Category Archives: Things That Will Piss You Off

Okay, Shit’s About to Get Real

*WARNING* Language and anger ahead.  If you’re sensitive, go away now.  If you’re  a snowflake, go far, far away and don’t come back.

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.

No, really,


Why is everyone so upset about this Pepsi ad?

It’s an advertisement.  For a fucking soft drink.  It’s no more, and it’s no less.

Get over yourselves, snowflakes of the world, you don’t get to be the only ones outraged. Wait, yes, you do get to be the only ones outraged when your outrage is so clearly manufactured. And, if it’s not, sweet clothespin jeebus, you people need to get out more.  Or maybe just study your history.

How about four young men, staging a protest because they weren’t allowed to sit at a Woolworth’s lunch counter? 

How about separate fucking bathrooms, schools, and being force to sit in the back of the bus – all based on skin color?

You who protest a fucking Pepsi ad hide behind your keyboards, and compress your outrage in Twitter-sized posts.  You weren’t there, on the front lines, fighting for equality. You need ‘safe zones’ everywhere you go. You’d probably piss yourselves if you were ever on the receiving end of true opposition to your beliefs.

If Dr. King, Jr were here he’d slap the shit out of you and tell you to shut up or dig in and work for those people who are still facing inequality and discrimination every day. Not just people of color, but all people.

If Mother Teresa were here, she’d pray for your fragile asses and go back to ministering to the unwashed masses; quietly bringing dignity and a measure of comfort to their lives.

If Ghandi where here, he’d tell you to find your inner peace and project it on those around you.

But none of them are here, and I’ve taken great liberties with what I’m *sure* they’d say if they were.  Who knows?  Maybe they’d dismiss you out of hand for the immature children you so clearly are.




By Now You’ve Probably Forgotten…

…and for me it’s a slowly fading memory, but..

I didn’t leave the planet, I just moved to the country  on Halloween 2016.

You see…we moved.

Gosh, that sounds so…I don’t know, innocuous?   And most of it was not fraught with insanity-inducing happenings, but the stuff that did happen turned me (momentarily) into the hell-bitch from, well, Hell…with a capital “H”.

The packing ladies arrived at the house a couple of days prior to our move, looked around, and proudly proclaimed this an “easy job, 4-5 hours tops” …and then proceeded to pack for 10 hours with one short break.   I had known we had a lot of stuff, but to hear professionals mumbling about “all this stuff…” when they didn’t think we were listening was an eye-opener.

An aside – we’d already spent weeks cleaning/purging/packing prior to this.  There was a lot of stuff…just…so….much.

Anyway, at the point where these two lovely workers were glassy-eyed and looked about ready to collapse from exhaustion, they finished.  We paid them, twice what we’d budgeted, and tipped them generously to boot.

We knew the move would be expensive – though I don’t think either of us thought to double our original estimate, but we’d sold the house and knew that we’d be getting a chunk of change once we closed on it.  So, out came the credit card.  We’re so cute when we’re being all optimistic and totally naïve.

Two days later the moving trucks and six young men came to move our stuff from the big city town (40K population) to the country town (3K population).  They, too, proclaimed this an “easy job” and how it wouldn’t “take long”.  TWELVE hours later, with daylight fading, they were still pretty upbeat but it was not longer an easy job that wouldn’t take long.

It was an epic journey, and everyone was so tired we giggled insanely at every little thing.

Well, almost everything.

The one thing we did not laugh about was the one thing we desperately needed once the packed trucks and our packed vehicles arrived at the new farm in 90-degree weather.

Electricity.  That was the one thing we needed.  It was so important that I’d arranged for it to be turned on three days prior to the move. I’d arranged this, over a series of phone calls, a month in advance.  The last phone call, to confirm, had been the day before the service was turned on to the house.

Guess what we didn’t have?  No, really, guess.

You’re so smart.

I proceeded to call the electric company we’d chosen, and in the country calling someone on a cell phone is an exercise in frustration…and sometimes futility.  I finally found a good signal in a spot about 50 yards in front of the house and within two minutes the helpful young man at the other end of the phone told me his company didn’t service our home. We had to use a co-op.

I proceeded to scream at the top of my lungs at the poor kid, the gist of my screaming was that I wanted to know why someone hadn’t informed me of that sooner.

I scared the absolute shit out of the kid on the phone, and my movers. Every. single. one.

My husband had to tell them I wasn’t normally a maniacal hell-bitch, but no electricity when I had been so careful to make sure we had electricity, that was the proverbial straw.

I’d been working at my job, coming home and packing, cleaning, packing, sleeping little, and so on for weeks.  To say I was at the end of my rope is too cliche.  I was at the end of every rope, ever.

We finished unpacking the trucks, in the dark, and since it was Halloween and we were in the boonies and it was dark, the sounds of the forest scared the shit out of the young movers.  They whispered about curses and witches and ghosts to one another.  I did nothing to alleviate their fears when I said, straight-faced, that the house was built on an “old Indian burial ground” and rumored to be haunted.  One of them asked me if I was afraid of ghosts, and I told him that since I was a witch I had power over the ghostly realm. I honestly think he believed me. Poor kid.

We collapsed into bed that first night, too tired to even care that it was sticky and warm.  All the windows in the house were open, but if any ghosts visited we were too tired to care about them either.

We got the electricity turned on the next morning, but only because I threatened to sit down in the middle of the co-op’s office and cry until they did.  I was desperate, exhausted, in need of a shower, and the nice lady in the office had just told me it would be 1-3 business days before they could get the power on at the house.  Instead, she took pity on me and by the time we drove back out to the house we had lights and air conditioning and a working washer and dryer.

Too bad we couldn’t locate a lot of our clothes.  Somehow, in the move, everything seemed to get separated.  We spent four days unpacking and we wore the same clothes all four days. I’d wash them every night, and we’d put them on every morning.  We finally found all our clothes, so with that and electricity things were looking up.

Then, our real estate agent called..the old house may not have sold after all. Maybe, perhaps.  We need to re-negotiate here. With ginormous credit card bills looming, we listened and we compromised and we got the old house and some land we owned sold.

We spent the rest of the week unpacking everything, and in the end were really only missing a couple of small items and only found a couple more broken.

It’s been a few months now, and we are loving our new home.  It’s magical, it’s beautiful, and it’s where I intend to spend the rest of my life.  I told my hubby that if he ever got the notion to move again I’d go straight for his throat.  After seeing me react to the whole electricity debacle I’m pretty sure he believes it.

It Probably Won’t Be Long Now…

….before the store management asks me to leave

The conversation will go like this:

ME: *engaged in some utterly inappropriate activity in public, oblivious to my surroundings*

MGR: Ma’am…ma’am…MA’AM!!

ME: Wha…?

MGR: While the staff and I appreciate your level of comfort here, and understand your need to ___________________(insert whatever stupid thing I happen to be doing/saying at the time here) we’d like you to leave.

ME: How soon?

MGR: Yesterday.

Why do I think this will happen?

Remember this?

Well, ever since that happened, every time I see the manager of the store he gives me the side eye and a wide berth.

Yesterday, I was quietly shopping again, headphones on and listening to Kevin Hearne’s “Shattered”.  It’s part of his Iron Druid series, and I totally recommend it…mostly for Oberon, but I digress.

Anyway, I was minding my own fecking business, that’s what I was doing, when I got a text from my son.  The one to whom we are (probably) going to gift the mini-van I inherited from my mother.

He’d had it ONE day after I spent over $500 getting some repairs done to it, and he’d slammed a curb, blowing both passenger-side tires, and bending the rims.

I knew he had the kids with him, so my first concern was them.  They were fine, so I called him…and…well…

ME: ARE YOU SHITTING ME??????????????????????????? WHAT. THE. FUCK????????????????

(I am screaming this into my phone’s headset – it’s one of those bluetooth things that looks like a collar and the buds come off it and go into your ears, but it’s not readily noticeable, so anyone standing nearby might think I’ve suddenly lost my mind and am screaming at the air..or myself.)

SON: *mumbles something about “sorry” and “can’t believe this happened*


SON: The person in front of me slammed on their brakes, so in order to keep from hitting them I had to brake hard and I  rode up on the curb. I was only a mile from my apartment, so I limped it home.


SON: I know, I know…I am SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO sorry.

Did I mention I was in the middle of a store?  Did I also mention by “middle” I meant checkout lane?

Ever see someone actually “skitter” away from you?   I did, three employees as a matter of fact, all color draining from their faces.  I didn’t care, then, I was so beyond furious.


SON: *soft whimpering*

ME: STOP IT. Everyone is fine, here’s what you do, get me pricing on repairs from Discount Tire, and a turnaround time. We have to get this thing fixed right away.  Call me back.

It was about here that I noticed the store manager and a couple assistants sort of hovering a few feet away, and realized they didn’t know what this crazy woman was up to or might do next.

Well, I didn’t do anything.  I just quietly paid for my groceries, one brave bagger having stepped back into the ring of my fury to bag my stuff, and then I left.

The whole time, though, the manager just stayed there by the register.  He never said a word, but he watched me.

Sigh, I’m just one more outburst away from being banned, aren’t I?

p.s. the repairs are going to cost me another $400

p.p.s. one of the things broken on the van (not by son’s stupidity, it was already broken) is covered under a manufacturer’s recall so yay!



Lies, Damned Lies, and More Lies

Remember just yesterday, when I told you about the busted television?

And how the ‘incident report’ was supposed to be filed so we could make a claim against the cable company?

Yeah, it didn’t happen.

The incident report, not the bustage.

I was the one who had to call in the incident report, on Monday the 16th, and then yesterday I called on the status and spoke to a customer service supervisor named “Frank” (yeah, right…I’ve worked in call centers before and if his name was “Frank” then mine’s Xenia, Keeper of Figtail Feifings).

Frank: Hi, I’m Frank and understand you are checking on the status of an incident report?

Me: Yes.

Frank: I’m reviewing the notes, and it looks like the technician’s supervisor filed the claim on Monday.

Me: No, he didn’t.

Frank: Excuse me?

Me: I filed the claim, because when I called on Monday there was no record of it.

Frank: Oh, well ma’am I’m just reading the notes.

Me: And someone is lying. That ‘someone’ not being me.

Frank: Uh…well, I do see here that you called on Monday to check on it.

Me: And?

Frank: The claims person noted that he called you and left a voicemail on Tuesday, the 17th.

Me: That’s two.

Frank: Ma’am?

Me: Two lies. No one called me, and no one left a voicemail. So, actually, that’s three lies.

Frank: Ma’am, the notes say he called (my home number, which we never use) and left a message to call him.

Me: Impossible. That phone has no answering machine, nor voicemail.

Frank: Well, Ma’am I’m just reading notes.

Me: You’re spouting lies, granted they are not your lies, but lies nonetheless. And, further, he just called once and that’s it? What did he think was going to happen?  That I’d just go away? I’m out an $800 television. Not likely I’d just let that go.

Frank: Uh…

Me: How about this…I give you a good number to use and you have whoever call me on it?

I give him my cell number

Frank: Thank you, and I will get this message to the claims supervisor right away.

Me: Isn’t it nice to know you work with people who lie?

Frank: Ummm….

Me: I’m not saying you are one of them, but then given the track record of your company just this week alone, how do I know?

Frank: Ma’am, I see you’ve been a customer for over 20 years and I assure you….

Me: (cutting him off) Never mind the assurance, just handle this issue.

Frank: Yes, Ma’am..

And, I hung up.

I can take most of the world’s idiocy, but I cannot handle liars.

They make me all stabbity.

Oh, and guess who called me an hour later to schedule an appointment to come out and settle the claim?


Truth in Advertising?

I don’t think so, and neither will you after this….

Seriously, though, every female in the world should see this video.

Every. Female.

And, every male for that matter.



I Should Put the Word ‘Nazi’ in This Post’s Title, But I Won’t

I mean, seriously, if I use that word I get like a bajillion visits in a day.


So, since readership has fallen off I’ve decided to let my standards slip to the floor and do something I abhor.

Like shameless usage of words I know will get attention.

Not in a good way.


I’m such a disappointment.

And an attention whore.



So, uh..this one time at band camp…

…wait, that’s a different story

But, both include crazy.

Not mine.

I know, right?

I had to have my car’s window-driver-uppy-thingy (it’s an industry term, trust me) fixed this summer.

I was driving home from the store when SNAP! BAM! BANG! The thingy-bobber that holds the doo-hickey what holds up the glass in the window went ka-flooie.

I’m telling you, I got all these terms from my “Service Advisor”.

Anyway, since this happened on a Sunday, and I couldn’t wait for days to get it fixed, I had to have it done at my local dealership the next day.

I dropped the car off at 7:00 a.m. and waited in the “Guest Lounge”, complete with “FREE Wi-Fi” and donuts, for the “Courtesy Van” driver to give me a ride home.

The kid that gave me a ride home was clean-cut, well-dressed, and about as polite a young man as I’d ever encountered.  He truly restored my faith in those crazy kids these days.

When we got to my house I asked him if he’d be the one picking me up, and he said if it was before noon yes but if not it would be “the afternoon guy”.

My car was ready at 3:00 p.m., so I go “the afternoon guy”.  Only my morning driver forgot to one very important word.

The word is “crazy”.

So, I got “the crazy afternoon guy”.

He looked normal enough, as I climbed into the van for the (thankfully) short trip to the dealership.

Looks are sooooooooo deceiving sometimes, amiright?

The second my ass hit the seat, and he was backing out of the driveway having to stop for the young Hispanic mother pushing a stroller past my house, he mutters “f*9$ing wetbacks” under his breath.

I thought maybe the batteries in my hearing aid needed replacing.

Then I remembered I don’t wear hearing aids.

By then, though, it was too late to say anything.

I was busy holding on for dear life as we screamed down the street, me jokingly saying  “the speed limit is 30 through here, and the police do patrol my neighborhood.”

“It’s no wonder,” he replied looking at the ramshackle homes next to the nice ones, “I can imagine the kind of people you have here.”

Squaring my shoulders around to face him, I said, “Yes, they are very nice people. Very. Nice.” and gave him an icy stare.

He stared straight ahead at the road, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel.

We were silent for about five minutes when he began to regale me of stories about him and his Hispanic friends skipping school years ago and getting high while playing on the PS2.

I’m not sure what kind of reaction he was expecting.  Did he think I’d be impressed? I wasn’t.  Did he’d think I would relate? I didn’t.

Having nothing to add to the conversation, I sat silent, hoping he’d take the hint.

He didn’t, and as he sped down the road, weaving in and out of traffic, he went on describing his escapades as a teenager – and how, at 28, he didn’t “do those kinds of things anymore”.

I didn’t care at that point, I just wanted the ride to end and hoped I’d be able to release my death-grip on the armrest when we stopped.

Finally, he turned down a side street I didn’t recognize, but which he assured me was “a shortcut”.

I said I’d take his word for it.

He grinned at me and said, “It’s not like I’m going to take you out into the woods and leave you there.”

I laughed, not finding it funny, and thanked God that the “woods” to which he referred was just a stand of trees near some railroad tracks.

A few minutes later we got to the dealership.  I was glad to be back in the pool of sharks, and as I ready my stuff to get out of the car the afternoon guy couldn’t resist a parting shot.

“Yep, a lot of my friends were wetbacks…but now them sand n*($%#s, ain’t nobody got not use for them.”

I was rendered speechless.

Until I saw my “Service Advisor”.

When I was done telling him about my enlightening afternoon ride in the “Courtesy Van”, he was the speechless one.

But, But, I Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaant One

I remember watching my grandma’s fancy stand mixer turn out amazing breads, cakes and pies.  I’d stand on a chair mesmerized by the constant motion and *whirr*whirr* sound it made. 

It was thirty pounds of metal and white porcelain, a Kitchenaid by Hobart, and it was magical.

I grew up and in my poverty frugality decided I could make do with a $10 hand mixer.

The Kitchenaid was never far from my mind, though.

Recently we finally paid off the grocery debts from feeding four teenagers for…umm…ever, and now visions of a pretty butteryummy yellow Kitchenaid stand mixer have been dancing in my head.

Naturally, I posed the question of getting one to my husband.

Hubby:  How much does one of those cost?

Me: Oh, three-hundred something.

Hubby: *gasps*chokes* WHAT?

Me: Are you okay?

Hubby: Yes, I just could have sworn you said you wanted to spend $300 on a mixer.

Me: I did.

Hubby: Are you completely insane?

Me: Yes, but what does that have to do with a mixer?

Hubby: No, I mean are you insane enough to think I’d agree to spending $300 on a mixer?

Me: *blink*blink*

And so began hubby’s endless pursuit to convince me that at $350 (as I later found out) no mixer is worth it, unless it churns out real fecking gold…by the pound.

He dug through every post, review, sale, and blurb he could about the Kitchenaid Stand Mixer. 

He found it.

Apparently, when the Hobart Corporation sold it’s interest in the Kitchenaid mixer (and other items), to Whirlpool Corporation in the 1980’s something happened.  And it wasn’t a good thing.

What had once been a damn-near indestructible hunk of metal and porcelain was now metal and plastic/nylon – specifically the gears – and that means it breaks.

A lot.

When Hubby told me this, I had to concede that if I was going to by a stand mixer with a limited life I could buy a $100 one and be just as happy, and less likely to get stabbity when it does break, than I would be if I spent $350.

So, another sweet childhood memory and lifelong dream bites the dust.


Unless………I think I’ll see if Ican convince Hubby to put as much effort into finding a vintage working Kitchenaid stand mixer as he did in finding a reason not to buy a new one.

The Kingdom’s Travails – Day Nine

Life was so simple back then.

If some article of clothing, or household linen, got dirty – mussed in some way or even stained with the tears of mine enemies – the queen could simply toss it into her top-loading beauty, add the necessary chemicals, turn the dial and magically this machine would erase all traces of every transgression in thirty minutes.

But these are dark times for the Kingdom.

The washing machine hath vexed even the noblest of repairmen in the Shire.  It hath brought them to their knees, and coaxed forth curses muttered under sweaty breath as one by one they try to best it and unlock its wizard’s secrets.

Day by day and hour by hour the machine sits quietly and patiently awaiting the next challenger.

Who among the realm’s repairmen can tame the terrible beastie?

Today a new challenger shall enter the lair, and take with him the hoped-for miracle that will once again send the castle into realms of clean socks, clean undies, and clean towels.

The occupants of the castle light a candle and pray the machine is bested, lest the queen be forced to enter the other dragon’s lair (also called a ‘laundromat’) and do battle with numerous beastly machines that steadfastly refuse to dissolve detergents properly or dry clothes without a mound of coins being fed to them that would rival the national debt for all of Ankh-Morpork. 

The last trip the queen made to this terrible place did not end well as the vicious witch of the southerly winds grabbed and clawed at her freshly-laundered and folded clothes as she struggled to place them in her carriage for the trip back to the castle.

Much muttering of unspeakable curses upon all who would vex her so was heard, and the menfolk of the castle did tremble…except the cat, he simply one-eyed the ruckus and went back to sleep.

I fear further outbursts from the queen may involve breakage of nearby objects, and so I light a candle myself and ask the gods of electricity to be kind to the noble Repairman of the Whirlpool today.

The whole of the Shire doth wait with baited breath…

Someone Please Get This Woman Some Grandchildren, STAT!

I just wanted to buy my groceries and go home.  I’m not normally the grumpy-granny type, but in my defense I’d been up about 14 hours already and had just found out that my washer was still not repaired, despite two trips by my very reliable repairman.

The washer is THREE years old, people! THREE!!  And it’s developed some kind of electrical short.  On Tuesday, Sid the Repair Guy came to my house and after much noggin’ scratching decided the electrical problem was definitely the timer mechanism.  Definitely. Without a doubt.

On Wednesday, Sid’s assistant Eddie came out and installed the timer, plugged in the machine and ZAP! Breakers tripped and sparks flew.

Apparently, it’s not the timer. 

On Thursday, Sid and Eddie are both coming out to troubleshoot and (hopefully) figure this thing out, although when all is said and done I probably could have bought a new washer for what this will cost.

Which brings me to my state of grumpocity (it’s a on Wednesday, when standing in the flour/spices/shit that’s bad for you  aisle I was accosted by a sweet white-haired woman.

“I’m babysitting my granddoggers this weekend, so I have to buy food I can prepare ahead of time.”, she said as I stood looking for an angel food cake mix (I didn’t buy it, by the way).

“Oh, I know what it’s like when the little ones are around.” I said, fully empathizing with the lack of time/energy when you are babysitting the grandkids.

“Yes, and I’m taking my girl with me.”

Her girl? I looked at her. She had to be 80 if she was a day.

“She just loves their back yard.  She gets out there and runs around and gets all muddy and then I have to wash her little feet when she comes inside.  And she knows to stop right inside the back door until I get her cleaned up.”

Dogs..she was talking about dogs.  Grand-dogs, or in her case grand-doggers.

I could tell this conversation was going to keep on keepin’ on, so I did the only thing a woman with a broken washer and piles of laundry at home could do.

I turned around and walked away.