Quarters, pit bulls and panties

A laundromat haiku:

Pit bull on the floor
Seven damn quarters a load
I see your panties

Y'all, my washing machine broke this morning. I was washing a load that was admittedly probably too big for the darn thing, but why do an extra load when you can jam a few more things in there, right?

Everything was working out fine (and I was saving time by consolidating loads!) until it started doing that bangbangcrashboombang that washing machines do when they're off balance.

No big deal.

I'll just open the lid and stop the spinning and move the clothes around.

Wait.

I forgot that this stupid washing machine doesn't stop spinning when you open the lid...

...I guess it'll just have to suffer through the off-balanceness.

OR DIE.

It chose to die. It kept spinning, but kind of stopped making the normal washing machine "is on" noise. It was just quiet spinning, and I knew this was not a good sign. But it was still spinning! So, I was hoping it was fine (even though I knew it wasn't). It's always better to delay aggravation as long as possible.

Anywhos, back to my wishy washer. It made it through the spin cycle... but didn't fill up for rinse. Hmm, I says to myself, I says: Maybe if I manually turn it to rinse.

Rinse, bitch!

Like magic, the water started to fill up. Yay, water! Yay, washer! It's going to be OK!

No, actually, it's not. Now I have a washer full of water that won't spin to drain full of towels that serve their purpose much better when dry.

[enter delayed aggravation]

Grrrrrrrr! Now I have to find a laundromat that's open on Easter. Go figure. Seeing as how it is Easter, could someone just resurrect my washing machine?!

Now, mind you, a laundromat? a) I don't do coin laundry. b) I need coins. c) That thing is full of water and full of stuff -- what the heck do I do with that? Bring it dripping wet?

I'm pretty sure Jesus would not approve of my washing machine dying today.

Long story short, I find a laundromat. Every change machine in there (there are two) are out of order. There is a pit bull in a cage just sleeping in the coin laundry like that's normal. And the other lady there is doing laundry in this ridiculous dress (shirt?) that flaunts (that can't be the right word) her panties when she loads the dryer.

And they're so big, I'm sure she could fit a whole load in them. If she hasn't already.

Happer Easter, everyone.

Where do dentures belong?

This is a pop quiz, folks. Sorry I didn't warn you earlier, but I think most of us will be able to pass this test pretty easily (that is, of course, unless you're the lady I saw at Publix today).

There is only one question on this test. No need for pen and paper, you can just think the answer quietly to yourself.

1. Dentures belong...

a) firmly Fixodented in your mouth, as if they were real teeth.
b) on your nightstand in a cup of fizzy whatever it is that you dunk dentures in.
c) flicking in out of your mouth like you used to do when you wore a retainer.

Now, I want to apologize to you, my dear readers. I'm sorry. This was a trick question. There are actually two correct answers -- and one of them is not C.

But you knew that. Everyone knew that, except for the nasty, disgusting, denture-flicking woman who was at Publix earlier. There I am, calmly crashing my cart into miscellaneous side bins of shit, when all of the sudden, with no warning this woman looks right at me and flips up her bottom denture.

Lady, please! That's my dinner in this cart. Now I hardly want to eat it because I'm associating with your denture display.

Anyway. Congrats to all of you who answered the quiz correctly. If you could please spread the word to your grandmas and young folks who lost their teeth do to lack of personal hygiene that C is not acceptable, I'd greatly appreciate it.

A million reasons why you shouldn't watch the Octomom show

Dear human race,

Do not watch this ridiculous woman on TV. Octomom -- really? If you have any faith in the human race, you'll promise me to never, ever watch this show.

Why, you ask? It's a train wreck and there's nothing we like to watch more than a good old-fashioned train wreck...

Let's start with the fact that this crazy lady is a nutcase. There are tons of woman out there who can't have children who would be awesome, amazing moms -- and this woman is somehow allowed to mass produce and hoard them? Then some friggin' network (shame on you, FOX, although I'm not surprised it was you) actually pays her some absurd about of money to be on TV.

Like we haven't had enough of her on TV.

People, you have something better to watch. As I find something to watch tonight, I'm going to purposely flip though the channels the other way so I don't inadvertently give her damn show a second of viewing time to contribute to the ratings.

And God forbid the show fizzles off after a bit. What then? I bet she squirts in a few dozen more sperm and pops out 10 or so more innocent children to ruin. That'll get her back in the media, right? In the meantime, I hope no other crazy bitches out there copycat her baby factory idea.

Besides, I'm sure there's something waaaay more interesting on, like that vegetable slicer infomercial or a blank TV screen.

And speaking of getting my panties in a bunch... maybe if Octomom would just keep hers on... Just sayin.

I don't hate my neighbors

Oh, shoot. Typo up there in the title. I have no idea how that "don't" got in there...

Reasons why I hate the people upstairs and diagonal from me:

1. If I want to go to a Brazilian concert, I will. However, it's 11:00 a.m. (thank GOD I'm not hung over) and all I here is this friggin' crap booming through my walls, my ceiling and my bones. And they're not even directly connected to my apartment. I feel so bad for the nice couple that lives next door from me and directly below them.

2. Your barbeque should not be plastic twisty-tied to your patio railing. Wait... it shouldn't? No. You should not have your el-cheapo barbeque grill sitting on top of a jumbo plastic paint bucket that is plastic-tie strapped to your railing. I can't quite put my finger on why I feel this way, but I'm sure it has something to do with LIGHTING THE WHOLE DAMN BUILDING ON FIRE because of your pollo and carne.


3. Playboy magazines do not belong on your dashboard. Well, maybe they do, I don't know. But every time I walk past their work van (see #4), I'm disgusted. I mean, there are children living here. And why is that thing in your car anyway? Never mind. I don't want to know -- and that's why this is on my list. Keep that magazine in your damn bathroom or under your bed or something. NOT in your car for all to see what you do in your car.

4. The work van (eww) is overflowing with garbage (literally). Not a day passes that I don't find a gas station hot dog holder or some other dirt kind of litter right where the van was parked. Seriously? We all live here. Your garbage can can't be more than 15 steps from your car. Don't throw nastiness on the ground. No one simply drives by here and throws crap out of their car -- it's someone that lives here -- and I'm not naming names, but they play their friggin' Brazilian music too loud, have a barbeque rigged to their patio rails and play with themselves in their car.

Just sayin.

Maybe she's allergic to her coat

So we're going to the Sweet Tomatoes for lunch today. (I looove Sweet Tomatoes -- there's a buffet, macaroni and cheese, bread, dessert, macaroni and cheese... When I die, I want to go to Sweet Tomatoes.)

Anyway, we're walking up when I see this lady coming out the side door, and she's wearing the most ridiculous dark brown, floor-length mink coat. We live in Florida. Sure it's cold, but it's like 60-degrees cold... nothing to kill 250 cute little minks over. I'm not even wearing a light jacket.

That aside (for a second), she doesn't look like this is the kind of coat she can afford (with apologies to those who live in lavish double-wides, this woman is straight up pimped-out trailer trash), which makes it even more ridiculous. Please don't wear a gaudy mink coat if you can't afford hair product. Also, leave said ridiculous coat that you inherited from your great grandmother and costs more than your car at home from now on as long as you live in South Florida.

Whatever. Getting to the real reason I called: This train wreck can't stop sneezing. I mean, at least 15 times while simply crossing one lane of parking lot.

To which I very loudly comment to my friend: Maybe she's allergic to her fucking coat.

I hope she heard me.

Top 10 Signs You're A New Year's Resolutioner at the Gym

1. You have a beach towel.
This could be Mickey & Minnie, some Polo Sport one from the mid '90s or something loud, splashy and pink. Either way, you're just kind of dragging it around, not really knowing what to do with it, except that you know you should have a towel at the gym. Here's a tip: You wipe your nasty sweat off the machines with it.

2. You're wearing jean shorts.
Ah... this is one of my favorites. Ladies, yours are inevitably cutoffs because, let's face it, that's the last time you wore shorts. Fellas, it doesn't really matter what yours are; guys don't wear jean shorts anymore.

3. You are chugging Gatorade, Red Bull or Vitamin Water like it's your job.
And it's not like you're thirsty... you haven't done anything. But you're at the gym, so clearly you need to hydrate. Excessively. Like, more than any of us who are actually sweating and possibly working up a thirst. Free tip: All those drinks have many calories, so you're technically taking in more calories by going to the gym. Tip #2: It's called water.

4. You have a CD Discman.
I'm not sure I need to explain this one any further. But I will say that they have these really cool things nowadays called Mp3 players and iPods which don't weigh 17 pounds and don't even skip! Imagine that... no skipping!

5. You do a nifty quad stretch in between every exercise.
This is where you just finished "a set" on that cute machine where you twist back and forth at a feverish pace because you think it's going to get rid of your love handles, and then you stand next to the machine, death-grip it and pull your ankle up behind you. Editor's note: You did not just work that muscle.

6. You are gnawing away on a Powerbar.
See #3: Gatorade, chugging.

7. You get on the bike and don't understand why it won't turn on when you press the buttons.
I know, this one's a little tricky, and I almost feel unfair adding it in here. But, surprise, it's not broken! Oh, and moving to the next one won't help; it's not broken either. Tried-and-true tip: Start peddling, and the pretty screen with magically light up.

8. You are reading the instructions on every machine.
This is not wrong, and I don't fault you for it -- at least you're trying to do it right (see #5: quad stretch, nifty). However, you are taking up way to much of my precious time, and my nice, neat compact 30-minute workout is somehow now ticking and tocking longer and longer, and I'm not getting up earlier in the morning to accommodate for your decoding of the torture devices. Gym-goer tip: Please get a personal trainer. They're free for a session or two for new gym members, and they'll explain the scary machines in plain English.

9. You grab a smoothie from the juice bar on your way out.
Again with the healthy eating and drinking... Please, once again refer to #3: Gatorage, chugging and #6: Powerbar, gnawing. You know you're going to eat as soon as you get home, so what is this extra feeding for?

10. You are in the waaaay back of the class.
I understand you don't want to be in the front because people will see you, but here's one you may not have thought of: We can see you even better when you're in the back. That's right, those rooms have glass walls in the back, and you know what's on the other side of the glass? The entire rest of the gym... full of people who have nothing to do between sets but watch you almost bust your ass. Tippy tip: Try the middle for two reasons: a) You should be closer to the front so you can actually see the teacher and learn how to do it, and b) We're too busy watching the back people to find you in the middle.

Have any more to add? Please leave a comment. I love these.

Oh, and Happy New Year!

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.)

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...

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.

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.