A Passel of Personal Peeves

I’m feeling a little cranky these days, so I hope you don’t mind if I get a few things off my chest.  Sure, a riled-up rant doesn’t right wrongs, but when you’re rankled, raving can be a righteous remedy for relief.  Really.

You?  Oh, no, it’s nothing you did.  In fact, I’m addressing my rant directly to the guilty party, the proper rantee, or in this case, rantees. 

Rant #1

Dear people from whom we purchased this doublewide:

You must be feeling pretty smug these days to have found fools desperate enough to pay such an outrageous sum for your doublewide.  Not that I blame you for that—we made the choice to do so, and sometimes I think the sunrise alone is worth the price.  But anyway, that’s not what I’m writing about here.  I could write about the toxic waste you left in the garage or inquire as to how you managed to make so many large holes in the walls. And just how did that coffee end up on the ceiling anyway?  But that’s not what I need to discuss here either. 

No, Dear Sellers, what I want to say is this:  For the love of Pete, people, why did you leave us not one sheet of toilet paper when you left?  Not one dadgum sheet!  What kind of people actually take the partially-used rolls off the toilet paper holders when they leave?!!!  I’ll tell you who—cheap, cheeky chumps—that’s who.   It takes a merciless soul to intentionally leave another human being toilet paperless.  I’m no paragon of virtue, but every single time I’ve moved from a house, I’ve left not only toilet paper (with extra rolls!), but paper towels and soap, as well.  It’s the decent, humane thing to do. 
 
Didn’t your Mama teach you that?

Rant #2

Dear Cashiers from two different stores that shall remain nameless:

Perhaps you meant well when you asked me if I wanted the Senior Citizen’s discount.  But to be asked that twice in one week was a little hard on my fragile, 50-year-old ego.  Trust me, when I turn 55, I’ll be the first to let you know.  But until then, it might be better, unless you are absolutely certain of a person’s…ahem…mature status, to wait for them to ask for the discount.  Especially since you have a large sign with large print announcing it right at the register.

Or maybe you thought I couldn’t read it…because of my advanced, ripe old age.

Rant #3

Dear Cashier at the grocery store that rhymes with Jingles:
 
I was pretty excited to have that coupon for the Russell Stover’s Chocolate Rabbit.  Even though my kids are in college now, I still enjoy putting together a little Easter basket for them.  We’re on a budget, and the candy they usually get is more Hershey’s than Russell Stover’s, so I was particularly pleased to be able to get such a “fancy” treat.  Chocolate connoisseurs may smirk, but Russell Stover’s is lavish stuff for us.

You scanned the rabbit, and I smiled and handed you the coupon.  You studied it for a moment, picked the rabbit up and looked at it, then handed the coupon back with a curiously smug look on your face. 

“I can’t take that,” you said.

I was baffled.  “Why not?”

You announced, in a self-righteous tone, “This coupon is for the HOLLOW Russell Stover rabbit.”  Then you smirked.  “Your rabbit is solid.”

I looked at you, open-mouthed with disbelief.  No, not disbelief that the coupon actually said that.  In fact, when I looked at it again, I realized it indeed said “Hollow Rabbit.”  But I was incredulous that you would take such obvious pride in denying a simple, cents-off coupon to someone because they had the solid rabbit instead of the hollow one.  And the look you gave me—strangely triumphant and accusatory at the same time.  I mean, you would have thought you’d caught me trying to slip the rabbit out in my purse.  Oh yeah, you’re a noble one, you are, valiantly fighting those desperados like me who would actually try to sneak those hollow rabbit coupons past your eagle eyes.  You must be so proud.  I’m surprised you didn’t shout, “Security!  Coupon outlaw!” and ask them to pat me down for more illicit coupons. 

I pointed out to you that the solid rabbit was actually more expensive than the hollow one, but you were adamant, secure in your position of moral superiority.   So I put away my money and handed you back the rabbit.  “I guess I won’t get it then.”

So, congratulations.  You won, but your store lost a sale and the good will of a new customer.  And it wasn’t so much that you refused me the coupon—maybe they train you to be completely inflexible about coupons, and you were just following policy.  It was the fact that you seemed so self-satisfied about it and the way you looked at me like I was committing a criminal act instead of just trying to buy a chocolate rabbit.  Pardon the pun, but I would have to say that was a “hollow” victory for both you and the store you represent.

So there you have it—my picayune, paltry, perhaps petty personal peeves. 

Whew.  Thanks.  I feel better already.

Don’t Hate Me Because I’m…Sensible!

 

I was driving through the parking lot of a local shopping center the other day, when I noticed a young guy in a maroon car with his brake lights on, obviously about to back out of the parking space ahead of me.  Initially, I slowed, but then when I saw him look straight at me, I figured he was waiting for me to pass by.  But just as I drew near, he abruptly backed out, right in front of me.  So I slammed on my brakes and pulled slightly to the right to avoid a collision.  My groceries, which were in the seat beside me, slid to the floor.

I muttered a few choice phrases and stared hard at the back of his car.  He was taking him own sweet time about accelerating.  So that gave me plenty of time to read his bumper sticker. 

“I Hate Your Camry! ”

Despite my irritation, I laughed out loud.  As it happens, I drive a Camry.  I was driving it that day.  But the idea that anyone could hate a Camry was ludicrous to me.  Camrys just seem so innocuous and inoffensive.  How could anyone hate them?  It’s almost like hating…I dunno…a golden retriever.   You know—they’re reliable; friendly; largish, but they don’t eat that much; and you see them everywhere.  Yep, just your basic golden retriever of a car. 
 
I mean, it’s not like I was driving a Hummer or something.  That I could understand.  But a Camry?  Maybe he has some stereotype of a Camry driver in his mind.  Maybe it symbolizes something to him.  But I’m not sure what.  Dullness?  Conservatism?  Thriftiness?  Old age?   Well, I am a middle-aged, thrifty, sometimes dull moderate-leaning-to-the-left, so I guess there could be some validity in that stereotype.

But I bet you’re wondering—what was he driving?  A Civic?  A Miata?  Some other zippy, sporty, little car?  No indeed.  He was driving a… Buick Regal.  Which is basically just an American Camry.   I mean, my goodness, I don’t like to stereotype, but if you were playing one of those match games where you draw a line from a word in one column and its closest match in the second, and you saw the word “Buick” in column one and “Conservative Senior Citizen” in column two…well…would there be any question?

I wish I could have a word or two with that young whippersnapper.  A nice, motherly chat.  I’d talk to him about the futility and folly of hatred, about his lack of driving skills and judgment, and about the fact that it would have been far more prudent to get a Camry.  Better reliability, better crash rating, and an all-around better car.

I would remind him that he, too, will be old someday.  Because I think that what his bumper sticker is all about—he’s afraid he’s going to turn into his dad.  Or his grandpa.  But someday he, too, will be old, thrifty, and a little dull.  And he, too, will love the way his Camry glides along, a smooth and reliable ride, insulating him from young whippersnappers who would hate him just because he’s…sensible.

The Hazards of a Hug (or When Bear Hugs Get a Little Hairy)

Warning:  Boring, whiny, self-indulgent post ahead.

I mentioned briefly in my last post that I had sustained a “small” injury.  Well, it was small in terms of the actual body part injured, but since that body part seems to be rubbing up against a nerve ending, it turns out to be large in terms of pain, which is getting worse instead of better. 

Hence, this post.  Those that know me well know that I have a very hard time asking for help, so the fact that I’m writing this is some measure of my desperation.  At the risk of boring you to tears, I thought I’d fling this into cyberspace and see what comes back.  Hopefully, this will be my first and last post seeking free medical advice.  

The way it happened is almost comic.  My brother and his wife had come to visit and were taking their leave.  We were out on the porch taking last-minute pictures and giving big hugs in the way of long, long goodbyes that Southerners are prone to.  Janet and I were giving each other a big, ole bear hug, when I felt something go Thwack in my chest.  It felt sort of like a fan belt broke loose—it hit my chest with that much force.

In fact, Janet felt it too and jumped back.  I clutched my chest in amazement.  She looked so stricken that my first words were to reassure her that it was nothing she had done.  Then I thought, “What in the hell was that?”

It did hurt, but mainly when I breathed deeply—at first.  And, no, the Thwack was not the sound like a rib breaking would make.  It was more of a big Snap against my chest, like a giant rubber band.

Here’s where I tell you that I have a well-earned aversion to doctors.  Except for when I clearly have a raging infection that only antibiotics will cure, I always take the Wait-and-See approach.  Our bodies have wondrous self-healing properties.

But now I’m hurting more than I did at first.  I am even considering taking the ancient Darvocet I found in our cabinet.  And I’m real stoical about pain.   (Endured long and difficult labors with natural childbirth without so much as a Tylenol or cuss word—twice).   But it hurts when I bend over, it hurts when I breathe, it hurts when I push or pull with my left arm, and it hurts when I rise up from lying down.  And not just in my chest.  Because of the compressed nerve, I think, it hurts both in my back and in my shoulder.  It’s sort of like someone keeps running me through with a sword. 

So I did Internet research and finally came up with a pretty certain diagnosis—I have  “slipping rib syndrome.”  I know, it sounds kind of silly, but that’s what they call it.  Apparently, one or two of my ribs have pulled away from the ligaments that usually hold them in place and the cartilage tip of the ribs are slipping upward and impinging on the intercostal nerves.  So my ribs are literally getting on my nerves.

I believe this is the result of a long-ago injury to my chest and rib area when I was taking care of my Mama.  She had Lou Gehrig’s Disease and was in a wheelchair.  I often had to lift her when other measures weren’t effective.  She weighed about 160 pounds, and I recall feeling something tear in my chest and hurt afterwards once when I lifted her.  So I think the seeds were sown then for this injury, and the chickens have come home to roost.  (Is that a mixed metaphor, or what?!)

Anyway, the purpose of this long and dull post is to find out if anybody out there has any clue what I should do to hasten the healing and ease the pain.  (If you’re still awake and reading, that is).  I’ve been taking the maximum Excedrin, as well as Valerian to relax my muscles and Glucosamine and Chondroitin to build up cartilage and connective tissue.  And when I am able to do so, I’ve been applying heat to the area. 

Please forgive me for whining.  And for one of the worst mixed metaphors ever in the history of blogging.  Apparently, being unable to breathe deeply has starved my brain of oxygen.  But I know you understand.  

The Simple Life

I’m new to this blogging stuff, so I’m still fumbling in the dark when it comes to figuring out all the dandy doodads available through my excellent blogging host WordPress.  But I did manage to pick up on how to add tags to my posts.  (I am amazed at the resourcefulness people show in working as many as fifteen tags into their posts!)

When I wrote this post, ”Being There,”  I decided to make one of my tags The Simple Life.  After I posted, I clicked on the tag The Simple Life listed with my post to read what others had written on the subject.  I expected musings on nature, perhaps spiritual observations, or maybe, like me, simple people writing about their simple lives.  Imagine my bewilderment when I started scrolling down the page:  Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, Paris, Nicole, pregnant, DUI, eating disorder….

Say what?

It turns out there is a reality show called The Simple Life that stars Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie.  Now I have a feeling that this is pretty common knowledge.  But in case you’re saying, “Good grief, blueridgebluecollarwoman, have you been living in a cave?!!”  Well, no, but I do live in a mountain valley, which gives us terrible television reception.  There was a little satellite dish here when we came, but we never had it connected.  So we’re a little out of the loop when it comes to modern pop culture.  Before our teenagers went to college, they kept us just enough in the loop to be able to not look like total idiots at social gatherings.  But now that they’re gone, we’re slipping, I think, into some sort of time warp that renders us socially inept when conversations turn to TV and celebrities.

So I Googled The Simple Life.  It seems that the idea of the show is to put Paris and Nicole into situations far out of their comfort zone, which, it seems, would be almost any situation in the real world, since their world as rich, socialite party girls must be a bit small and limited.  It’s interesting to note that the description of the show on the Internet Movie Database included this line:

Plot Keywords:

Superficial / Superficiality / Stupidity 
 
I’m thinking that these keywords might be significant.  Now since I’ve never seen the show, I can’t comment on its quality.  But it seems unlikely that someone like me whose favorite TV show of all time is The Andy Griffith Show would be a fan.  I’m pretty sure I’d take Thelma Lou over Paris any day.  There is some portent, I suppose, in the fact that I tried to tag a post about nature and spirituality with The Simple Life, only to find the phrase hijacked by two bleached blonde playgirls.  But I don’t want to think about it right now.

I quickly changed my tag to Living Simply, and soon after, my post disappeared from the Simple Life page.  But I do enjoy imagining someone clicking on my post, hoping to see the latest pictures of Paris and Nicole, but being greeted instead with the terrible beauty of a flower spider, as she devours the unfortunate honeybee who wandered, unsuspecting, into her wretched grasp.

A Friendly Word of Advice to the AARP

A word of advice to the marketing department at AARP (American Association of Retired Persons): 

You might want to hold off on sending out those early invitations to join the AARP, especially those sent A FULL FIVE MONTHS before the recipient turns 50.   Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think most people, in the last precious months they have left to cling to their forties, want to be reminded constantly of the fact that they are hitting FIFTY very, very soon.  I mean, nothing says “Welcome to the SECOND HALF CENTURY OF YOUR LIFE” quite like seeing your name on an AARP card.

I wish I were one of those women who says brightly, “Fifty is the new thirty!”  Or who call hot flashes “power surges.”  I really do.  But I went into full menopause at 44 (because of severe stress, I think), and after six, stinkin’ years of waking up drenched in sweat and knowing my flushed face is like a red light blinking the message, “WARNING!  MENOPAUSAL WOMAN! STAND BACK!”…well, I’m having a little trouble working up enthusiasm for middle age.   Not to mention my hair falling out or my skin going dry as the desert floor in August.  It seems like some cosmic joke that I got a mustache around the same time my adolescent son did. 

And, yeah, I wish my husband and I could retire and look like the happy couple pictured in the AARP ads. You know, the ones with heads thrown back in gleeful joy, with her long, flowing hair blowing out behind her?  If we could retire right now, we’d look like that, too.  (Except for the hair, I guess. And the smooth, supple skin.  And the perfect white teeth.  And the stylish clothes. Other than that…the same.) 
 
But, sorry, AARP, I guess I’ll just have to return your shiny membership card in the post-paid envelope you so thoughtfully provided—along with a carefully-worded note telling you exactly where you can stuff it.