My grandmother is actually the most annoying person in the world. You might think she's cute, because she's tiny and Scottish and seems to be in such high spirits all the time, so living with her must be an absolute pleasure. Rest assured, you are wrong. I'm pretty sure she is secretly a witch who feeds off the irritation and self-esteem of young women. It's what keeps her so bouncy.
I was minding my business, reading my book this morning when she pounced on me out of nowhere. She stopped to look at me, concern etched on her weathered, old face, and I knew what was coming. I knew, because she asks me the same fucking thing every other day of my life and it makes me want to push her down some stairs or something.
"You look tired. Are you tired?"
This is, honestly, one of the rudest, most passive-aggressive questions you could ever be asked. Regardless of whether you happen to be tired or not, it is perfectly clear that the enquirer, while appearing to merely be expressing concern for your well-being, only wants to make you aware of the fact that you look like a hot mess.
What's even worse is that I'm almost never actually tired when she asks me, and I tell her this. Her response is always "Oh, okay" and looking even more concerned, like she doubts my truthfulness. Which to me, translates to "Really? Then why in God's name could you very easily pass as an extra from Shaun of the Dead?"
Sometimes, I just thank her for letting me know how haggard I look, and she goes off in a wee huff and doesn't talk to me for a while. Guess what, Grandma? Your silence is like a little slice of heaven, actually, not a punishment at all. So, suck on that.
2.28.2009
2.27.2009
the dwight schrute to my jim halpert
My sister likes to run her mouth about how tragic her childhood was. To hear her tell it, I was a hag of Cruella De Vil proportions.
Let me tell you something.
My sister, precocious young thing that she was, used to look me up and down when I came to the breakfast table in the morning, and rudely ask "You're wearing THAT to school?". I know that body suits with snap buttons at the crotch, plaid flannels, and chunky-heeled black canvas sneakers with knee-high socks don't sound entirely fashionable, but it was the early nineties, so, you know... shut the fuck up.
It's pretty irritating when you're trying your best to be accepted by your moody, Nirvana-listening teen peers, only to be harshly critiqued by a four year old sporting a denim sailor dress and a mushroom cut.
She also had the habit of stealing shit from me and squirelling it away for safe-keeping. I, being wise to her thieving ways, would then find it in her room and confront her with the evidence. You know what she did? LIED TO MY FUCKING FACE ABOUT IT. Like my Janet Jackson tape leapt out of my ghettoblaster, waltzed down the hall and into her toy box, and then unspooled itself of it's own goddamn volition. I DON'T THINK SO.
These are only two examples of the crimes she commited against me, and I have a lot more where they came from. Anything that I allegedly did to her was certainly very much deserved. Except for that time I tore a pivotal page out of her copy of Prisoner of Azkaban, for reasons I can't even remember. That may have been an over-reaction on my part.
Let me tell you something.
My sister, precocious young thing that she was, used to look me up and down when I came to the breakfast table in the morning, and rudely ask "You're wearing THAT to school?". I know that body suits with snap buttons at the crotch, plaid flannels, and chunky-heeled black canvas sneakers with knee-high socks don't sound entirely fashionable, but it was the early nineties, so, you know... shut the fuck up.
It's pretty irritating when you're trying your best to be accepted by your moody, Nirvana-listening teen peers, only to be harshly critiqued by a four year old sporting a denim sailor dress and a mushroom cut.
She also had the habit of stealing shit from me and squirelling it away for safe-keeping. I, being wise to her thieving ways, would then find it in her room and confront her with the evidence. You know what she did? LIED TO MY FUCKING FACE ABOUT IT. Like my Janet Jackson tape leapt out of my ghettoblaster, waltzed down the hall and into her toy box, and then unspooled itself of it's own goddamn volition. I DON'T THINK SO.
These are only two examples of the crimes she commited against me, and I have a lot more where they came from. Anything that I allegedly did to her was certainly very much deserved. Except for that time I tore a pivotal page out of her copy of Prisoner of Azkaban, for reasons I can't even remember. That may have been an over-reaction on my part.
2.25.2009
the rule of four
I made a resolution this year to write more, but my sister told me that fanfic is for geeks and pedophiles, unfortunately. So, I have a blog now. It will probably work out better this way, I do love to talk about myself, as well as every little thing that pisses me off.
Today, I will start small, as it is my first post and I don't want to waste my good material before I amass my cult following (i.e. my sister and maybe my mom).
I have something I like to call "The Rule of Four" at work. The Rule of Four is this: if you add more than four customizations to your beverage, you are an asshole. Quad, half-pump this, half-pump that, non-fat, 190 degrees, no foam (OF COURSE), caramel drizzle, stirred seven and a half times, the list goes on. FACT: No one is impressed with you and your pretentious drink, or the fact that you can rattle off your order like a pro because you probably spend $20 a day on what is essentially a status symbol. Congratulations, you are paid too much for whatever it is that you do and you are a twat.
Fellow baristas, you are not excluded from this rule. I still love you, but your drink is retarded.
Today, I will start small, as it is my first post and I don't want to waste my good material before I amass my cult following (i.e. my sister and maybe my mom).
I have something I like to call "The Rule of Four" at work. The Rule of Four is this: if you add more than four customizations to your beverage, you are an asshole. Quad, half-pump this, half-pump that, non-fat, 190 degrees, no foam (OF COURSE), caramel drizzle, stirred seven and a half times, the list goes on. FACT: No one is impressed with you and your pretentious drink, or the fact that you can rattle off your order like a pro because you probably spend $20 a day on what is essentially a status symbol. Congratulations, you are paid too much for whatever it is that you do and you are a twat.
Fellow baristas, you are not excluded from this rule. I still love you, but your drink is retarded.
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