Lemonade Stands

You know what I hate? Lemonade stands. Lemonade stands are the kid version of Amway. You NEVER want the product, but you feel guilted into BUYING the product. The other day, I was driving home from work after a long exhausting day. I was a block away from home when I saw her: a cute little 8 or 9 year old girl selling lemonade. A pathetic little sign. No price listed anywhere. I kept on driving, but she was waving and smiling as I passed and my conscience just wouldn't let me get that extra 200 feet into my driveway.

So I turned around. And got out of the car. It's about 8000 degrees at this point in Phoenix and I am wearing polyester work pants. No sweat-wicking taking place "down there;" it's all just pooling up in my undies. And my high-heeled work shoes, which I removed when my first buttcheek hit upholstery in my car, have to be crammed back onto my bloated up feet, which, by the way, is about as fun as putting a shoe on a polly pocket. So I hobble over to her, feign a smile, and hand her a dollar. I am offered no change, and even though I intended to give her the full dollar, I would have expected her to tell me the lemonade is only 25cents, at which point I will look like a really generous tipper. Instead, I just give her dollar and she is probably left thinking, "no tip, you fat-footed cheapskate?"

So I hobble back to the car and get in and flash the girl a little wave. Then, in my infinite pre-occupation with thinking people are going to get their feelings hurt, I take a little sip of my lemonade so she can see me do it. And it's fucking disgusting. All hot. Wrong ratio of powder to water. Germ-laden I am sure. Probably mixed it with her mono-laced forearm and fingers. But I drive home and at least I am guilt-free and I can cross "civic duty" off my list for awhile.

Then the next day, I am driving home and...


I don't think I need to tell you who's standing out there. AGAIN. Now I gotta find a new route home? This is getting bullshitty.


Here's a little public service announcement to you parents who think it's "cute" or "educational" for your kids to make lemonade stands: STOP IT! Nobody wants your kids' ringworm-laced, watered down lemonade. Parents always make the excuse, "it teaches them about free enterprise." Wrong! It teaches them about hand-outs and charity. And the spread of disease.


My kids know that there are no lemonade stands or sidewalk "toy" sales allowed in our household. It's annoying to me and I am their mother. Once, my sister's kids were over and they all made a bunch of "artwork" (read: ugly scribbles on paper). They wanted to sell them. We adamantly told them "no," but they talked us into letting them stand at the end of the driveway and give them away to people who were out for a walk. Even that seemed to annoy the shit out of the old people who came by. I could see the look on their faces, "great, now I gotta carry this dumb thing around for the rest of my walk?"


Nobody wants your kids' artwork. Or their lukewarm Country Time. Or their licey, used toys. Bring them inside and plop them in front of the television like real parents. 

Space Breachers

You know what I hate? Space Breachers. Space Breachers are those annoying assholes who sit right next to you even when there's an infinite amount of empty space around you. Today, when eating lunch, I encountered an egregious space Breacher. He basically sat on my lap.

Lucky for me, my place of business has a giant flat-screened TV mounted in the corner. Not only can I eat, but I can watch a 200% of real sized Wolf Blitzer, or 'Blitz' as Texas governors like to say. Here is a picture of me, enjoying my Lean Cuisine in an infinitely empty room of enormous size. A smile on my face.

Just to give you some perspective, let me pan out a bit.

But not even a minute into my meal, a Space Breacher arrived. If he'd been any closer, I'd have requested a condom. Not only did he choose the chair CLOSEST in proximity to me, but he sat in the ONE chair, among a SEA of chairs, that was directly under the television. So now I can't even watch Wolf Blitzer, because if I do, Space Breacher will think I'm crushing on him. 

So I am left to stare down into my Lean Cuisine, hoping to see the face of Jesus or something slightly as exciting as Wolf Blitzer2X magnified.

As if this Space Breacher wasn't annoying enough just based on his breaching of my space, he also decided to sit spread eagle with a foot propped up on another chair. "Make yourself at home." Asshole. And guess what he was eating? No, not smelly fish. But close. Carrots. Really, really crunchy carrots. 

On a douchebag scale, this guy is off the charts. Next time, in order to preserve my dignity and privacy, I may just have to eat underneath my desk.

Please Read: HIGHEST PRIORITY

You know what I hate? Anything labeled with a “high priority.” Sending me items of “High Priority” should be reserved for the following situations:

1. Your vijayjay is 10cm dilated and a baby is descending from it. And for some reason you need my help.
2. You are dying. And for some reason you need my help.
3. You are my grandma and don’t know what the fuck you’re doing on email.

For ALL other situations, I am not a fan of “high priority,” such as this lame email request that came to me at work the other day. Yes, I did blur out names. Why? Because I use words like “vijayjay” in combination with work-related stuff and I really can’t afford to get fired. There is always that chance that a little fat IT guy is surfing the net looking for employees who are writing blogs slandering my company. I just can’t be sure.

Nevertheless, lots of things at my company are given a “high priority” label. Have you ever heard of a “training emergency?” When I first heard that, I thought maybe a computer screen had exploded on a new hire and that LCD shrapnel had split this poor trainee’s face in two! But in reality, a “training emergency” includes any type of written documentation that is sent out with….gasp…a typo!!!! Urgent team huddles? Don’t exist. Important company memo? Oxymoron.

Labeling an email with “High Priority” – especially when the email is terribly benign and lame – is an egotistical action. I will decide what’s high priority to me. And, hint-hint, it probably ain’t gonna be anything that comes through on my work email. And it’s especially not going to be your request for relocation benefits.

So, if you really want my urgent attention, you need to either start choking on a crust of bread or spread your legs and start pushing. Otherwise, I’ll get to you when I get to you.

Bye-bye, AV Guy

You know what I hate? The demise of the school “AV Guy.” I noticed that the “AV Guy” no longer exists in the school setting while attending my daughters’ chorus concert last night. How did I notice this? Because the Audios and Visuals sucked. At one point, the organizers of this event were trying to play a pre-recorded tune set to a PowerPoint presentation. I quickly realized that amplified sound, projected images and two portly band teachers do not make for AV success. How bad was it? Let’s just say that this botched presentation left me wishing for the 6^th grade beginning band to return to the stage.

Back in my day, the AV guy was one of the coolest specimen on campus. Rolling overhead projectors from room to room; changing bulbs; helping short teachers pull their movie screens down. The “AV Guy” ruled. At my school, we had special “AV Passes” which were privileges handed out to only the most ass-kissy of students. If you were the recipient of the “AV Pass,” you got to go retrieve an overhead projector from the “AV Guy” who had a special “AV room” full of a bunch of crippled overhead projectors. Nobody messed with you if you had the “AV Pass.”

Teacher: “Why are you not in class?”

AV Pass Holder: (flash of the pass) “I’m headed to AV.”

Teacher: “As you were.”

You could milk a good 20 minutes of out-of-class time with the “AV Pass.” After all, rolling a cart with a top-heavy chunk of glass and metal across cement cracks isn’t going to earn you your PR for speed. And if that overhead projector dared topple from that cart, everyone knew that your “AV Pass” days were over.

I find it odd that at a time when technology was hardly existent, our schools employed a full-time staff to run the “Audio/Visual” needs. Now that technology is booming, there is no “AV Guy.” Well, you might be saying, other than wheel overhead projectors around, what exactly was the purpose of the “AV Guy?” To which I would respond: seriously? You think those Commodore 64’s and ditto machines maintained themselves? The “AV Guy” was a true jack-of-all-trades.

Now all we get is the “IT Guy.” And he’s way too busy with visual basic and c++ and scary terms like that to mess with the fat band teachers’ piddly audio-visual needs.

Rest in peace, “AV Guy.” You are missed.

The Modern Robot

You know what I hate? The declining image of "The Robot." Robots used to be cool. Like R2D2 with his little lights blinking and his little neckless head spinning from side to side. And Wall-E with his penchant for collecting odd crap, and his cool built-in storage area. And don't even get me started on Kitt. Super-Pursuit Cruise Control, voice controllled, built-in lie detector AND EKG machine!

And we had Johnny 5 (who came ALIVE). And don't forget Asimo who was certainly no Assihole.

But then, somewhere along the way, the Googles and Yahoos and Facebooks started to "reinvent" the robot. Into Spambots. Even the name is degrading. "I'm a Spambot. No, not like the canned meat that you have to open by peeling the metal with a tiny key, but the SPAM that is junk mail that annoys the shit out of every human alive." You really can't win friends with a name like Spambot.

I suspect that the decline of the robot is akin to the decline of human civilization. Robots, apparently, are getting dumber. When I was a kid, KITT could summon his Molecular Bonded Shell to drive over bombs and withstand acid attacks. The robots of today hunt and peck for some easily decoded word that will gain them access to the comments board of some girl's virtually unread blog. The modern robot needs to get a life.

Also, have you noticed that the modern robot can only read ONE word. It's true! Well, at least it must be true. Because Google has THIS image appear when one tries to leave a comment on just about any web space.

This makes me sad. Not to mention annoyed that I have to type two whole words just to post a comment on a blog. What is this world coming to? Next thing you know I will have to enter a password in order to be able to enter my password.

So, yes, tell me we're not on a course for destruction. We've gone from this:

To this?

Progress? I don't think so. The robots of today are a true pain in the Assimo.

Wet Cheeks

You know what I hate? Wet cheeks. And no, I'm not referring to a little dewy mist just above the jaw area. The other cheeks. So how do they get wet, you're probably wondering. Well, because somewhere along the way, idiot women decided that they were so pristine that they needed to stand up to pee so as to not get a tiny little germ on their ass."Stand up to pee? But isn't that what a man does?" men may ask. Yes. It is. And it's also what hyper-hygienic idiot women do. And it needs to stop.

Why? Because now I have your piss all over my hind parts.  Here's the thing: women have no experience with this whole "stand and aim" stuff. There were no cheerios floating in the commode when we ladies were young. Just our asses nestled against the natural curvature of the porcelain ring. Yin and Yang. Then, somewhere along the line, women decided that sitting down to urinate was far too archaic. And they decided that they were way too diva-like to share ass germs with anyone else. So they started doing the "hover over the toilet" routine. And piss got everywhere. But they didn't care. Why? Because they are selfish divas.

So, exactly what are you protecting? It's an ass, not a dinner plate! It's supposed to be dirty. That's why they have that phrase, "dirty ass." Duh.

Paradox: you avoid at all costs your buttocks coming into contact with a possible microscopic germ but then you'll turn around and deep-throat your husband's stinky and dirty wang? Where's the logic, lady toilet hoverers? Where's the logic... 

Don't Be Afraid of Me

You know what I hate? The fear that people have of “me.” Not me, as in Vicki Stockton, though I am quite frightening at times, but rather the “me” as in “me, myself and I.” I can’t say I necessarily blame people for the fear of me. It’s kind of instilled while we are young.

Me: “Dad, can me and Missy go skating around the neighborhood?”

Dad: “It’s ‘Missy and I’. Would you say “Can me go skating around the neighborhood?”

Me: “No, I suppose not. So can she…er..her and I…errr..me…errr …can we go or not?”

If it happens enough, you start to fear “me.” So as a solution, you just start saying “I” for everything. It makes you feel smart.

Me: “Dad, Missy and I would like to purchase an Encyclopedia Brittanica set. She and I are particularly interested in the letter ‘B’.”

Dad: “Great! I will tell the salesman!”

But then, somewhere along the line, perhaps in late middle school, some teacher bursts your bubble.

Me: “Funny you should ask, teacher! I do know the average lifespan of the Black-capped Lory! I looked it up in the encyclopedia that my dad bought for Missy and I.”

Teacher: “It’s ‘Missy and me.’

For a burgeoning grammarian, this particular event in life is a real buzz kill.And it's a hassle. Because now every time you have two people appearing in a sentence, you have to take one of them out of the sentence, read it over in your head, then decide upon "me" or "I." It takes some time.

Me: "Hey, friend. Wanna come over to my house for a party?"

Friend: "Who all's coming?"

Me: (in my head) Just Missy and me. Remove Missy. Just me. Does that make sense? Just me is coming? That can't be right. Let's try this. Just Missy and I? Remove Missy. Just I?  Ahhh, fuck it. "A bunch of people."

And then, when you do it right, you often end up sounding like a pretentious Brit or an 18th Century Literature professor or something.

Business Meeting: "Who was it that wrote that last action item down?"

Me: "It was I." 

Yeah, that doesn't sound douche-baggy.

This process is difficult. I'm not gonna lie. This is why I do not judge too terribly harshly when English-speaking grownups muff up their use of "me" and "I," as was the case when I received THIS in an email from a director within my organization. 

I actually laud her style.  She's just old-schoolin' it. "Me and (name)." Circa 5th grade. I gotta say I was disappointed to find that the email was not signed "LYLAS." 

I forgive this lady. Granted, she's making a bazillion dollars more than I will ever make, but her style is organic. Real. Humble. 

You want to know who I do NOT forgive? The people who use "myself" as a  find-and-replace-all for the use of "me," "I," and "myself." Lazy a-holes! 

Me: "To whom should I send this document?"

Lazy A-Hole: "Send it to myself, and carbon copy James."

Me: "Oh, OK. I didn't know who all needed to see the document."

Lazy A-Hole: "Myself, along with James, will need to see it."

Seriously, people! MUST you annoy me with these "I am stupid, but I am going to use a two syllable word in place of a one syllable word in order to trick you into believing that not only am I not stupid, but am, in fact, smarter than you are" antics? Hrrrmph! Makes me want to kill...myself...errr....me....er....I. Ahhh, fuck it. "Makes me want to kill you."