Tag Archives: scary

That time I unfriended someone

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So the other day one of my FB friends posted this:

food stamp ecard

And they captioned the post with something about nail salons, tanning beds, maxed out credit cards and financed BMWs, indicating that they felt that a lot of people who receive food stamps are somehow able to afford a rich lifestyle.

And I chose not to get excited about it.  I mean, I could have been offended on a few counts.  For starters, Coach isn’t properly capitalized and neither is iPhone5.

Oh, and also the vast majority of people receiving assistance are not soulless jerks just taking advantage of the sheeple taxpayers.

The person who posted it got a few responses; I myself related how I was on food stamps in nursing school.  When I graduated, my mother gave me a Coach purse as a graduation gift.  I left it at home when I shopped for food.  A few months after graduation I got a good job and stopped the food assistance.  I remember calling them and telling them I didn’t need it anymore.  They sounded surprised that I called.  I guess some people would have just let the assistance keep coming until the yearly re-application process.

Anyway, the next person who commented was very angry and said that this was an insult to poor people and other things like that.  I really do agree and so I commented back that I had chosen not to get excited about it, I feel that this sentiment applies to a gazillionth of a percent of those who receive aid of whatever type, and so while I wouldn’t perpetuate it, neither would I get excited about it either because life is too damn short.

Then the poster commented that we were missing the point, and in the course of further back-and-forth comments it became apparent that this person feels themselves to be an expert on the subject of the sort of people receiving food aid due to information gathered while “people watching” at the grocery store.

I commented again that it is impossible to know what someone’s situation is just by what can be observed.  I related how I currently hold a temporary disabled parking permit due to foot pain.  No one looking at me would know that every step I take is at best uncomfortable and at worst quite painful, because I don’t show it.  I look like anyone else.  But my feet hurt all the time, often to the point that I dread stopping at the store on the way home because it will involve walking.

I also pointed out that it is impossible to know a person’s situation based on what the person is carrying around because when they ran into trouble, lost their job or got sick or whatever, their Coach purse didn’t magically convert to a Walmart bag.

Also?  Knockoffs can be quite convincing.  Fauxch anyone?

The poster’s next comment is what caused me to withdraw from the conversation and abruptly unfriend:  Wish I could get a parking permit and some benefits!  Thanks taxpayers!

Except that I added the punctuation and capitalization etc. because yeah.

So, here’s the deal.  I work with people who have serious mental illness.  They survive on state and federal benefits.  Without those, they would be on the streets or in prison or the hospital.  None of these options are particularly pleasant.  We house them and feed them and care for them with food stamps and financial assistance.  They don’t own Coach purses and iPhone5s unless someone gives them one, and frankly nobody does.

And?  I’m a taxpayer and have been since I was 18 years old.  I pay into the system and therefore if I need assistance during a rough patch, whether it’s for food to feed my kid and myself with while I finish school so I can get a better job, or whether it’s to reserve the privilege of parking closer to the store so I don’t hurt any more than I have to (when I can find a damn space, and when there aren’t other spaces nearby that are nearly as good which I take so the old ladies can have the disabled spots because old ladies) — having paid into the system, I can tap it for a little help when needed.

The poster, it should be noted, is trying to start a business using one of those annoying “sell things to your friends” schemes — perhaps the most obnoxious and notorious one, but I’m not going to identify the poster or the scheme here — and often posts about how they are building their business by having meals at restaurants and coffee at Starbucks with other like-minded individuals, i.e. shallow people who think it’s okay to make their friends and families uncomfortable by shilling crappy goods at them without provocation.

And drives an Audi.

And is a soulless jerk.

I chose not to engage any further because I’m not great at arguing, and because this person was not so important to me that I felt I needed to continue.  I’m not going to change this person’s mind.  This person will not grow compassion via a conversation on Facebook.

I also chose to end the whole thing because I have recently become acquainted with the Fuck-Off Fairy, and she has made my life so much better.  I don’t have to absorb the toxic bullshit of every unimportant little worm that comes along with an opinion.  I can walk away and know that the uninformed, absolute sewage spewing from this person’s mouth just defines them as someone I don’t want to know at all, and that’s perfectly okay.

I recently had a discussion with my daughter about this fairy, although I named her the Bug-Off Fairy because my daughter is nine years old.  I want her to get acquainted with this fairy at a MUCH younger age than I did.  It will make her life so much better.

 

 

ArachnoNONONONOphobia

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So last night as The Lovely Rhonda and I prepared to retire, I noticed something huddled in the corner of the baseboard.

I had already removed my glasses, so at first glance I took it to be the new cat, Mrs. Norris, who is smallish and striped and totes adorbs. 

But no, then I decided it looked just slightly smaller than Mrs. Norris, so I loomed a bit closer and squinted at it in the dim light and determined that it also had several more legs than I recall cats having, in general.  Also it was not stripey.

Based on this and the arrogant way it was ignoring me, there was only one conclusion I could come to which was that it was a really enormous spider.

I commented on this to TLR and she of course was indifferent to my plight.

“So get rid of it,” she said.  As if it were that easy.

“Why do I always have to get rid of the spiders?  Why don’t you ever do it?”

“BECAUSE I AM TERRIFIED OF BUGS AND JUST GET IT OUT OF HERE OMG.”  Then she hid under the covers and kicked her little legs.

I was very reluctant to address this particular spider because if its sheer magnitude.  I mean, normally you just get a tissue and bunch it up a little in your fingertips and sort of squoosh the spider in it and the spider is so tiny you don’t even feel it in the tissue at all.  Better yet you can often just get a magazine or something and scoop the spider up and take it outside where it can fulfill its many-legged destiny of menacing your neighbors instead of you.

But this monster?  Ugh.  What I was afraid of was that it was so large and meaty-looking that I would not only feel its weight in the kleenex but that I would sense also the squishing and the ichor spewing out of it and all that.  Taking it outside wasn’t an option because what if it was a spider accustomed to the comforts of indoor living?  What if it came after me?  I couldn’t risk that.  I have a family.  I have obligations.

I complained about this at length but to no avail.  Finally I went to arm myself against the thing.
I chose three 2-ply paper towels and folded them over several times.   Paper towels are thicker than kleenex and the ones we are using at the moment have a comforting print of pots of soup and flowers and curlicues and flourishes.   Every little bit helps here, folks.

I rushed at it and shoved the paper towels onto it, pinching them together quickly so as to get this thing done before the heebie-jeebies set in.  I then raced through the house bearing the spider-containment unit at arms length before me.  Once it was safely in the kitchen trash I returned to the bedroom to perform an involuntary shuddering seizure of disgust.  TLR found this amusing.

I sure hope she doesn’t lay awake nights wondering if that spider was really dead or not.

It could be dragging itself with its one remaining good leg back to the bedroom, bent on revenge.

She sleeps on the side closest to the door, and I doubt that big hairy bastard really got a good look at me to begin with.

No sir, sure hope she isn’t consumed with worry about things like this.

Relampago!

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So it’s been muggy all day and kinda cloudy.  Not my favorite.  And I’m suffering from some kind of mild ague wherein I crack a sweat about fifty times a day.

No, it’s not hormones.  Shut up.

Okay it might be.  Shut up again.  But it might be something else, so shut up some more.   And wipe that look off your face.  Jeez.

Tonight there is lightning, and thunder, and it’s raining.  We have a new window that opens out under the covered patio and now we can hear the soothing sounds of the rain pattering on the corrugated fiberglass roof, which is a good thing because The Lovely Rhonda does not care for this kind of thing.  Neither does the dog, so he’s huddled beneath the table we sit head-to-head at while we’re computing.  Earlier he met me in the kitchen, and by “met me” I mean that he bolted into the corner behind me and tried to look nonchalant.   “It’s cool, it’s cool,” he said, with his eyes. “Yeah, no, I’m not wild about thunder but it’s cool, I’m fine, just, you know, hanging out.  Hey, is that chicken?”  He doesn’t love thunder but he’s into poultry.  Can’t fault a dog for trying.

I used to hate storms when I was young because I associated them with The Worst Thing In The Whole Entire World, which was the power going out.  I hated the way the appliances sat all dull and lifeless, especially the TV.  I was worried the power would never come back on.  It was unnaturally quiet and dark.  It just wasn’t right.  I’m not sure what changed that but now I love a good storm.  Granted, we don’t get severe storms and I’m sure I’d feel a whole lot different if we did, but I live on a hill so there’s no fear of flooding, the power rarely goes out even with a big storm, and they’re rare enough here that it’s a novelty to have one.

So I say, “WOAH!” while TLR grits her teeth and whispers “Cheese and crackers!” and sighs heavily through her nostrils when a big thunderclap hits.  And I mentally review where the candles are (do we have any matches anymore?)  and I listen to the rain outside and I’m glad to be alive on a night like this.

Paint me like one of your French bosoms

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So today The Lovely Rhonda was compelled to visit the local “Breast Health Center,” or as I like to think of it, that place where they feel you up and get paid for it.  She had been having an Undisclosed Symptom that scared the bejeebers out of her medical provider and, by extension, us.  I was so disquieted by the whole thing that I could not find the words to talk about it to anyone.

Spoiler alert: everything turns out okay, but we’ll never get the four days of trying not to think about the worst case scenario back.

As you might expect, dear reader(s), tensions were high and we were both totally rocking the puffy-eyed hollow look of the frightened-beyond-our-wits.

They led her off to the dungeons to squash her bosoms flat and drag them into the next room to shoot some pictures of them, and then to some kind of foul antechamber where they further violated her frontal regions with an ultrasound.  I was then summoned to witness the sentencing.

The doctor came striding in and sat down and in the friendliest, most relaxed way said, “You know, I just don’t see anything at all that points to cancerous growth of any kind.  There is just nothing here at all that concerns me in the slightest.”

After the relieved shouting and confetti-tossing died down, we repaired to the dressing room with the nurse who could not have been nicer and insisted on giving TLR a warm, heartfelt hug once she was properly dressed and not in danger of goobering the nurse’s scrubs up with ultrasound medium.

Later over a late breakfast TLR described the process as being rather like taking part in a very bizarre photo shoot.  “They drape your arm around the machine.  Okay now drop your left hip.  More.  Try arching your back a little.  Closer, closer… turn… a little more… Okay now throw your head back, toss your hair, purse your lips.  WORK IT, WORK IT, MAKE ME BELIEVE IT, I AM THE CAMERA!  Make love to the machine!  Be a part of it!  … And I’m spent.  Lunch break, there’s bottled water and cigarettes in the green room.”

Just some evil hormones at play here folks, nothing to see, move along.

Instead of trolling

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So somebody posted a link on FB of shop signs from The Simpsons tv show.  You know, like “Eye Caramba” for an optical shop, etc.

The first posted comment from a reader goes like so:

“almost all of these are old simpsons. 1. season 9 lisa’s sax 2. season 11 EIEI (where homer challenges everyone to a duel, then has to run and ends up growing tomacco 3.season 7 king size homer 4. season 11 the last tap dance in springfield 5. season 9 girly edition 6. season 9 das bus 7. season 12 I’m going to praise land 12. season 9 simpson tide and the third to last and second to last are from the same episode, cartridge family season 9. the new simpsons just are not as good because they are original. they took the family guy and south park way out where they just go off of current events and pure randomness. so don’t try to defend them its just an old program that ran out of ideas, still good for a couple laughs because the characters are so beloved.”

I was so tempted, internets.  So tempted.  Because the guy who posted this, from what I can tell by his tiny photo, appeared to be a middle-aged nerd posing with a ventriloquist’s dummy crafted in his own image.  Between that and his encyclopedic knowledge of this tv show, or his willingness to google each sign and collect the answers in his comment?  SO. TEMPTED. To leave some kind of comment speculating as to his probable virginity and almost certain residence in the basement of his parents’ home.

Not that there’s anything wrong with virginity or your mom’s basement, but dude.  Have you stopped trying?

Because I’m not really mean, and certainly not because I couldn’t figure out a way to post my snarky comment anonymously without investing actual time and effort, I am instead blogging about it.

Blogging: the coward’s way out since the late 1990’s (so sayeth Wikipedia).

Don’t Poke the Homophobe!

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So I sent our little friend from the previous post a little love note in the form of a personal message on FB.

Me:  I hardly think the “serving overseas” trump card is relevant here. It doesn’t make you any less bigoted. And yes, denying equal rights to people based on their sexual orientation pretty much fits the definition of bigoted.

Bigoted Homophobe:  Since your too ignorant to notice that that was my son who said that and not me, please feel free not to comment on any of my posts. My family has strong religious beliefs, how does that make us bigots? The problem with all who feel that lifestyle is okay fail to recognize that others have a right to disagree, you can believe what you want and your considered “tolerant” but god forbid anyone disagree or they are ignorant or a bigot, we fight for your right to live how you feel, you call us bigots because we have our own convictions, so who is tolerant certainly not the liberal gay community

Me:  Fine, we agree to disagree. The difference is that nobody’s trying to deny you civil rights. Not to worry, since you’re unfriended, I can’t see any more of your posts in my feed and I certainly won’t go looking for them.

Excuse me for not noticing that it was your son’s comment and not yours; an oversight hardly makes me ignorant. Believing that this is a “lifestyle” — that’s actually pretty ignorant.

Enjoy your beliefs. I guess we’ll see who’s right when we meet our Maker. I’m pretty sure my Maker didn’t make me as I am, capable of this kind of love, only to punish me for it later. So I guess, Thank God your Maker isn’t my Maker.

BH:  In case you haven’t noticed Christians are being denied their first amendment rights everyday

Me:  Gosh, I’m a Christian too. Which first amendment rights are you referring to? The ones where we have the right to shove our religious beliefs down everybody’s throats? That’s not a right.

BH:  No the one where I am entitled to speak freely that I feel according to the bible homosexuality is a son and not have those proclamations be considered hate speech

Sin

You’re a Christian, ever read Romans 1

Me:  Oh please. When we get to the point of quoting scripture at each other I’m done. You can use scripture to back up just about any viewpoint you want. You can preach to each other in your homes and churches anything you want, you just can’t spew it to people who don’t want to hear it, and that includes a lot more people than you’d think. Good day to you.

BHEvery view point except that the gay lifestyle is sanctioned by God,

Scripture by the way is the foundation to Christian life

Me:  And only your interpretation is valid, I’m sure. Like I’ve never heard this before. Goodbye.

BHWhen you have a masters degree in biblical literature, maybe I’ll weigh you interpretation equal to mine

Me:  From a conservative university, I’m sure. No thanks.

As a parting shot, I linked the infamous Letter to Dr. Laura. 

I SAID GOOD DAY!

Yes, I’m a girl

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So a friend of mine reposted this… thing on Facebook.  I’m having a little trouble with it.

“Yes, I’m a girl. I push doors that clearly say PULL. I laugh harder when I try to explain why I’m laughing. I walk into a room and forget why I was there. I count on my fingers in math. I hide the pain from my loved ones. I say it is a long story when it’s really not. I care about people who don’t care about me. I try to do things before the microwave beeps!! I listen to you even when you don’t listen to me. And a hug will always help. Yes, I’m a girl!!!!! Re-post if you’re proud to be one, come on girlies xxx”

I’m really not particularly rabid in my feminism in that I do my best not to shove it down anyone’s throat and am not terribly reactive if I find something somewhat (or rampantly) offensive.  That being said, this still just bugs me.

Let’s just take a closer look, shall we?

I push doors that clearly say PULL.  = Essentially, I’m not too bright.

I laugh harder when I try to explain why I’m laughing.  = I am unable to control my emotions.

I walk into a room and forget why I was there.   = I’m just so scatterbrained!  *giggle*

I count on my fingers in math.  =  Math is so hard!  Only boys can do hard stuff like math!  Let’s go shopping!

I hide the pain from my loved ones.  =  It is my lot in life to be a martyr.

I say it is a long story when it’s really not.  =  I complicate things unnecessarily.  Tee hee!

I care about people who don’t care about me.  =  Again with the martyrdom!  Also, other people’s feelings are more valid than mine, AND I’m not too bright.

I try to do things before the microwave beeps!!  =  This is so stupid I can’t even make sense of it.

I listen to you even when you don’t listen to me.  =  Martyr, unimportant, etc.

And a hug will always help.  … Oh, I defy anyone to try to hug me if I’m pissed.  THERE WILL BE BLOOD.