.

UPDATE: The bag of turd

It's here!

So last night after I bagged the bagged turd, I left it outside my front door (no way I was inviting that thing in), with the intent of taking it to the dumpster in the morning.

This morning I leave, grab that poo and put it on the floor in my car to drop in the dumpster down the block -- and drove right past the dumpster. It's not till I park at work that I realize I'm still in possession of said turd.

What now? There's no dumpster around. I'm too nice to litter (besides, then someone would have to grab it a third time and that's just ridiculous). So I decided to...

...wait for it...

bring it into my office... and THROW IT AWAY IN OUR KITCHEN! (In the garbage, of course, but still -- enjoy, everyone)

Hahahahaha.

What? You didn't think I was going to have it stewing in my cubicle's trash can, did you?

The bag of turd

I woke up one morning last week to the beautiful view outside my sliding glass door.

Ah... there's the lake, with the pretty fountain; and there's my bird feeder, with all the pretty cardinals, blue jays, doves, crows, squirrels, the mouse, the duck, and, wait, what is THAT?

It looks like a... um... a Publix bag? Maybe. Closer look: Yup, it's a Publix bag. But why is all knotted and twisted. Oh. Ohhh. Ew. It's a bagged turd!

Someone has had the audacity to toss their turd into my fabulous view!

Now what. It's not like I'm going to go get it. Hell to dah nah I'm not touching someone else's pooch poop. So I wait a couple days. Maybe maintenance will come get it. That's why I pay so much rent, right?

Couple days later, I'm about to name my new turd. Apparently, he's not going anywhere.

Couple more days... Good morning, turd!

Today: Enough! By now it's been festering long enough. I get a garbage bag. I wrap my hands in other bags. I prepare to face the turd.

And I did it! Turd be gone. And to whoever felt like my bushes are a turd dumping ground, don't do it again!!!

Guys who don't get it

An open letter to guys at bars.

Dear Guys at Bars,

Just because I let you buy me a drink, it does not mean I want to give you my phone number. You don't need it because I don't plan on ever seeing you again. If I do give you my phone number, it's because I'm too nice to say no -- you just bought me a drink. Also, if I do happen to give the my real phone number, it's only because of stupid cell phones and the likelihood of you calling my phone right there on the spot so I can "save yours too." P.S. I'm not and I don't.

Second, if you do end up with my real phone number and you call me, and I don't pick up, please don't call again. You look stupid. Especially those who leave a message and I don't call you back. Also, don't text me all the time either. You're clogging up my inbox and it's not like I'm going to text you back.

Third, no, I do not want to meet up for dinner next time you're in town. You live out of town?! How lucky could I be! Now I don't have to worry about accidentally seeing you around and having to play nice. Now go back home like a good boy and check your bank account to make sure you didn't overdraw it with all those expensive drinks you bought.

Fourth, do not call me all kinds of early the next morning to "say hi." Do not call me early -- you're not and will never be on my good morning list. And don't call me to say hi. I said all I had to say when I thanked you for the drink.

And last, no my friends don't want to hook up with your friends either. It was very convenient that we all got free drinks out of the deal, but we were just being nice so we could save a little money. We're all a little broke her (damn gas prices), and we're not above smiling and flirting a little for a free drink (or three).

Thanks for the drink,
--me

P.S. I know you made a point to remember my name and all, but I have no idea what yours is. Thanks for the free drink.

The truck that ran me over

Maybe I should call the cops.

I didn't see it coming and I didn't feel it happen. I have no idea what it looked like, or when it occurred. But I'm pretty sure a truck ran me over.

I woke up this morning awful. I don't understand... I was fine yesterday. Fabulous even. And then this morning, POW! Like a Mack truck just plowed into me while I was sleeping.

In other news: I want a hedgehog.

Publix buy-1-get-1-free sales

You'd think it would be a good thing -- sales at the grocery store. Yay! I get to save money.

Unless you foolishly buy some coffee you don't normally drink, because it's the deal of the week. I see some coffee, it's a decent brand (Eight 'O Clock coffee is decent, right?), so I grab up two real quick. Ooh! They even have French Vanilla flavor. This sale was meant for me.

And then I get home and start putting away the groceries. And realize my budget-happy butt bought whole bean coffee.

A.) I do not have a coffee grinder.
B.) Even if I did, I'd probably hurt myself trying to use it in the morning before actually having any coffee.

So now I have to go back to the store, return the crappy bargain and get something else. You'd think I would have learned my lesson after the last coffee debacle. Oh well, maybe next time.

I heart you Don Fransisco coffee.

It doesn't work. Deal with it.

So I'm at the gym on the treadmill, and the one next to me doesn't work. I know this because approximately 148 people have tried to use it and then gotten off seconds later. After the first few people did it, I realized it was broken and told the next few people as soon as they jumped on, but I quickly got tired of being Miss Considerate Gym Person and started ignoring the dummies.

Because seriously? You just watched someone get right off. Or two people get right off. Chances are, something's wrong with it. Which is slightly comical, but the part that really gets me is...

Just how long people will actually stay on the damn thing trying to make it work. They press the Start button. Nothing. They press the "up" button to increase the speed. Nothing. They they press it again. And again. And then like 20 more times.

It doesn't work! Give up! Do they think that, suddenly, after 30 or 40 tries, the treadmill is just going to realize it's supposed to start and magically begin moving? Probably not.

So since I stopped being Miss Nicey, I started making fun of these people in my head. I wondered how many chances the average person would give the busted machine. And the results of my extremely unscientific observational study were ridiculous. The average dummy tried to press "start" and "up" about 30 times. With increasing intensity, like pressing it harder would make it obey more.

And 30 is the average. Which means that some of these brain surgeons actually gave the thing like 50 attempts. Nice job, people.

Duck piss

I feed everything that comes near me -- if you know me, you know that. I am Mother Nature. I keep a bag of cat food in my trunk, because you never know when you're going to need some kibble.

So, basically, the animals get to know me and run towards me when they see me. And this is why I'm not surprised that there is a duck on my back patio hanging out with me right now. He came because I always give him bread (bless his little heart).

He came. He ate. He puddled.

And it reeks. Duck pee smells kind of like cat poop. Don't know why, don't care to know why, but it does. Enjoy.

Storebrand coffee

Attention coffee drinkers: Coffee is NOT the place to save a buck on your grocery bill. This I just realized after trying out Publix's "Special Roast" coffee.

Special roast, indeed.

My regular coffee (I heart you Don Fransisco Vanilla Nut!) is about $4.29. This muck that Publix sells goes for $2.99. I convinced myself to give it a try -- coffee's coffee, right? -- and have been kicking myself every cup since.

In the words of Charles Barkley, "It's turrible." And the worst part is, I feel like if I don't finish this entire package of blah beans, then I've actually wasted money instead of saving it! That's what I get for being cheap, I guess.

Bonus el-cheapo shopping tip: Don't "save money" on toilet paper, either.

P.S. Here's Frank Caliendo doing Charles Barkley... You'll see what I was talking about.




And here's another video, of the real Charles Barkley being a dumbass.

The cable company

Being the cheap person that I am, I called my cable company to see how I could lower my bill. Turns out that if I get a cable box, and subscribe to their 6-month promotion of HBO and OnDemand, my cable would be cheaper than it is now -- and don't get any of that fancy stuff!

So I'm all in. Sign me up!

They send the cable box. I wake up the next morning (Saturday morning, my day off) and launch into getting this thing plugged into all the right places and all the right stuff plugged into it. I need my DVD player, the VCR, my Nintendo (old school... boo yah!), the TV, the cable Internet box and the wireless router all somehow connected to this one little cable outlet in the wall.

Thank God I had help. It took two of us, and the only technology we had to sacrifice was the VCR (fine, I guess if I haven't used it in 2 years I probably don't need it). I call the cable company to do this "simple" activation -- it's supposed to just magically start working 45 minutes after I call -- and that's where the trouble begins (never mind the last half hour of trouble trying to hook the damn thing up). It's not doing what it's supposed to do. In fact, it's not doing anything.

You're sure the little green light didn't turn off? Yes, ma'am. You're sure it's connected to the right spots? Yes, ma'am. You're sure you plugged it in (Are you serious? Perhaps the fact that the little green light was on could have answered this one). Yes, ma'am. Well let me transfer you to tech. Yay...

Tech: Same questions. Same bullshit with the little green light (ooooh, pretty...), plus he was able to make some error message appear. This is progress?

I give up for the day.

Next day, I find out that to get a new box (to replace the broken one they sent me), I have to either stay home from work to wait the Cable Guy or drive all the way to my "local" Comcast place and trade it in myself. So, wait. You're telling me that you guys sent me something busted, and now I have to go out of my way to fix it? I don't even want this damn box!!! I'm just trying to save 10 bucks (which, by the way, I've already spent in aggravation).

I'll skip to the punchline: I end up leaving work a little early today to drop off my box. They said the place was open till 6:30. It took me 40 minutes to figure out where 1400 W. 16th St. or wherever is because my Internet was down (no Mapquest) and this "local" spot doesn't have a phone (thanks for your help with that one, customer service lady).

Anywhos, I get there at 6:10 p.m. Eastern Standard Time -- and the place is closed. I would have thrown that friggin' cable box right through their window if there hadn't been someone else in the parking lot in my same situation. We bitched about Comcast to each other for a minute, then I drove off, fuming as I dial another (unfortunate) customer service rep.

In the end, I get nothing. In fact, this ballsy woman had the nerve to give me the silent treatment on the phone. Come on, if I yell at you for something you had absolutely nothing to do with, at least fight back a little. This was no fun. So I thanked her rudely for her help and hung up on her silent ass.

And drove home with my busted cable box. I guess I'm saving the $10 whether I plug it in or not, but still, I'm sure there's something lovely I'm missing on HBO right now...

Medicating the cat

Everything you've ever heard is true.

That email forward that goes around every so often is true.

I'm not sure if any of you have ever tried to give a cat medicine, but personally, I'd rather eat fish (and anyone who knows me knows I. Don't. Eat. That.). The cutest wittle kitty can turn into the most ferocious beast during this process.

Take Pimp (my feline son), for example. He's a big boy, and he needs to take antibiotics twice a day for two weeks. It's a liquid that I need to squirt (God, I hate that word) into his mouth with this syringe -- and he's not having it. He scratches. He flails. He kicks. He hates.

And he ends up wearing antibiotic all over his face because of it. Dude, I'm trying to get this in your mouth. Everybody just relax, and this whole thing will be much less painless. For both of us.

Anyway, it's bad enough that I have specific "cat medicating" clothes (cat hair and claw holes), but I also have to so a sneak attack because he knows what's coming when he sees the bottle, me randomly changing clothes or, if he's a little late on the pickup, me coming toward him with the Syringe of Doom.

Whoosh! What was that? Oh, it's just the cat under the bed. Looks like I'll be late to work...

Now who wants a treat...? ;)

Old guys who look at you and say, "yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah"

Allow me to set the scene:

I'm leaving the beach, so I'm in a bikini top and some little shorts, and this nasty old(er) man (he has bleach blond hair for some reason, and it's thin; i could bounce a quarter off his stomach, because his beer gut is so solid; he has a chain on that is too thick, and it's ridiculous because he's not gangsta; and he's wearing some Volcom boardshorts, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't even know what Volcom is).

Anyway, he looks me up and down as I walk by and says, "Yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah." Huh? NO-NO. NO-NO.

It was actually pretty comical. Aside from the fact that I suddenly felt the urge to bathe in bleach and hydrogen peroxide, I couldn't help but shake my head and giggle at this poor old man. I wonder if that yeah-yeah mess has ever worked for him? I imagine he's been trying it for the last 50 years, figuring that one day some young filly would bite.

Move along, Gramps. I hear they're having 2-4-1 Metamucil martinis at the Bingo hall.

Putting laundry away

Anyone else?

I'll wash laundry day in and day out. That's no problem. It practically does itself. But PUTTING IT AWAY? I'd rather scrub the toilet, toothbrush the bathtub grout, vacuum the whole house and mow the lawn with my teeth.

So I just pile it. High. And the pile becomes my closet. Try as I often do to get someone else to put it away for me, it just doesn't happen. I have no idea why my friends wouldn't want to come over here and hang up my clothes...

Now this is a service I'd pay for. I don't need a whole maid, just someone to put my laundry away, and that's it. What do you think a reasonable fee for that would be? $10 a pile? $15? Shit, I'd pay it.

Who wants a quick 15 bucks?!?

Nerd stuff like making web sites

Have you ever tried? Goddamn.

I buy my fabulous domain from godaddy. Who knows if that was a mistake (I certainly don't know; I just know they had a Superbowl commercial, and that's enough credibility for me). Anywhos, I am desperately trying to use their site-building tools.

It's supposed to be easy. Website Tonight! it's called. My ass. Website if the page ever loads... It is slower than anything I've ever come across. But, hey, I'll deal with it because it's free. Can't complain about free, can you?

Um. I believe I'm doing just that. This is night #2 of Website Tonight! and it isn't even working. The level of annoying here is huge. Imagine an eyelash in your eye. Annoying right? Now dump every single lash you have in that same eyeball. That's about where I'm at right now.

One day I'm sure I'll get this thing up and running, but right now? All I want is a glass (bottle) of wine. Now THAT at least I know I can get tonight.

Headaches

I've had a headache for four days now. Well, not for four days straight, but each of the last four days, I've had a headache.

One time, I almost convinced myself I have a tumor. (Insert Ahhhhnold reference: It's not a tumah.)

I'm sure it's a combination of things that will eventually resolve themselves, but right now I think the only cure for this tumah I seemed to have developed is a vacation. Like at least 5 days in a row of doing straight nothing.

And not checking emails, especially work ones. And putting my cell phone on silent, and leaving it there... I'll check it twice a day maybe. And perfect cloudless beach weather. And clothes that don't need to be ironed, fluffed or thrown into a pile because they don't look good for whatever reason that day. And then, when I do go back to work, I want my entire to-do list miraculously wiped out.

If that doesn't take away my tumah, then I'd start getting worried for real.

Victoria's Secret (update!)

Dear Vicki,

Please accept my deepest apologies regarding the post I wrote three days ago. You have fully redeemed yourself and I would like you to know I'm am hereby officially removing you from my shit list.

Thank you for having the bikini bottom in your catalog that is back-ordered until MayFreakin21st IN STOCK IN THE DAMN STORE.

I truly appreciate it, but am still a little hurt that you didn't just tell me that before. I thought we were closer than that. I trusted you.

Anyway, I'll get over it. I always do. You had me at $10 coupon. Welcome back to my Holy Trinity of Shopping (Express/Victoria's Secret/Target). Welcome home.

3people2seats

Last night at precisely way past my bedtime, I was at a dive-ass bar called "Nippers." The name alone should tell you. Anyway, I went to Nippers after a lovely couple hours of bowling (which I suck at, and systematically suck more and more after each beer).

I'll set the scene for you. It's karaoke night. It's late. The people here are wasted, and going to far as to attempt to croon Outkast. There's an old drunk guy beating one of my friends at pool (he doesn't lose well). Someone just shattered their cocktail on the floor and I'm wearing flip flops. I'm standing in a nicotine fog since smoking is allowed. I'm babysitting my Mich Ultra... and did I mention it's way past my bedtime?

Bowling started out as a crowd of 6 or 7. From there I drove over to the bar, two friends walked over (it's right next door) and one left to go get his car from somewhere and come right back. This one who was "coming right back" is one of the walking guy's ride at the end of the night (stay with me now...).

Bottom line: Mr. I'm Coming Right Back never comes back. I drive a BMW Z4 (two seats), and there are three of us at the bar. Do the math. 3people2seats. No bueno.

Luckily for Mr. ICRB, we were able to pawn Walker #2 off on someone we knew who mercifully showed up. Because, believe me, I'm not catching a DUI because I somehow drew attention by driving down the street with a random guy riding on my roof.

Milk shards

I really don't even like milk. I really only use it when making random or recipes or, in this case, on a rare cereal kick. Which I'm on right now, so I need milk (but I only use enough to wet the cereal; I don't want to taste the milk).

The thing is, when you turn the cap to open the milk, there are inevitably milk shards. Now you know what I mean. Those flakes or dry milk that were hiding in the twist cap, that fall all on whatever you're opening the milk over -- in this case, my cereal.

Nasty.

So lesson learned. Open the milk over the sink, not over your food.

Victoria's Secret

Haha... panties in a bunch, Victoria's Secret, panties... harr. NO. Not what I'm talking about.

I never thought Victoria's Secret would make it to my bitch list, but here they are. You see, VS is one piece of my Holy Trinity of Shopping (Express/VS/Target -- duh). They can do no wrong, and I find something to spend money on every single time I go there or peruse their catalogs (quit sending me a new one every 3 days and maybe I'd be able to save a little money here, Vickie. Thanks.)

So I was delighted to receive the latest swimsuit catalog... as I always am. And equally as delighted to find a fabulous bikini I liked (shocker, I know). Which I ordered, despite the fact that it was overpriced and I had to pay like $20 for shipping on top of that. No matter, I love my new suit!

And it comes. To my office! I have a package! Yay! I open it and love it just as much as I did on freakin Giselle Bundchen or whoever perfect they had modeling it in the catalog. I can't wait to take it home and try it on!

Which I do. And wouldn't you know, the bottoms are too small (And you know what a too-small bikini bottom looks like. Can you say muffin top?). No problem, I'll just call and order the next size up.

It's back-ordered until May 21. Go ahead, check your calendars. That's like two months away.

#1. Do you know what kind of FIERCE tan lines I'll have from my old suit by then?!!

2. You're telling me VS only gets shipments once every two months? I call bullshit.

So now I have to return the whole thing. Cause I can't have my poor beautiful bikini top waiting, lonely and abandoned, for TWO MONTHS for it's other half.

Stupid VS. Thanks a lot.

That plastic thing in my toilet

It's broken. Whatever ever thingamajigger it is that is attached to the whatchamacallit is cracked. And so now, every single time I want to flush (which is EVERY time, thank you), I have to lift up the lid and hand-flush it.

This think broke over the weekend, as major useful appliances are wont to do. And since I live in an apartment, I'm stuck here, flushless in Florida, until the maintenance guy decides to roll his golf cart over to my crib and fix it.

Which sucks. Because if I owned the place, I'd go buy the stupid $2 whozit and put it in myself. But since I pay waaaaaaay too much rent, I'm not about to add $2 to my monthly total. I'd rather call the office red-faced every morning ranting irate. Cause I'm right, dammit. And I don't care if those people next door's A/C is broken and they're dying of heat exhaustion... I'm not down with the manual flush.

And while we're talking toilet, here's the story of Jack Schitt. A classic.

Headphones in the sauna

So I just finished a fabulous workout and I decided to wind down for a few minutes in the sauna afterwards. I switch out of my sneakers and into my flip flops, grab a towel to sit on and go stroll over to what promises to be a nice, relaxing 10 minutes.

Shoot. There's someone else in there. I kind of love it when I'm the only one in there, but oh well. We can relax together.

So I settle in on my towel and close my eyes. Ahhh... the cedar smell, the crackling of the stones, the warmth letting all the stress of the day lift out of me...

...and apple bottom jeans, boots with fur, the whole club was looking at her...

That freaking girl has her headphones on blast! Are you kidding me? If I was wearing panties under these spandex workout shorts, they be all in a bunch over this. All of the sudden, I can't relax. The cedar smell is gone, the stones aren't crackling and the heat is just making me sweat.

All I hear is that stupid song.

Oh, and did I mention that she's doing half her workout in there, too? I thought about farting just to clear her out of there, but didn't. Probably should have.

Crybabies

Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.

Mustangs

As in Mr. I'm a Big Bad Ass Vroom Vroom. Puh-lease.

I can't stand Mustangs. I think I may have actually wanted one a (long) while ago, but now? That's gonna be a hell no. In fact, I think if I ever had a date and the guy came to pick me up in a Mustang, I probably wouldn't even answer the door. If I did accidentally answer the door without realizing what he was driving, I'm quite sure I wouldn't get in the car.

Vroom vroom off, Big Bad Buddy. You undoubtedly speed around corners too fast, take off from red lights too fast and wear your hat backwards. It's never going to work between us. Sorry.

It's such a type. From now on, if you haven't already done so, pay attention to who's stealing Sally next time you pull up next to one. You'll see.

Working after 5 on Fridays

Like today. And every other week. I know there's a ton of people at happy hour right now (or, at the very least at home doing nothing), and I'm sitting in a cubicle.

Not that my cubicle isn't lovely, it's just that I've had enough of it by this time of the week, and I'm ready for an adult beverage or 10. And since happy hour ends at 7, the longer I stay here, the more expensive my night gets.

On the bright side... it is payday, so that's always a plus.

Helmet-heads

Remember when it was only retarded (um, mentally challenged) people who wore helmets? What happened?

All of the sudden, every kid is riding around on their bikes, Roller Blades, skateboards, etc. with helmets on. And knee pads. And elbow pads. And shin guards. And SPF 185 lotion. Are all the rugrats you people are popping out lately really that clumsy?

Back when I was a kid, my mom sent me out to play... and that's it. I didn't have to strap on 15 different apparatuses before braving the big bad world. I would go out there, jump on my bike, bust my ass like a good girl and report back for a Band-aid and some Neosporin.

And believe me, after a couple good ass-bustings, we'd solve that falling problem pretty damn fast. Ouch, that hurts... I think I'll stop doing that. Tada!

But I don't know. Maybe kids nowadays are a little, well, challenged. Every other one is allergic to peanuts or wheat or sugar or something funky like that. Snack time is officially ruined because Jimmy can't eat peanut butter crackers and Suzie can't have Nilla Wafers. Whatever.

Bunch of wimps we got coming up here. We think we have special people running this country now... Heh. Just give it 25 years. We'll see how it is when this generation is all grown up.

Wet handprints on paper towels

Picture this: A roll of paper towels in a public kitchen, break room, wherever. You wash your hands, you reach for a dry paper towel to dry them off... and there's a soggy handprint on in. Now, surely this person washed their hands, so you can assume the soggy palmed towel is OK -- but seriously.

Gross. I don't want to know that someone else fingered my paper towel right before me.

Let's not be barbarians people. Don't be nasty. When I want to dry my hands, I want a dry paper towel. I don't want to have to go three sheets deep to get to one that finally isn't drenched by your nasty ways.

And if it's not asking too much, you think you can actually tear it off neatly please? That little bit of YOUR paper towel left behind is pretty annoying, too. Thanks.

I'm surrounded by office monkeys

They file, they staple, they Post-it.

They answer emails with excited (and annoying) exclamation points. They live for meetings, and are generally the first one to pop out of their cubicle and bubble, "Hey, are we still having that meeting?!" Answer: Yes, but you're the only one that can't wait. I'll be there as soon as I'm done filling my Netflix queue.

They feverishly take notes (about what?) and then file their legal-sized sheets outlining hours of worthless meetings away (never to be seen or referenced again, but hey, they're office monkeys -- that's what they do).

They hover around, anxious to discuss the same thing they always discuss. The same drone office talk. They have fake laughs. They strain to keep obviously ended conversations going (leave already, I'm trying to check my Myspace).

The casual Friday uniform: Jeans (pressed), dress shoes (tassles likely) and the predictable college-I-graduated-from collared shirt.

And they're just not that smart. They have a routine (see above), and God forbid it changes, they can't handle. They can't help you with anything extra, but will be over-enthusiastic about offering to (which you will politely decline because you don't want to have to do it over).

Office monkeys get my panties in a bunch. But they have their OK days, because at least you know who to hand off the drudgingly boring tasks to (which they'll happily take on with an exclamation point)...

Why exactly ARE my panties in a bunch?

"I can't do the same thing every night, the same gestures... it's like putting on dirty panties every day." --Brigitte Bardot

Welcome, panty bunchers!

For starters, let's be real here: My panties are technically always in a bunch. Such is the life of a thong. I can't stand granny panties, so the little coverage I do wear is indeed always bunched up my butt. I guess I'm just used to it by now.

Anyway, the glory of why my panties are in a bunch is that I get to be a Bitter Betty, and I'm supposed to be. Not that I'm always bitter... Sometimes my panties get bunched from getting excited about something and jumping up and down to celebrate one too many times (you try squirming around in a thong and see how that works for you).

I'll probably be airing out some dirty laundry. We'll see how it goes.