Caterwauling

It never fails that, when you’re in a hurry, the rest of the world can’t turn fast enough.

Went to a drive-thru tonight (against my better judgment), but it was nearby, I was hungry, etc. What a dumb idea, going out for food when you’re hungry. As if you’ll get it right away. Hah.

I was the fifth or sixth car in line, which sucked but the way drive-thrus are organized, it’s not like you can change your mind and pull out because you get imprisoned within the little concrete roadway that they all seem to have. Plus, pile on four or five cars behind you, and you’re SOL.

Anyway, I timed my visit there. Because, hey, WTF else do you have do do but blast Bon Jovi songs while you’re missing their concert that is going on not even 20 miles from where you’re pondering your own suicide?

Ahem.

I arrived at the drive-thru at 7:23 p.m. My order was taken at 7:39. I pulled up to the food window at 7:54. I was handed my food at 8 p.m. on the freaking nose.

I could have been HOME by then! But alas, I was still on the wrong side of the state line. Humph.

But wonder of all wonders, my order was right. Granted, I’ve had ice cream cones that were warmer than the fries, but no onion on the sandwich, no ice in the drink. A veritable FEAT, I say.

Maybe that’s why it took so long — they were getting everyone’s orders right and not, as I originally surmised, slaughtering cattle on the premises.

The worst part? I forgot to pick up cat food and toilet paper, and it’s 9 p.m. and I gots stuff to do. *sigh* I guess I’ll be using the litterbox and the girls will be eating the lettuce that fell into my bra as I was eating my cheeseburger while dodging other drivers on the Beltway at 75 mph. … 😀

I’ve come to accept that in northern and central Maryland, the land of two-lane highways, idiots will always ride in tandem. Do not pass go, do not pass ANYONE for that matter — just tailgate one until you get pissed off and move aside to tailgate someone else.

I am not a tailgater by nature. I am known to slam on my brakes to antagonize someone who’s up my butt when I’m already breaking the sound barrier speed limit.

But then for the past two days, on the GW Parkway (through Virginia and D.C.), folks have been riding next to each other on this non-Beltway oasis. What the HELL?!?! I know the speed limit ranges from 40 to 50 — and NOBODY does less than 65 in the rain or snow (I rarely let the needle drop below 70 mph).

So why god WHY were people driving side-by-side, both at 50 mph during my ride today? (Answer: Both had Maryland plates. And Marylanders CANNOT DRIVE.)

I jumped behind a Lexus in the passing lane — those fuckers don’t know where their brakes (or TURN SIGNALS) are, but I know for a FACT that they know where the gas pedals are — but no luck. So I tried to pass in the RIGHT-HAND lane, of all things, yet no luck there either. I had people up MY butt that I was trying to LOSE, too.

Fucktards. Put DOWN the coffee and pick UP a driver’s manual. I know nobody wants to be the lead car in the pack, but for god’s sakes, you’re no less conspicuous when you’re afraid to pass. Get the FUCK out of my LANE and let ME be the lead car — I’ll take my chances with the cops. Believe me, they know me on sight and already have the ticket ready to hand to me as I sail by!!! And I’d STILL get to work faster, being pulled over, than I am riding the snail trail of dipshit drivers every day of my life.

More accurately, simpletons

Amy had a great post about the intellectual bankruptcy we’re seeing in our nation every day, and I realized that I myself am a little more than hot under the collar about these things, and not just because I have only today just broken my 101.5-degree fever that I’ve had for a week.

Now, per the usual, I’m not saying what or who ate my breakfast on my behalf, but I’m mad enough to make others suffer for it. 😉

A few weekends ago, I went to see “Prime”, although I’d say it was mistitled, at best. I liked about the first hour of the movie, but the second and third hour (!) were tragically unnecessary. And painful. I should’ve saved my money to go see “Derailed” and “Rent”.

But that said, I got to the theater early to get a good seat. Which is probably useless when you go to a theater like mine that’s always sold out. I have major claustrophobia issues and loathe being in proximity to people I don’t know. Not to mention, I’d been scribbling in my journal till the lights went down and I’d already moved my seat once to get away from someone who was reading over my shoulder. Jeez.

Anyway, I’ll tell you why I was really pissed off. I had empty seats on both sides of me. A gentleman was two seats over to my left and a woman was to my right. The guy and I were kind of talking — he seemed sweet. But then, two ghetto broads came over and wanted two seats together. As in, I had to move.

Which, let me tell you, you shouldn’t get in there late because no one has to give you two seats together. Furthermore, I’d just seen those assholes across the street at Starbucks, screaming into their cell phones as I tried to write in my journal in anything but peace. I remember thinking, “Oh god, don’t let them be waiting for the same movie as I am.”

God had other plans — to drive up my blood pressure even higher than usual, to start.

So, not really thinking about it (because, fundamentally, I am not an asshole), I moved my seat. Had I been thinking, I would’ve gone next to the guy (heh) but I sat next to the chick.

But wait, there’s more.

So the ghetto twins proceeded to talk. And talk. And talk some more. Straight through the previews, right into the first 15 minutes of the movie. And shoveling popcorn into their mouths like they’d been starved for a week. All the crunching and mumbling was driving me mad.

But then, the bitches shut up. For awhile. Until …

*ring*

Yes, the fuckhead sitting next to me, who’d slobbered and giggled through the “turn off your phone” segments, had left hers on. She let it ring a couple of times till she could figure out who was calling. I wanted to stomp on her foot.

Worse? She ANSWERED IT!!! At this point, I decided I was entitled to listen in. She gave no indication that she was at a movie, and it was only a matter of minutes before I let the guy on the other end talk to her ASS, because that’s where I was planning to insert the phone — preferably with my pointy-toed shoe.

She ended the convo quickly enough, but then she had to DISCUSS IT WITH HER FRIEND.

*collapses into hysterical sobs*

Why god WHY can’t I get a moment’s peace from obliviots?!?!?

It’s been awhile since I’ve gotten my claws sharpened, so I made an appointment for yesterday afternoon. Note that word appointment.

Normally, I make my appointments early in the morning. But I had stuff to do early in the day and decided that I wanted to go in at 3.

Anyway, I don’t exactly go to the most upscale place — the price is right and my technician does beautiful work. And when I walk in, everyone knows me. It’s like “Cheers” but instead of beers, I simply get high off the fumes from the acrylics.

As this is not a place in hugely high demand, they get their lion’s share of business from walk-ins who happen to be in that shopping complex. I refuse to do that — I make appointments because I always seem to be on a time schedule. That, and the whole point of the endeavor is to feel important and special and, ultimately, pampered.

That said, we almost had a throwdown at the salon yesterday. The entire waiting room was filled to the brim with women. I walked up to the front desk, signed in and waited outside for five minutes until Helen came to get me.

I sat at her nail station while she ran to wash her hands. At which time, six very ghetto broads started YELLING. At ME.

“We was here first!”

“Who you think you is, BIATCH?”

“You wait yo’ turn!”

(I told you it wasn’t upscale.) 😉

And let me tell you, I was more than ready for a big ole throwdown — I have a lot of misdirected (and, frankly, undirectable) emotions that are more than happy to manifest in a girlfight.

I looked right at the one I figured was the meanest, and in my patented dead-calm voice, I said, “I have an appointment. Do you?”

Her response?

“Oh no she di’in’t!!!!”

(People still SAY that?!?!)

What I find entertaining is how they’re ready to rip my hair out, not just over me supposedly getting my nails done first (like there aren’t 12 other manicurists without appointments), but how they acted like it was my fault that my manicurist came and got me. Although, let’s face it, if she got to choose who she worked on first, I doubt any of them would have won that round. (Besides, I tip extraordinarily well — who wouldn’t pick me? lol)

I had a mind to reach past Tracy’s head and beat those bitches senseless with the appointment book — where my name had been listed for QUITE a few days.

You know, when I feel I’ve been wronged in some way — to the point where I am motivated to share my concerns — I normally (politely) direct my inquiry to the receptionist or someone in charge to pontificate why it is that someone else got preferential treatment when, clearly, I had been waiting longer.

Unless it’s in a grocery store, at which point I will gladly attempt to shove my shopping cart up their asses or, at least, scrape their heels a bit. 🙂

Anyway, the Ghetto Fabulous crew was finally pacified when my manicurist heard the commotion and confirmed to them that I did, in fact, have an appointment.

I was there longer than any of them anyway — they all got the cheapie $10 manicure special and were out the door (thankfully). But I sure got the hairy eyeball turned toward me as they waddled out together.

At which time I pulled my most serene smile out of my ass for each of them. 😉

I hate assholes, but I will ALWAYS out-class them. Because it is not that hard to do. 😉

Katie Holmes is pregnant?!?! Aren’t we taking this fag hag thing to the extreme a bit?

In this fabulous article on “When FEMA Met Katrina,” this gem caught my eye:

“(Michael Brown) does, however, cite among his exaggerated emergency preparedness credentials a stretch as assistant city manager in Edmond, Okla. His actual job was assistant to the city manager.” Editor’s note: Emphasis mine.

Fans of the American version of “The Office” might remember Dwight Schrute, the assistant to the company manager who tells everyone that he’s the assistant manager.

Perhaps Mr. Brown resigned because he was under the weather with a case of Count Choculitis. That, and he’s probably had to enter Witness Protection, although he does have a future on Season 2 of this beloved show. 😉