Pet Peeve #164

I hate when you're in the middle of a conversation and all of a sudden the person you are speaking to holds up their hand (or worse, DOESN'T), pulls out their cell phone and starts having a conversation with someone else.

I HATE cell phones. 99% of the time I don't answer mine, which leads many people to bark at me in frustration, "Well, why do you have one then?" To which I must answer; Necessity. I have a daughter in daycare and if they need me for anything I want to know. Otherwise, I really don''t use it. I hate what they've done to society. They give people an inflated sense of self.

"Look at me! I'm important! Somebody somewhere wants to talk to me!"

Yes, that somebody would be standing directly in front of you RIGHT now, carrying on a conversation when you so RUDELY whip out your cell phone & give them the impression that what they are saying is second-rate compared to your phone call. That's why a large percentage of these phones have VOICE MAIL. Call your buddy back in fifteen minutes. Give me that respect. I earn it for putting up with RUDE people like you. I know that some calls are important; these are not the calls I'm referring to. Your daycare is calling. Your sick mother is calling. Your vet is calling; your dog died in surgery. All legitimate reasons to say "Excuse me for just a minute; I need to take this call." But don't put me on hold to ramble on with your buddy about what one of you did in a drunken fit last weekend, or talk about a shoe sale with your mother. It can WAIT for FIFTEEN minutes until we're done talking.

I think this is why my phone doesn't ever ring....

Hiatus Is Over

Sorry about the sporadic posts; I've been lying in bed for the past two weeks praying for a swift death. Thankfully, God ignored my pleas and decided to let me suffer and live through the gastrointestinal flu & upper respiratory infection. So I am back with my usual bitching, whining, and pot-stirring....

Pretty Little Germ Ball

After spending four days without being able to keep food down, I'm starting to look at my daughter differently.

I love her to death, truly. When she reaches up for me to hold her, my heart swells with love and pride unlike anything I've ever known. I am fulfilled as a woman. I am a mother.

And then she moves her precious, pudgy little hands to my face, and my mood quickly changes. There on those seemingly innocent little fingers drips the grimey remains of other children's bacteria, all mixed up and prettily packaged as my beloved toddler tries to shove her fingers into my mouth. It was a game we used to play; Alex points and Mommy chomps. But Mommy hasn't been feeling too well lately, and now I realize why.

I know parents have been swapping germs with their kids since the beginning of time, and I can see how easily it happens. Your child is sick and it is your natural instinct to console them. You kiss their hot little cheeks and stroke their fevered head. But if you don't wash your hands the SECOND you put your little monster down, then it's only a matter of time before you're knocked out too. But NOW, the little monster is feeling better, but you're not, making sickness twice as miserable as it used to be because you can't just lay around and be a slug anymore. Now you're a MOM. And MOMs don't have time to be sick.

Things used to be so simple. Now I have a host of exotic daycare diseases to dodge. It's like playing russian roulette. Maybe next time I'll miss the bullet, but this time, it caught me square in the middle of the head.

Happy VD

I have never had much luck with Valentine's Day. My first real boyfriend dumped me on VD. My second real boyfriend had to "go to work" early, so I was pretty surprised to find him on a date with another woman later that night (VD, of course). A string of other men, other VD disaapointments. Then came husband #1, who believed VD was a commercial holiday created by advertising executives to fuel the economy, so he refused to participate on principle (in other words, he was just a cheap bastard.) So I thought I was locked into a lifetime of hopeless VD's, but luckily for me, he screwed up bad enough to warrant a divorce, and I was given a second chance.

Enter husband #2. Not your standard romantic. His idea of courtship was spitting on me, so I didn't expect too much. He's not the soft, mushy romantic type; he rarely sends flowers. What he does do are the little things, the tiny things that really matter to me.

I have been sick, sick, sick for the past few days. Nothing I eat will stay down. My head is pounding. I'm laying on the sofa wishing for a swift death, when he walks in with a huge bouquet of beautiful roses & lillies, carrying our daughter on his hip. He bought chicken noodle soup for dinner. And I wanted to cry. He DOES think about things other than the Internet & cars.

So to you, my husband, on Valentine's Day, even though I'm sick as a dog and would rather die than get off the sofa, I want the world to know that you ARE a good husband. You're better than that. You're the GREATEST husband EVER.

Hormonal

I am an active woman. My schedule would be enough to send many women into fits of hysteria. It has often been commented by friends & family that I work too hard. So I thought nothing of the fact that lately, all I want to do is lay in my über-comfy bed with my warm flannel sheets and poofy goose-down comforter (Thank you, best hubby in the world!) and sleep indefinately. Obviously, I can't do that. There's fat on my ass to be worked off, there's a household to run, a baby to raise, and many, many phone books to be built. Not to mention the side projects that I handle to afford my ever-expanding technology habit.

But lately, it's just been getting harder and harder. I utter the phrase "I need a vacation" with every other breath I take. I find myself staring vacantly at my computer screen for longer periods of time. And the thought of getting up at 4:45am to exercise was starting to make me cry. After all, I'm not losing any more weight. I haven't had an Oreo in over 6 months, and all this deprivation was completely depressing when I wasn't seeing any results. So in a last ditch effort, I went to my doctor & asked to see a dietician. Maybe my diet was out of whack and I was inadvertently starving myself.

What she suggested is every woman's dream come true. My thyroid is SLOW. And when your thyroid is slow, YOU'RE slow. I've never been so happy in my life to be broken. Suddenly, even before drugs, I feel lighter. It's not me! (Well, it is me, but it's a part of me that I have no control over). Hypothyroidism strikes many women after bearing children, but many go undiagnosed because fatigue is a natural part of being a new parent. Thank God I have an astute doctor and a hormone prescription. Maybe now I can find the bright side of life again.

The Woodlands: Preserving Nature

I'm struck by the irony of The Woodlands. People living in harmony with nature.

Haha. Yeah, right. I drive straight through The Woodlands everyday to go to work, and I see nature preserved all over the roadways.

Today, it was one squirrel and one raccoon. Yesterday, it was a skunk and a possum. And a couple of weeks ago, it was a deer, back legs crippled beyond repair dragging itself across the highway to die in a ditch. (That one will haunt me for quite some time.)

I assume a large portion of the outrageous homeowner fees goes towards "Animal Carcass Removal."

Urban sprawl camoflaged with a couple of trees because a bunch of yuppies want to feel "Closer To Nature." Funny how humans can convince themselves of damn near anything.

Customer Serveless

I think some higher power is trying to to tell me that I need to cook more.

Saturday evening my husband and I participated in a local redneck event that involved mud and big tires. After an evening of driving through the woods, mudslinging, and dodging other drunk rednecks, it is a redneck tradition to go to an all-night breakfast establishment. Since the trusty Waffle House was in the opposite direction, we decided to go to IHOP (despite the dire consequences it always leaves my husband in).

So we walk in, appropriately camoflaged, and take a seat. And wait. And wait. And wait. The server I assume was neglecting us was over six feet tall with perfectly plucked eyebrows, a large black man with perfectly coiffed hair a la Prince (the Purple Rain edition). He was obviously service-challenged at the moment, because his section was full of pink & black spandex-clad teenage dancers chatting away on their cell phones. At first, my heart went out to him. These Woodlands mini-yentas were rude, demanding and snide. However, I could tell by looking at their tables that they finished and awaiting their bills. SO I afforded him the patience he deserved; I, too, spent eight years in the service industry, so I had a great deal of empathy.

We continued to wait. And wait. And wait. Prince never acknowledged us. He strutted past us on three seperate occasions without a single glance. I started to grow annoyed. I know I LOOKED like an annoying redneck, and nothing irritates an already irritated drag queen more than a redneck, but I am an EXTREMELY generous redneck when it comes to good service. However, Prince's tip was quickly diminishing in my head.

We waited some more. And waited. And waited. At this point, I realized the manager had glanced at us over half a dozen times. Now I was just plain mad. Other servers passed by us without so much as a "Go-to-hell-redneck" look. Absolutely nothing. Prince was rolling his eyes by the cash register, deep in conversation with another shemale. (Who knew IHOP was the day job for so many Houston transvestites?) I'm not the type to get rude with a waiter (they touch your FOOD), but I was extremely annoyed. For the first time in my life, I was mad enough to get up and walk out. So in the ultimate passive-aggressive gesture, we did just that.

And I left my purse sitting in the booth.

I realized it the next morning with that feeling of absolute dread. Not only did I have my social security card in it, I had my daughter's & husband's as well. My driver's license, two credit cards, a handful of gift cards and my prescription. An identity theft package rolled into one little leather-clad gift bag. I called IHOP and was greeted by another highly feminine man-voice.

"I left my purse there last night. Small, black bag. Has my name in it EVERYWHERE. Did somebody turn it in?"

Immediate answer. "Um, no."

"Are you sure? Do you have a safe your manager might have put it in?"

Another immediate answer. "Um, no."

"Could you PLEASE just double check with your manager?"

Big irritated sigh. "HOLD ON." Less than a minute later. "No, no purse. Sorr-reee." Click.

Growing ever more agitated with IHOP in general and shemales in particular, I climbed into my car and drove back to the restaurant. It was extremely busy, as it always is on a Sunday morning. I walked straight past the line at the door and asked the she-man hostess to see the manager (No kidding, I swear.) It rolled it's eyes and walked into the kitchen. A few moments later, a very large, sweaty man came out. I held my hand in front of me in an effort to be civil despite my growing agitation. He completely ignored it.

"Yes, miss?"

"I left my purse here last night. Has anyone turned one in?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Could it be in the safe?"

"No. Are you the lady who called earlier? I told you then that it wasn't here."

My blood began to boil. I know I was the irresponsible one sho left the damn thing, but they could at least afford me the ILLUSION of caring.

"I would like the name of the manager on duty last night, if you don't mind."

"Sorry, lady, but I told you, your purse isn't here. Maybe somebody took it, but it's not here." And with that, Sweaty Manager waddled back towards the kitchen.

And it is with that simple gesture that I swore to never set foot in an IHOP again. My husband is overjoyed.

Life at 11

My stepson visited last weekend, and I was reminded how simple life used to be. He had received 3 gift cards from Barnes & Noble for Christmas and was dying to use them, so we packed up the family and headed to the mall. Of course, we can't go anywhere without a friend in tow, so our neighbor's kid tagged along for moral support. In a stunning move of unselfishness, I heard my stepson offer to buy his friend something. I was touched by his act of kindness.

An hour later, after I had memorized all the good stuff in the Graphic Design section, I went to round up the children. I found them in the "Gifts" section with an armload of toys and various other items. PBug (the stepson) was trying to mentally calculate how much he had left, so I knew I'd better disappear before I got stuck with the leftover balance.

"I'll be in the car with your dad & sister. You need to go check out now," I told him. I noticed the look of panic set into his face; plan foiled!

"I think I might have too much," he offered sheepishly.

"Then put something back." His buddy, J, suddenly realized the toy in his hands was in jeopardy of being lost. In another stunning act of uncommon kid kindness, he offered to put the toy back so PBug could get his toys. My entire faith in the future generation was restored when PBug again insisted, "No, I promised you I would get you something, too..."

So that's how I left them, to figure out how to solve their dilemna in a civilized and fair manner. After circling the parking lot for fifteen minutes, my husband tells me, "Go check on them."

I walked back in to find them still in the gift section, talking through the problem at hand.

"Well, if you get that, then I can't get THIS, but then, if you get THAT, then we can play with it TOGETHER."

"But I've ALWAYS wanted one of THESE," argues J.

"Where did you find that? I didn't see that. I've always wanted one of THOSE too!"

"Guys," I interjected, "Dad is in the car & he's ready to go. You need to decide on something."

"But I don't think we have enough for everything. We're short by just FIFTEEN DOLLARS..." Hint, hint.

"Sorry guys, I left my purse in the car. Put something back and let's go. I'll be in the car waiting."

So I return to the car. After circling the parking lot for another fifteen minutes, my husband tells me, "GO GET THEM."

I return to find them at the checkout line. There is a huge line formed behind them, and J is holding the place while PBug is running about the store bringing items over for the checkout lady to scan. She is an older lady with kind eyes. Obviously she has grandchildren, because she doesn't seem to be phased by the increasingly irate mob forming behind these darling children.

"Twelve dollars, honey. That's four more than you have."

"Okay, hold on," says PBug. I catch him by the collar.

"No. We have to go. Put something back so we can checkout & leave."

The kind lady smiled patiently. "It's okay, sweetie, he's not bothering me." Obviously, but the look on the people behind her told me that while SHE may not be bothered, THEY definately were.

"Thank you," I told her, then looked down at PBug. "We HAVE to go. Put something back."

He looked down at his pile of treasures with a suffering pout. Unmoved, I gave him the patented NOW stare.
"Well, (sigh).... how much this is?"

Beep. "$14.99."

I grabbed the item in question. "We'll put this back..."
I handed it to PBug, who looked down at the item with a pained expression.

"But it's a QUILL. (Sigh). I've been looking for one of these for HALF MY LIFE...."

Indeed. Every 11-year-old desparately needs a quill. And with that I almost wanted to cry. I can't remember the last time that life was that simple. I wish I had appreciated it more.

Politics

I'm quickly learning that being a 30-year-old woman in a corporate environment is threatening to some 50-year-old men. I used to think the whole feminist movement was just a bunch of bored women with nothing else to bitch about, but I'm starting to think that perhaps they have a point. It is amazing to me that in this day and age, people still won't take you seriously if you wear a skirt.

My parents taught me that if you work hard, you'll be rewarded. Not true. If you work hard, somebody else will take credit for all your hard work. They taught me if you were honest, you would be respected. Not true. If you're honest, everyone gets their feelings hurt and calls you a bitch. And if you were responsible, then you would be recognized for your accomplishments. Not true. If you're responsible, people will simply whine until they get their way.

What ever happened to a little thing called "work ethic?" Why is it so hard in this day and age for someone to just shut up and do their job?

Perhaps I should install a train horn in my cubicle, too.