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.

A Note to the Glib, Gauche Guy in Guccis

Pssst…hey you…yeah, you Mr. GoldChainAroundYourFleshyNeck, with your J.Crew khakis, shiny Italian leather loafers, and pink polo shirt that matches your soft-as-a-baby’s-bottom face that clearly just came back from a facial at the spa.  Yeah, you who reek of too much cologne and look at me with such cold disdain and a greasy smirk that says I am so out of your league, lady.  I’m Mr. BigCheeseFormerJockAboutCampus. You look like a nobody. 

And this because I merely smiled at you, as I often do at people that happen to be standing beside me in line.  For one thing, I grew up in the country in eastern North Carolina.  That’s the way we were down there—no one knew a stranger.  Smiling and saying Hey is just a way to make a human connection.  That’s all.  Your carefully moussed hair and Rolex watch mean nothing to me. I do not wish to ravish you—I find you less than ravishing.   

What is it about some men and their egos? I love where I live now, but I’m afraid there really do seem to be more men like that around these parts.  If I had to sum it up in a few words, I’d say, “More macho, less manly.  Bigger ego, less to show for it.”   They are also overall less courteous, in ways like holding doors for people who happen to be behind them.  That is, unless that person is a nubile young chick with big breasts.  I’ve had it happen countless times here:  a simpering, middle-aged man falls all over himself to open the door for CuteBlondCoedYoungEnoughToBeHisDaughter whom I am right behind, only to let it slam in my face.  It’s interesting to note that I moved here from the Big City (Raleigh) and almost never had that happen.  In fact, folks regularly held doors for me there.

It’s not just me either.  My daughter experienced the same thing with the so-called “popular” guys when she was in high school here.  If she so much as glanced at them, they would give her the same contemptuous, dismissive look.  By her senior year, she had perfected a look in return that said, “Frankly, prep boy, I find you slightly less attractive than a baboon’s rear end.”

Now, please don’t send me comments saying Go back to Raleigh then, Pruneface.   I don’t want to go back to Raleigh.  I miss a lot of things about it, but I’m a mountain girl now. I feel at home in the hills here, and I’ve met some nice folks, too.  And, no, I’m not bitter because I’m past my prime.  I’ve pretty much come to terms with the fact that men don’t generally give me a second glance these days. I don’t want those men to simper at me—I’m just looking for a bit of kindness and courtesy.  But I’m curious—why are some men like that?  Why can’t I just be friendly without their bloated egos convincing them that I’m flirting with them?  Because, the truth is, I’m kind of like my daughter.  I find them, in general, slightly less attractive than a baboon’s bottom.  

A qualification is in order:  Not all men are like that here.  My husband works with some very mannerly, manly men.  Also I should say that I don’t hate men (but I might be a little misanthropic).  Some of my best friends are men.  Really.  And a note to my fellow liberated women:  Yeah, I know. I can open my own damn door.  But I value the courtesy and kindness behind such actions.  You are free to feel differently.

So, Mr. GoldChain, go on thinking you’re God’s gift to women.  My husband’s ten times better looking anyway, and he’s toned and muscular from swinging a hammer and hefting wood all day. I like men with calloused hands, not calloused hearts. I like men who open doors for anyone, be they fat or thin, young or old, rich or poor.  And, hey, you might want pull in that gut—it’s bigger than your ego.  Coeds don’t like men who are soft and flaccid.  Oh, and about that facial you got at the spa?  Did they tell you it would make you look younger and firm up those sagging jowls?  Well, you better go get your money back.  You were robbed.

A Shameless Plug

 

 Ariel, age 4

Yeah, this is a shameless plug.  I think it’s called nepotism.  But my daughter Ariel has so eloquently expressed my thoughts and feelings about elitist eggheads in this rant on her most excellent blog LuckyPennies that I’m letting her speak for me today.  Except for the fact that she says it better than I ever could.  And she’s only nineteen years old! 

And yeah, I know some people think you should affect a false modesty about your children—to look down demurely when folks compliment them.  Not me, buddy.  I’m so proud of both my kids that I could bust. Unabashedly proud.

I had an inkling that Ariel might be a writer someday when shortly after her fourth birthday, she tugged on my shirt and said, “I wrote a poem.”  Except she couldn’t write.  So she asked me to write it down for her.  I ceremoniously took out pencil and paper and wrote, while she dictated, with a serious look on her face:

In wintertime
The snow will fall
Like bright soft jewels
On hard ground.

Ariel-Age 4
 
She told me that was all and ran off to play.  Several days later, I asked her if she had written any more poems.  She said, rather primly, “Not at the moment.” 
 
So, Ariel, (aka LuckyPennies) I’m so glad you’re writing poetry again.  Please—keep it up.   In the words of Daddy: “You go, girl!”

The Bleats and Howls of Party Animals

So, my husband says to me, “You can’t write another rant—they’ll think you’re…cranky. You should write one of the happy nature pieces.”

Well, maybe he’s right, but the truth is…I am cranky.   I mean, who wouldn’t be after about two hours of sleep. 

Our neighbor had a party last night.  One of those all-nighters.
 
So, it gave me a whole new concept of just what hell might be like:    Karaoke Top-40 hits from the 70’s and 80’s, sung by drunken middle-aged party animals, over and over and over again, accompanied by a drummer who played like a six-year old who just got a drum set for Christmas.  Yeah, I can imagine hell being like this—a sort of Satan’s Singalong.  Had it not been for the fact that we had plans to go out very early this morning, it probably would have been funny.  I gave up trying to sleep and pulled out a book, so I got to hear drummer boy’s progress as the night progressed and he became more inebriated.  He eventually abandoned all pretense of playing with the karaoke and just started randomly banging, so that it sounded like someone was using a jackhammer outside our window.

I never did do more than doze, but I guess it’s just as well.  Had I slept well enough to dream, I can imagine the nightmares…of Beelzebub in a hardhat, smirking as he jackhammers the streets of Hell.

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.