More and more, recently, I find myself wishing to be deputized. Oh, for a police siren mounted to the top of my car that I can illuminate at will when someone-for-whom-the-rules-don't apply pisses me off. And a nice, shiny gold badge (or a cool flip-out) would go down quite nicely too.
I've been hearing stories all summer about the parents who send their kids to sleepaway camp with two cell phones because they are not supposed to have phones at all and one might get confiscated. I know I've already described the mother who only put down one instrument on the choice form because she wanted her kid to get the violin. Why don't the rules apply to them??!
There is a sour-faced woman who parks every morning in the fire lane outside the coffee shop and runs in for her morning cuppa. I know this because my kids catch the bus for camp just outside said cafe and many mornings this woman is told to move her car to let the bus pull up. But she persists in parking there every morning, leaving her engine running, and ignoring actual parking spots not 20 feet away.
Well, this morning I decided to get a coffee after the camp bus left. I was third in line, when this lady parked out front, strode in looking harried and asked the woman at the front of the line if she could cut in because she was in a rush. She didn't ask the rest of us and if she had, I would have told her to either make her @###%^$% coffee at home OR, if she was in SUCH a hurry, go without.
To add insult to injury, after she got her coffee she stopped to chat for 10 minutes with the woman who let her cut! Car idling (and polluting).
What exactly are the paramenters for making a citizen's arrest I wonder ...
Showing posts with label Pet peeves. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pet peeves. Show all posts
Friday, July 27, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
A Real No Know
One of my most cringe-worthy memories is from high school (natch). I decided, mid-assembly, that the candidates running for senior class president were too clique-specific and lame and that I would be a far more universally liked and desirable choice. Unfortunately, I didn't consider that by volunteering to run for office I would be forced to stand up and present a platform. Right then. On stage.
Yeah, I had nothing. It was a rambling speech that stressed only my ability to straddle the line(s) between all the different generically Breakfast Club-like factions of our grade. Think Sally Field's "You Like Me!" only less earnest and more deer-in-headlights. Not quite enough to win an election. My grade was wiser, evidently, than the "who would you rather have a beer with?" population of America: they chose the smartest kid with the best ideas (even though he was a founding member of the Existentialist Club. I am not making that up. Yes, it was private school.). Imagine that!
My political career may have been short-lived but it was honest: I did get along with most of my senior class (minus one obligatory blood-feud-of-forgotten-seventh-grade-origin frenemy). There was, however, one girl who drove me insane. She was a super-eager, sugary sweet hanger-on who was desperate to be popular. She laughed too much. She talked too much. She inserted herself (inanely) into conversations. And, while I tried to tolerate her, one day she pushed me over the edge.
We were all just hanging out during a free period or after lunch or something and she was blabbering on about some nonsense when she said (to me): "Omigod, I was so crazy this morning that I ran out of the house with two different color socks on. I felt like you! Isn't that such a you thing to do?!"
Record scratch. What??? I was no Rachel Zoe back then (still not). But I had never, would never leave the house with two different color socks on. By accident or on purpose. I wasn't wacky or zany or absent-minded or anything like that.
Coming from anyone else I probably would have just let it roll off of me but, man, I tore that poor girl apart.......
Flash-forward to yesterday morning. Standing at the bus stop, I realized that I had forgotten to write a "bus note" for my son to go home with a friend after school. I quickly borrowed a pen from one boy and found a scrap of paper in my son's bag to scribble on.
A fourth grade neighbor girl said (to me): "You always forget to write your notes for school."
Simultaneous record scratch and flashback. What??? This was, I think, the absolute first time I had ever forgotten to write a note. And for sure it was the first time I had ever written one at the bus stop.
I reined in my inner, indignant 17 year old and calmly told the little girl that, in fact, she was mistaken.
And that she must have me confused with her mother.
Yeah, I had nothing. It was a rambling speech that stressed only my ability to straddle the line(s) between all the different generically Breakfast Club-like factions of our grade. Think Sally Field's "You Like Me!" only less earnest and more deer-in-headlights. Not quite enough to win an election. My grade was wiser, evidently, than the "who would you rather have a beer with?" population of America: they chose the smartest kid with the best ideas (even though he was a founding member of the Existentialist Club. I am not making that up. Yes, it was private school.). Imagine that!
My political career may have been short-lived but it was honest: I did get along with most of my senior class (minus one obligatory blood-feud-of-forgotten-seventh-grade-origin frenemy). There was, however, one girl who drove me insane. She was a super-eager, sugary sweet hanger-on who was desperate to be popular. She laughed too much. She talked too much. She inserted herself (inanely) into conversations. And, while I tried to tolerate her, one day she pushed me over the edge.
We were all just hanging out during a free period or after lunch or something and she was blabbering on about some nonsense when she said (to me): "Omigod, I was so crazy this morning that I ran out of the house with two different color socks on. I felt like you! Isn't that such a you thing to do?!"
Record scratch. What??? I was no Rachel Zoe back then (still not). But I had never, would never leave the house with two different color socks on. By accident or on purpose. I wasn't wacky or zany or absent-minded or anything like that.
Coming from anyone else I probably would have just let it roll off of me but, man, I tore that poor girl apart.......
Flash-forward to yesterday morning. Standing at the bus stop, I realized that I had forgotten to write a "bus note" for my son to go home with a friend after school. I quickly borrowed a pen from one boy and found a scrap of paper in my son's bag to scribble on.
A fourth grade neighbor girl said (to me): "You always forget to write your notes for school."
Simultaneous record scratch and flashback. What??? This was, I think, the absolute first time I had ever forgotten to write a note. And for sure it was the first time I had ever written one at the bus stop.
I reined in my inner, indignant 17 year old and calmly told the little girl that, in fact, she was mistaken.
And that she must have me confused with her mother.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Only I Can Criticize Me!
I absolutely HATE making mistakes. As a child, if I were told off, I would recede into what my family called my "black mood" for hours at a time, unable to forgive myself or the messenger for calling attention to (gasp!) my faults. I have somewhat mellowed over the years but by a disappointingly small degree.
Last week I drove into the city (with all three children, during rush hour) to pick up my mother-in-law from the train station. Approaching a major intersection I found myself having to sneak between two city buses, the one on my right stationary and the one on my left moving. Realizing it was too narrow for me to comfortably squeeze through I stopped. Well! Cars behind me started sitting on their horns and the traffic cop at the intersection was blowing his whistle furiously and stamping his foot so STUPIDLY I drove through.
The next thing I knew there was a loud bang and my wing mirror flipped up (insert colourful language). So I pulled around the corner to inspect the damage and saw that happily the mirror was unscathed! I snapped it back into place and drove off to collect my mother-in-law.
The next day my husband came in from his run and asked me what the heck I had done to my car. What?!!! The entire right side was slightly scraped. At the time of the accident, in my relief over the state of the wing mirror,it didn't occur to me to check for other damage or file an accident report. Still, the damage wasn't so bad, just superficial. "It'll probably buff right out!" I assured my husband.
Long story short, the damage will cost almost $5000 to repair. Yes, that's three 0s. My husband sends me an email with the quote from Geico and quips, "Guess it WON'T just buff right out."
We've been married for 17 years. He REALLY should know better.
Last week I drove into the city (with all three children, during rush hour) to pick up my mother-in-law from the train station. Approaching a major intersection I found myself having to sneak between two city buses, the one on my right stationary and the one on my left moving. Realizing it was too narrow for me to comfortably squeeze through I stopped. Well! Cars behind me started sitting on their horns and the traffic cop at the intersection was blowing his whistle furiously and stamping his foot so STUPIDLY I drove through.
The next thing I knew there was a loud bang and my wing mirror flipped up (insert colourful language). So I pulled around the corner to inspect the damage and saw that happily the mirror was unscathed! I snapped it back into place and drove off to collect my mother-in-law.
The next day my husband came in from his run and asked me what the heck I had done to my car. What?!!! The entire right side was slightly scraped. At the time of the accident, in my relief over the state of the wing mirror,it didn't occur to me to check for other damage or file an accident report. Still, the damage wasn't so bad, just superficial. "It'll probably buff right out!" I assured my husband.
Long story short, the damage will cost almost $5000 to repair. Yes, that's three 0s. My husband sends me an email with the quote from Geico and quips, "Guess it WON'T just buff right out."
We've been married for 17 years. He REALLY should know better.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Don't be THAT guy
A friend of mine told me that the best advice she ever gave her kids was 'Don't be THAT guy'. Don't be the boy who combines Mentos and Diet coke in the parking lot of Rite Aid. Don't be the girl arrested behind middle school, charging $5 a pop for sexual favors. Don't be the dad at the soccer game wearing the too-tight tracksuit with his name embroidered on the chest, who yells so much at their own kid that even the opposing team's parents and coach are cheering the kid on.
My husband and I went to a wedding on Saturday night and had not one but two THAT guys at our table! Or, I should say, THAT girl. One of them, in her late 20s actually introduced herself as "Eleanor, but my gay friends call me Ellie" (So ... 'Eleanor' then). She then butchered my name and had the nerve to ask if my accent was Irish. Even before the main course was served she was three sheets to the wind, telling everyone her life story before barfing, passing out and finding her second wind in time to heckle the best man's speech. When we left at midnight, she was still drinking.
The second woman, who was probably in her late 50s, initially rolled her eyes at the obnoxious behaviour of our table companion but quickly became her dance partner. As more alcohol was consumed she became obsessed with men's ties, particularly those of the groomsmen, dancing over and grabbing said neck wear, then writhing erotically with it. Thankfully, she passed out reasonably early on and had to be escorted back to her hotel.
I'm not a volume drinker so it always amazes me that people of any age can let themselves get so plastered that they literally can't control bodily functions. It's sad, really. So I've got to agree that the advice stands. I think I'll pass it on to my kids.
My husband and I went to a wedding on Saturday night and had not one but two THAT guys at our table! Or, I should say, THAT girl. One of them, in her late 20s actually introduced herself as "Eleanor, but my gay friends call me Ellie" (So ... 'Eleanor' then). She then butchered my name and had the nerve to ask if my accent was Irish. Even before the main course was served she was three sheets to the wind, telling everyone her life story before barfing, passing out and finding her second wind in time to heckle the best man's speech. When we left at midnight, she was still drinking.
The second woman, who was probably in her late 50s, initially rolled her eyes at the obnoxious behaviour of our table companion but quickly became her dance partner. As more alcohol was consumed she became obsessed with men's ties, particularly those of the groomsmen, dancing over and grabbing said neck wear, then writhing erotically with it. Thankfully, she passed out reasonably early on and had to be escorted back to her hotel.
I'm not a volume drinker so it always amazes me that people of any age can let themselves get so plastered that they literally can't control bodily functions. It's sad, really. So I've got to agree that the advice stands. I think I'll pass it on to my kids.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Riches to Rags
Stemming from an incident with my father, on which I will not elaborate, my mother established a rule in our house that once clothing had been consigned to the "polish tin" (ie. was only useful for polishing shoes) it could not be retrieved. Along those lines, I feel that my husband's fleece, which I have just spent the last 20 minutes debobbling with an electric shaver, has lived a good life and must be replaced. But my husband thinks otherwise.
Once, he actually asked me to darn his socks! His $5/3 pairs Target socks no less. If it's a small hole - or minor pilling - sure, I'll have a go but where do you draw the line on repairing clothing? What is the effort:result ratio I should be pursuing?
This winter I have inexplicably gone through the toes of every pair of dark socks I own. My feet haven't busted through like the Incredible Hulk, but it is weird that they all went at the same time. They are so bad that I didn't even consider darning them, even if I knew how. Anyway, nobody wants a sock bump. I'll have to go and buy a slew more and throw the others out, wasteful or not.
Maybe I'll be green and keep them for sock puppets (NOT).
Once, he actually asked me to darn his socks! His $5/3 pairs Target socks no less. If it's a small hole - or minor pilling - sure, I'll have a go but where do you draw the line on repairing clothing? What is the effort:result ratio I should be pursuing?
This winter I have inexplicably gone through the toes of every pair of dark socks I own. My feet haven't busted through like the Incredible Hulk, but it is weird that they all went at the same time. They are so bad that I didn't even consider darning them, even if I knew how. Anyway, nobody wants a sock bump. I'll have to go and buy a slew more and throw the others out, wasteful or not.
Maybe I'll be green and keep them for sock puppets (NOT).
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The Gift Git
When we were first married and before we had kids my husband and I were THOSE people who give other people's kids inappropriate gifts. We gave my niece her first Rollerblades, a mini drum set and a karaoke machine all before she turned 5. Eleven years ago, with the birth of our first daughter, we finally gained some perspective but, alas, inherited a "THAT guy" uncle of our own.
My two eldest kids have late December/early January birthdays so every year around this time I perform the great pre-Christmas purge. It's a time-consuming, but ultimately very cathartic way to make room for the latest round of stuff. Anyway, I decided to document all the idiot gifts I found that said uncle has given my children this year (because that's the kind of mood I'm in, bah humbug):
A toy gun that fires hard paper pellets
A toxic, "may stain", paint-spinning art kit
A build-your-own dinosaur kit involving superglue
Giant cheapo candies that are sticky even before the kids make contact
NFL shirts that support my husband's mortal enemies (ie. not Dallas)
Need I say that most of the above have a recommended audience age of my kids' ages plus 10.
He's coming to visit next week, so ... I'll keep you posted.
My two eldest kids have late December/early January birthdays so every year around this time I perform the great pre-Christmas purge. It's a time-consuming, but ultimately very cathartic way to make room for the latest round of stuff. Anyway, I decided to document all the idiot gifts I found that said uncle has given my children this year (because that's the kind of mood I'm in, bah humbug):
A toy gun that fires hard paper pellets
A toxic, "may stain", paint-spinning art kit
A build-your-own dinosaur kit involving superglue
Giant cheapo candies that are sticky even before the kids make contact
NFL shirts that support my husband's mortal enemies (ie. not Dallas)
Need I say that most of the above have a recommended audience age of my kids' ages plus 10.
He's coming to visit next week, so ... I'll keep you posted.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Wash What You Eat
I saw a report on the news about a salmonella outbreak linked to chicken liver. The suspect chicken liver is evidently packaged and sold in one of two ways: 10 pound boxes each holding two five pound bags labelled "Broiled Chicken Liver: Made for Further Thermal Processing" and 10 pound boxes of loose packed "Chicken Liver Broiled."
I'm the first to roll my eyes at the post-McDonald's hot coffee lawsuit era's over-lawyered CYA labelling of everything but I think the chicken liver folks could have used more input. Yes, the packages do say that the meat has to be cooked thoroughly and no I have no idea how raw those chicken livers actually looked inside the package but in a world where people need to be told that coffee is going to be hot and knives are sharp is it so surprising that a consumer might assume something that is "Broiled" has actually been cooked?
Which brings me to my latest beef: why do the so-called convenience bags of greens say "ready to eat" but then suggest that you wash the contents? Exactly what step are you saving me? The bagging? The chopping?
I just found bagged, chopped kale at the store yesterday, which I was psyched about because the process of washing giant heads of kale and separating the more-edible parts from the less-edible parts sometimes feels endless. Looking at the bag at home, I noticed that it said "ready to cook" (as opposed to ready to eat in a salad) in several places. Chicken livers fresh in my mind, I placed a quick call to the customer service number to make sure they hadn't somehow assumed I'd be broiling away some bacteria.
"No, no," the woman assured me, "it's fine for a salad. Just be sure to wash it first." Gaaah!
I'm the first to roll my eyes at the post-McDonald's hot coffee lawsuit era's over-lawyered CYA labelling of everything but I think the chicken liver folks could have used more input. Yes, the packages do say that the meat has to be cooked thoroughly and no I have no idea how raw those chicken livers actually looked inside the package but in a world where people need to be told that coffee is going to be hot and knives are sharp is it so surprising that a consumer might assume something that is "Broiled" has actually been cooked?
Which brings me to my latest beef: why do the so-called convenience bags of greens say "ready to eat" but then suggest that you wash the contents? Exactly what step are you saving me? The bagging? The chopping?
I just found bagged, chopped kale at the store yesterday, which I was psyched about because the process of washing giant heads of kale and separating the more-edible parts from the less-edible parts sometimes feels endless. Looking at the bag at home, I noticed that it said "ready to cook" (as opposed to ready to eat in a salad) in several places. Chicken livers fresh in my mind, I placed a quick call to the customer service number to make sure they hadn't somehow assumed I'd be broiling away some bacteria.
"No, no," the woman assured me, "it's fine for a salad. Just be sure to wash it first." Gaaah!
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Feeding into the Crazy
I hate owing. Whether it be money, play dates or even simply borrowing books from the library, I am on a heightened sense of imbalance until I have exactly repaid my debt. Yes, I know, I'm crazy.
I've actually had to restrain myself among very close friends because it seems ridiculous not to let someone buy you a frappuccino on your birthday or host the play date two times in a row because it simply worked out that way. But even just writing this I can feel my back teeth grinding together in anxiety.
So IMAGINE my distress when my first grader lost 3 books from the book bag she brings home from school every week! Granted these books were the size and width of birthday cards so I'm willing to accept that they may have gone out with the recycling, but even being super careful the next week she lost two more! I felt physically sick. I searched high and low, knowing that they were in the house somewhere. I have never lost a book in my life, but this teacher is new to us; she doesn't know that!
Eventually I gave up and told Minx to return the remaining 5 books and we would replace the rest. Guess what?! When she got to school the teacher only found 4books in her bag! Aaaaaaaarghh!!! WTF? Seriously, if someone is playing a practical joke on me, stop right now! The men in the white coats are already knocking down my door.
I've actually had to restrain myself among very close friends because it seems ridiculous not to let someone buy you a frappuccino on your birthday or host the play date two times in a row because it simply worked out that way. But even just writing this I can feel my back teeth grinding together in anxiety.
So IMAGINE my distress when my first grader lost 3 books from the book bag she brings home from school every week! Granted these books were the size and width of birthday cards so I'm willing to accept that they may have gone out with the recycling, but even being super careful the next week she lost two more! I felt physically sick. I searched high and low, knowing that they were in the house somewhere. I have never lost a book in my life, but this teacher is new to us; she doesn't know that!
Eventually I gave up and told Minx to return the remaining 5 books and we would replace the rest. Guess what?! When she got to school the teacher only found 4books in her bag! Aaaaaaaarghh!!! WTF? Seriously, if someone is playing a practical joke on me, stop right now! The men in the white coats are already knocking down my door.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Miss Crankypants
I remember reading Miss Lonelyhearts in high school and being inspired to write a daily column on things that bugged me. But then I got distracted by all the AP Calculus I wasn't understanding and forgot about my pet peeves. Or at least about sharing them.
Well, no more! My time has finally come.
Today's gripe: Why do packaged loaves of bread always have an odd number of slices? Wouldn't you assume that most people are using sliced sandwich bread for..... I don't know, sandwiches?! A single slice of bread is of exactly no use to me. And if you've ever been left literally holding the bag (as I was this morning) you know the desperation of trying to cut the heel enough to make it pass (upside down, natch) as a regular slice of bread.
I can imagine how that will go over in the lunchroom. What could be less appealing to a kid who-- much to my chagrin/bemusement-- carefully eats every morsel up-to-but-not-including the crusts, than a whole piece made up of nothing but crust?
And while we're fixing the loaves of bread, why not just leave off the ends altogether? Lop them off at the factory and recycle them right there into breadcrumbs or stuffing. Does anyone eat the ends or do we all just reach past the heel to get to the good stuff underneath? (Strangely, I never throw away that top end until the whole loaf is otherwise finished-- I've always treated it as the protector of the other slices or something).
I'm feeling better already.
Well, no more! My time has finally come.
Today's gripe: Why do packaged loaves of bread always have an odd number of slices? Wouldn't you assume that most people are using sliced sandwich bread for..... I don't know, sandwiches?! A single slice of bread is of exactly no use to me. And if you've ever been left literally holding the bag (as I was this morning) you know the desperation of trying to cut the heel enough to make it pass (upside down, natch) as a regular slice of bread.
I can imagine how that will go over in the lunchroom. What could be less appealing to a kid who-- much to my chagrin/bemusement-- carefully eats every morsel up-to-but-not-including the crusts, than a whole piece made up of nothing but crust?
And while we're fixing the loaves of bread, why not just leave off the ends altogether? Lop them off at the factory and recycle them right there into breadcrumbs or stuffing. Does anyone eat the ends or do we all just reach past the heel to get to the good stuff underneath? (Strangely, I never throw away that top end until the whole loaf is otherwise finished-- I've always treated it as the protector of the other slices or something).
I'm feeling better already.
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