Am I the only person whose bouts of PMS seem to last for three weeks out of the month? The only time I seem to calm down and find my happy place is when Aunt Flo graces me with her presence, a calming reminder that an increase in family size is not in the plans for me. Anywho, I was spending time with Aunt Flo a couple of weeks ago, and decided that I was overdue for a sequel to 10 Things I Hate. But being in such a place of serenity, I couldn’t think of a single thing that I hated. How was that possible? I’ll tell you how. Aunt Flo has a way of forcing me to be at peace with the world. The air I breathe taste like cotton candy, and everything is as it should be. Fast forward a couple of weeks, and I don’t know how to fit all the things I hate into one post. There is just so much. Where on earth do I begin?
1. People. I hate people. Not all of them, but most. You see, I have divided my dislike of people into categories depending on the intensity of my dislike. In my experience, most people tend to fall within one or more of the following categories:
a. The Texting Driver. You clearly don’t value your own life, my life, or the life of anyone else on the road. When I see you drifting out of your lane or driving 10 miles under the speed limit because you can’t part with your friggin phone for a few minutes, it makes my blood boil. Put your damned phone down and drive before you kill someone.
b. The Oblivious Parent. I was in Target recently and almost accidentally rammed a child with my cart as she darted in front of me with her older brother close on her heals. Their obnoxious game of chase involved climbing shelves and hiding between them, all while smashing bread I had hopes of buying. If I had even thought to put my mother’s good name in the streets by acting a fool in the store, I would have gotten a cold dose of reality within about 30 seconds in the form of a swat on my behind with whatever she could pick up off the shelf and swing effectively. I would have been so humiliated that I would have vowed never to act a fool in the store again. But where were the parents of these animals running around in Target? Standing at the end of the aisle with their faces in their phones. Yes, both of them. If I didn’t think I would go to jail for it, I would have pulled one of my mother’s moves and slapped them both over the head with a Slim Jim. Dumbasses.
c. The Obnoxiously Curious. We live in a very diverse country, and I love learning about the people I am surrounded by. I enjoy hearing about why people live the way they do. But dangit, there is some stuff that you just don’t need to know. Don’t ask me if I have hair under my hijab. Especially when you can see the lump from my ponytail. What did you think that was? A growth? Why is it important that you know what’s going on under my clothing? I don’t go around asking folks what kind of drawers they have on, or why they may have opted to go without a bra. It’s just not my business. But I can tolerate the whole hair question sometimes, depending on what kind of mood I am in. What I cannot tolerate is someone asking if I remove my clothes when I am intimate with my husband. Yes, someone went there. Curiosity killed the cat, you know. While I won’t kill you for asking such a personal question, I will not hesitate to hit you upside the head with a verbal can of whoopass. Act like you have some home training and be mindful of the crap you ask strangers in the grocery store.
d. The Insincerely Generous. Someone once offered me some of their peanut M&M’s, then had the gall to be in a huff when I took them up on the offer. First off, don’t offer a fat lady chocolate and expect her to decline. If you are that stupid, you don’t deserve your peanut M&M’s. Secondly, don’t offer if you don’t want to share. I can tell you what I don’t believe in doing: offering my chocolate to anyone. I don’t ever have the intention of sharing it. Hell, I hide in the laundry closet when eating chocolate at home so that I don’t have to share it with the kids. I don’t care if you stare at me with big doe eyes and have drool dripping from the corner of your mouth the entire time. I am not sharing. I believe we experience enough dissatisfaction in our lives; there is no need to bring it on ourselves intentionally. Call me a fat heifer if you want, you won’t get nary a piece of my chocolate.
2. Crappy Books. I think I may have covered this in a blog post before, but will cover it again since I just finished one of the most poorly-written books I have ever read in my life. I felt like the entire story was one big run-on sentence. There were words used in the wrong form, and some even spelled incorrectly. There was unnecessary description in the first paragraph, which could have been stretched out over the course of the book. It also happened to be an interracial romance, which is not what I have a problem with. My problem was with the characters being referred to as “the white man” or “the black lady”, despite their names and bios having been provided in the first paragraph. I wondered if maybe I had accidentally downloaded a book that was geared towards young children, because it sounded as though it had been written by a fourth-grader. Now I know that my writing is far from stellar, but I don’t charge you to read my blog. You are free to click away from this page without forking over $5.99. When you are going to be profiting from something you write, invest in a proofreader to save potential buyers from run on sentence after run on sentence, misspelled and misused words, and an overall choppy story. Learn to use adjectives. Create an outline for your story so that you aren’t hopping all over the place. And for crying out loud, develop your characters. If I buy a love story, I want to be able to get lost in the unfolding of a relationship between two people who care for one another. What I don’t want to read is that “the white man said blank” and then the “black lady said blank”. It’s one thing to put out a free crappy book, but you don’t get top dollar for not using a proofreader.
3. Kiosks in the Mall. Or I should say people at the kiosks in the mall. I guess this should go under people, but I don’t feel like going back to make the correction. When I come to the mall to shop, I will stop and check out the things that interest me. I don’t want to be hunted down and harassed into trying shit stuff. I am not interested in taking my hijab off so you can straighten my hair with your ion-charged flat iron. I don’t want a makeover. If I did, I would have stopped and asked for one. And I would not like to try your ridiculously expensive face cream that supposedly contains flecks of real 24 carat gold imported from the horn of Africa and known for its age-defying qualities.
4. Potlucks. Let me explain that a little better. I actually like potlucks. I don’t like when people who know good and hell well they can’t cook worth a damn volunteer to bring a main dish. I won’t lie; at one time I thought I was a decent cook. I’m actually not too bad if I stick to a recipe, but free handing gets me in a load of trouble. Really, my kids have been in tears at the thought of having to finish some of the crap I have cooked. Knowing this about myself, I don’t wait until potluck time to shoot for the moon. I will stick with a tried and true dish and generally, everyone is happy as a result. But there is always that one person who brings a dish that they couldn’t possibly have tasted before torturing the rest of us with it. No, that wild rice salad with raw green beans was not a hit. Next time, do everyone a favor and grab some potato salad from your local deli.
5. Nightwear as Outerwear. When I look at pictures from the 1920’s, I always notice how well people dressed back then. Whether they were poor or wealthy, everyone took pride in their appearance. I can’t understand what happened over the course of eight decades that caused such a drastic change, but it really makes me sad. Maybe I just need help understanding things, though. For instance, what is the cutoff age for wearing pajamas outside? I would have said nine months. As a nine month old, being seen outside in a sleeper is not that big a deal. However, a grown man outside in Joe Boxer pajama pants is disturbing. Especially when said pants are dirty. Are you really wearing those in your bed? I shudder at the thought. I also want to know if there is an unwritten rule determining the hour of day that pajama pants are acceptable at the grocery store. I might be able to look past your pajama pants if you had to run to Walmart at 11:00 at night to get Tylenol for your child. At 4:00 on a Wednesday afternoon, you need to have your act together.
6. Politicians. Again, this is another item that should have been placed in the people category. Come to think of it, everything I have a problem with seems to be related to people. Hmm. Anywho, my issue is not necessarily with the top dawgs, though they all deserve their own blog posts. My issue is with the folks like county comptrollers and the like. When I drive through neighborhoods that don’t have sidewalks and school children are forced to walk in the street in order to get to bus stops that sit in the middle of mud ponds, it’s hard not to wonder what the hell these people are getting paid for. I picked my son up from his after school program a few evenings ago and saw a group of children crossing at a crosswalk. By law, you have to stop to let them cross. I get that. But what if you can’t see them because there aren’t sufficient street lights? Surely we care more about the safety of our citizens than is apparent. I’m not saying that we all need to agree on how to fix every single problem. But it’s obvious that burying your head in the sand and pretending that there are no problems doesn’t help anyone. Except maybe the person who gets paid a buttload of money to twiddle their thumbs.
In conclusion, I think it is safe to say that I have a problem with people when Aunt Flo isn’t around to sooth me. When she arrives, I will be back with a beautiful post about rainbows and unicorns. In the meantime, piss off. Unless you have peanut M&M’s to share.
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