Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Things That Bother Me #847

Other people’s voicemails

For starters, I find it to be highly unreasonable when people claim they could only be doing one of two things which is why they’re not answering their phone.

“Hi! This is Claire, I’m either on the other line or I’m in a meeting.”

I doubt that Claire. Are you suggesting that you never poop? What if you just ate lunch and now you’re pooping. You failed to mention that, didn’t you Claire? Our relationship is built on a lie Claire. I can think of 4 zillion things that would keep me from answering my phone yet you’ve only listed 2. You’re a liar Claire. I will never call you again.

I also dislike when people tell me what to do in their voicemail.

“Hi, this is Mimi. Please leave your name and your number and I’ll call you back.”

Mimi, I’m your daughter. I’m fairly certain that you have my number. Also, I’m your only daughter so you should be able to decipher who’s calling sans the mentioning of my name. Mimi’s not the only one who demands I offer up my first and last name, time I called, and what my call is regarding. How about this everyone? I’ll leave whatever information I god damn well please and you can either call me back or go fuck yourself. I promise you, if I really have something to tell you, I will find you and scream it in your face. I will then tattoo my phone number onto your arm to be sure you have it.

Finally, automated voicemails that leave me a slew of unreasonable options that no one, anywhere would ever use, enrage me.

“After the beep, please leave a message. When you are finished recording, please press pound. If you’d like to send a fax, please press 3. If this is an emergency, hang up an call 911.”

What asshole tries to send a fax to a cell phone? That can’t possibly be a thing. Furthermore, does anyone even send faxes anymore? I doubt it. And this might come as a shock to you, wretched automated message, but if this was actually an emergency, I’d likely be dead by the time I got through all your options. 911 you say? Ah, brilliant. See, I thought it was the 9 digit number that I had at my disposal. Thank god I waited for 30 minutes to hear of this 911 you speak of. I hate you.

Friday, May 20, 2011

The Rules

I want to start by preemptively congratulating myself on uploading a picture. I write this without the knowledge as to whether or not I’ve succeeded but nonetheless, hooray for me. If my picture didn’t actually upload, I’ll need to tell you that there is a book entitled The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right and it is utterly bewildering. It seems cliché that a single woman would be annoyed by a self help book about getting a husband but I should tell you, I have tried The Rules and instead of capturing the heart of Mr. Right I captured the heart of Mr. STD and Mr. Accidentally Pregnant. I want my money back. In order to save other women from capturing the heart of Mr. Oops, I’m Already Married and Mr. I Think I Might Be Gay, I’m taking an opportunity to clarify a few of the rules that struck me as confusing.

Rule #1: Be a “Creature” Unlike Any Other

See now, I read “creature” as “slut” and I got into a little bit of trouble. Had I finished reading the rules, I would have gotten to Rule #15: Don't Rush into Sex, Wait at Least Three Dates. I believe Rule #1 should be-Read All the Rules. God damn prudish girls are always out to get me.

Rule # 20: Be Honest but Mysterious

I botched this one as well. I think what they meant to say was lie. I took it to mean go ahead and mention you’ve been arrested but don’t reveal why. Or admit that you’ve had sex with someone else in the last 24 hours but refuse to divulge who that person is. Had I fully omitted these initial facts, I feel I would have been far better off. So I believe Rule #20 should read: Don’t Say Words. To be fair, Rule #3 is Don't Stare at Men or Talk Too Much but I’m pretty sure that in my case the no speaking rule is the only way to go.

Rule #13: Don’t See Him More than Once or Twice a Week

I totally nailed this Rule and was so proud of myself until I realized that I was more than nailing it. I was seeing him zero times a week which means that in 10 out of 10 cases I just never spoke to any men ever again. I can’t imagine that this is what this rule was intended to do. Rule #13 should be: Don’t See Him More than Once or Twice a Week and If You See Him Zero You’re Doing a Bad Job.

Rule #16: Don't Tell Him What to Do

What am I? Wonderwoman!? Don’t tell him what to do? What if he’s doing everything poorly? I can’t stomach playing lap dog to a guy who refuses to take side streets when traffic is bad. Or what if he takes me to a movie but doesn’t get popcorn?! I almost had a meltdown once when I was with a guy at a party and he mixed Maker’s Mark with coke. YOU DON’T MIX MAKER’S MARK YOU ANIMAL!!! IT IS A DELICIOUS WHISKEY THAT STANDS ALONE AND PUTTING ANY OTHER SUBSTANCE ANYWHERE NEAR IT IS OFFENSIVE. STOP DRINKING LIKE A WOMAN!!!

I digress. Needless to say, The Rules and I did not get along. Come to think of it, it’s been virtually impossible for me to follow any Rules over the years. Examples include, “don’t jump out of a moving vehicle” and “stop when your nose is bleeding”. My new Rule is going to be Don’t Follow Anyone’s Bullshit Rules. To The Rules, this means I’ll be single and alone. To me, it means I’ll be leaving the refrigerator door open, wearing a tutu to work, and keeping the assholes of the world from destroying a delicious Kentucky whiskey.

Saturday, May 7, 2011


Today, I was unable to get out bed in order to go to my job. Some people would call this depression, I call it Tuesday. I had one of those days when I come to the horrifying realization that everything’s wrong. Nothing is making me happy and I am determined to sift through my bag of tricks in order to come up with a solution. Solution #1: call my mother.

Me: Hi, mom, it’s me. I’m dead inside and have lost the willingness to participate in life.

Mimi: What do you do for fun?

Me: Laundry?

Mimi: Well are you dating anyone?

Me: *muffled sobs*

Honey, you need to get a social life.

That bitch. How dare she question my social activities. I was furious so I decided to take a nice relaxing bath to calm my nerves. Two weeks later, I still have an ear infection from this process. I don’t know what kind of asshole it takes to harm themselves in a bathtub but these are the sorts of instances that haunt my existence. The next morning, when I noticed water in my ear, it should have been a clue that my ideas never work. I was furious, unable to hear and late for a haircut so I jumped in my Daewoo and furiously drove to meet my big, gay hairdresser who I knew would make me feel better. After he kissed me on the lips upon arrival (West Hollywood, classic), we discussed my new haircut.

Big Gay Hairdresser: What do you want to do?

Me: I don’t care.

BGH: Shorter?

Me: There is no God.

BGH: Color?

Me: Can I smoke in here?

BGH: Don’t worry, we’ll do something fun.

Apparently fun to a Big Gay Hairdresser translates to Mark Twain characters because now I look like Tom Sawyer. What’s worse is that I look like a breed of Tom Sawyer who never saw the sun and let me just tell you this haircut did nothing to boost my self-esteem, despite the swarm of gay men who hit on me the rest of the day.
In order to offset the horrifying, cry-for-help haircut I had just received, I swung by the tanning beds. I hadn’t been in a tanning bed since I was in high school and the prospect of looking young again thrilled me. After about an hour of lathering up with some horrid lotion and then laying on plastic for 10 minutes, I came out looking like an orange checker board. I’m not even sure how this is possible. Streaking is typically something that happens when you spray tan but as my life goes, I was the one in a million who suffered these consequences in a legit tanning bed. I suppose this is what I get for requesting the full dose of cancer.

Seeing as none of my wretched solutions were working, I attempted to take my mother’s advice and get a social life. On Friday, as I began to execute this plan, I suffered a minor set back by accidentally taking a nap. I awoke around 8pm, desperate to create my social life. I started by calling my friend Julie.

Julie: What’s up?

Me: My mom says I need a social life.

Julie: I’m babysitting. Wanna hang out on Sunday?

Me: That seems aggressive. The problem with making plans is that then the day finally comes along and I’m forced to do something.

Julie: You’re a terrible person. *click*

After my call with Julie, I realized that in order to have a social life I would have to a) leave my house, b) drive somewhere or c) hang out with people. I’m good at none of those things so instead I ate ice cream, which I am excellent at.

I’m not sure what the cure for depression is, but I’m like 90% sure it’s not calling your mother, tanning or getting a haircut. Every time I try to fix something, I end up breaking it even more. Perhaps, in my case, the best action is to take no action at all. This thought brought me so much peace that I was finally able to let it all go. That night, I slept like I baby. I laid my head on my pillow, forgot about the days’ events and thought for a minute that I could actually hear the ocean. And then I remembered, it wasn’t the ocean at all, it was a god damn ear infection.