Resolutions

So the house still hasn’t sold, even after what seemed to be a promising showing.  After an expletive-filled e-mail to the husband, several expletive-laced rants in my office, and a LOT of assessing what kind of damage various objects on my desk could do to the wall…you know, just in case I felt like throwing something (don’t judge.  The last time I threw a bottle across the kitchen, I got a husband.  You never know what irrational anger will bring.  Sometimes it’s a broken produce drawer in your fridge.  Sometimes it’s a spoon-shaped dent in your  wall.  And sometimes it’s a diamond ring.  Win some, lose most.)  Anyway, once I’d fought off the feelings of arson and staging a house burglary (can someone steal your house?  If so, I’d like their number.  We can leave it under a bridge or something, right?  Again, blanket apology, dear insurance agent.  BLANKET.) I decided to change my frown upside down (and not by falling off a bar stool) and think of things with a positive spin.  So, in the spirit of American bootstraps, I’ve decided to let go of the things out of my control and focus on the things that I CAN change.  And so, I present to you:  The Angry Curl’s New Year’s Resolutions. 

1.  Expand my vocabulary.  I am a lover of all things word and so I plan to take my every day vernacular up a notch.  I’m also a lover of all things cursing, so I’ve decided just to make up my very own, very new curse words.  I’m thinking the world needs more ways to express frustration inappropriately and I think that I’m just the perfect flitch to do it!  After all, I’ll be schnucked if I can’t exercise my American right to free speech and everyone enjoys a good threeping now and again.  Chank yeah! 

I don't know what this means.  I just enjoy the phrase "unique profanity."  

2.  Continue my campaign of “50 Shades of Grey is Complete Horse Chank.”  I know I’ve written about the horrible, horrible things contained between the covers of “50 Shades of Grey” but I feel my voice isn’t being heard over the sound of numerous cracking whips across America.  You see, I could care less that some dude wants to get his S&M on with some chick…getcha some, you helicopter-flying stud, you.  If you want to go to your weird,  actually sounds kinda awesome, totally-legal-in-most-states room and have your way with some girl’s inner goddess, then by all means, get after it.  But I must ask the author of this “story” to stop writing like a girl who has just discovered the many meanings of our friend, the f-bomb, and realize that “50 Shades” is like attending a Carrothead show – there may be a lot of fun, shiny toys in the beginning but you’ve definitely lost some brain cells by the time it’s over.   

The Internet meme needs to know! 

3.  I will finally find Jack White in our great city and do questionable things to him until the police arrive. 

Let the inappropriate behavior begin...now.

4.  I will discontinue the use of the word “bestie.”  I’m not sure where this got started (I blame…actually…I have no idea.  But it’s someone’s fault.  And if I knew that someone, I would blame him.) but I feel that this trend’s course has been run and it’s time for the phrase to go the ways of “Eat my shorts” and “Totes.”  The aggravation of this really stems from a previously-discussed hatred of abbreviations.  “Best Friend” and “bestie” both contain 2 syllables.  One is no more difficult to say than the other, so why not go with the option that encompasses two actual words in the English language instead of the one that inspires a red, squiggly line underneath it in Microsoft Word? 

Not if you keep talking like that.

5.  I will sell my house!  I hear the real estate market is really on the upswing!

My version of porn at this point.  

6.  I will also stop being so optimistic about the housing market.  Because it’s shit. 

My reaction to what is now very, very bad porn.  

7.  I will implement my “Throwback Curse Words Preservation Tour” to make sure that “threeping” doesn’t replace its counterpart for future generations.  Because ALL people deserve to know the origins of threep and its proper use in modern day English. 

I don't know these people, but it looks like they've already gone through the work of planning out a world tour.  Thanks, coat tails of Colleen and Michael.  

8.    I will put the finishing touches on my one-woman show, “Road House: Pain DOES Hurt.  Just Not Patrick Swayze.” 

The best damn cooler in the business.  

9.   I will complete construction of my life-sized Candyland board in my backyard (once I get a backyard.)  If anyone knows of a bulldozer I can rent for the molasses swamp, please let me know. 

Just wait until you see my plans for the Candy Cane Forest! 

10.  Finally, I’m going to talk less.  It dawned on me recently that everyone is talking.  Always.  Is anyone actually listening or, to steal a quote from Pulp Fiction, are they waiting to talk?  Why do we feel the need to be heard so much?  Interrupters, loud talkers, pretentious flitches – verbal communication is exhausting.  I’m tired of fighting to have my thoughts heard.  The ones who actually care about it will shut the F up and listen.  And then they will hear filthy rants about the fake Becky years on “Roseanne” and vanilla-scented candles. 

Say "what" again! 

11.  I also resolve not to leave a blog with a serious ending such as #10, so here’s a joke:
Two muffins are sitting in an oven.  First muffin says to the second muffin, “It’s getting hot in here.”  Second muffin replies, “Holy chank, a talking muffin!” 

It's hard not to laugh when you say muffin.  

Happy 2013, y’all.  May it be filled with the glorious silence one only receives when she’s alienated everyone around her by screaming fabricated obscenities while chasing Jack White down Broadway.  

Thanksgiving with an Angry Curl Twist

So Thanksgiving is tomorrow and we all know what that means…it means my sister and I will be tossing shredded cheese and diced garlic into anything that will stand still (my dad, Sam, sleeping on the couch is no exception.)  I have, I feel, slacked a bit in my Thanksgiving duties this year as I haven’t put together a menu, opting instead for the oh-so-easy, “Let’s just do what we did last year.”  (Turns out that ain’t so bad, over-achieving self.  Remember this in 2013?)  Anyway, I would like to stop for a minute and point out the things in my life for which I’m thankful, since I’m fairly well-versed in pointing out the things for which I’m not grateful the other 364 days of the year.  So, here it is…stuff I like.  Turkey Day edition.

1.  My mother’s dressing.  Yes, it IS called dressing because we don’t shove it up a bird’s butt.  It is made in the proper Southern tradition of slapping it in a casserole dish and cooked until I am slobbering at the oven door with a pot of gravy laying in wait.  It is moist, it is flavorful, and more importantly?  It reheats to make the best damn turkey sandwiches this side of whatever part of the country calls it stuffing.  Everyone has that ONE Thanksgiving dish that has to make an appearance, and this is mine.  And I truly believe that even though I have the recipe, I will never be able to make it as well as Sharon Justice. 

This is my mother, Sharon.  She's pictured here holding a stalk of edamame and not a dish of dressing, but the imagination can work wonders.  

2.  Prepared pineapple.  Here’s the thing.  I f’ing love pineapple.  Here’s another thing.  I will gladly pay someone a bit more to shave that thing down into an edible form of fruit.  This is pretty hard-core for me, because I’m of the “I’m not paying someone for his elbow grease, of which I have quite the bountiful supply” train of thought.  But I’m totally willing to pay someone that extra 50 cents to do that deed for me.  Why?  Because it sucks.  I usually wind up a cursing, sticky mess with way less pineapple than I think I’m deserved and nowhere closer to my pineapple mango salsa that I’ve been craving all day.  So there it is.  One of the few things I’ll pay for in exchange for having it done for me.  The only other items in this category are my hair stylist, my mechanic, and my spice rack alphabetizer. 

This guy obviously hates peeling pineapple, as he's apparently given up mid-task and taken the high (cocktail-ridden) road to escape.  Actually, that looks kind of tasty...

3.  Speaking of my hair, let’s talk Natalie Bryant.  Natalie was a best friend WAY before she picked up the scissors, but now I’m lucky to count her as the best in both the friend and magic coif worker category.  I make no bones about the fact that I’m fairly clueless when it comes to beauty.  Makeup confounds me and my hair’s been of the “wash it and let it dry with the window down on the way to work” persuasion for quite some time now.  But Natalie, that sneaky vixen, has convinced me that hair can be much more, and I’m now the girl who packs her blow-dryer and straightening iron so I can properly style my newly-minted, bright red bangs on vacation.  Best friend Natalie is also not afraid to tell me when my outfit makes me look like an extra from Revenge of the Nerds, which is a great quality for at least one person in your life to possess.  Included in the best friend category, I must mention one Kirku King, as she’s done my makeup on MORE than one occasion and will also unabashedly tell me my fashion choices are becoming alarmingly reminiscent of an episode of Dawson’s Creek.  Plus, Kirku’s always good for a game of cards, a pitcher of sleuth juice, and a great exchange of Pretty Woman quotes. 

The fashion-watchers in question.  Note I look semi-put together.

4.  My cat, Mooney.  We actually have three cats (borderline crazy cat people, but we’re not quite there yet according to the Nataional Crazy Cat Folks of North America guidelines) but Mooney is the only one who decides that, “Hey, it’s 4am.  I’m going to go suffocate my owner!”  Most people would find this to be intrusive and rather irritating.  I also find this action intrusive and irritating, but it’s also led to many an early-morning revelation that only comes to those half-asleep and wearing a large cat on her head.  I’ve written songs, I’ve planned my to-do list, plus I’ve invented the anti-cat pillow while in the state of sort-of slumber, and I owe it to my sleep-interrupting feline Mooney.  I’ve solved the world’s problems, balanced our budget, and written sonnets that would make Shakespeare vomit in his mouth a little bit.  Funny thing is, Mooney might be #1 on this list if I could remember ANY of the “revelations” I just mentioned.  But once he finally gets pushed off the pillow, I just hit the snooze button for as long as possible before I have to get up early to straighten my bangs.    

Mooney.  The Feline Mosquito.

5.  Finally, I do have to give a shout-out to the hubs, Travis, for constantly putting up with my failed (and sometimes non-failed) creations in the kitchen.  He accepts the fact that I curse like a sailor, drink like a drunk sailor, and dance like an even drunker sailor.  He knows the way to my heart is a dust pan full of glass,  a quilt by the lake, and a hammock in the woods.  He also has hot tattoos and a sweet ass.  Hehe.  

The husband...and a couple of the referenced tattoos.

So there ya have it.  I would write more, but I now have to force my way down the baking aisle of Kroger on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and curse at myself for not doing it on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, as I opted to get a free lunch at Taco Mamacita instead.  Muy stupido, senorita.  

More Annoying Things about the Angry Curl

More things that I do that probably annoy others...

1.  I kiss my car’s ceiling when I go through a yellow light.  This stems from an incident in high school when I flew through a “yellow” light (it was red.  Like, bright red.  And I totally ran it.  Again, sorry insurance agent!)  I didn’t kiss the ceiling that night because I pre-occupied with the thought of the Oreo Blizzard I was about to snag from the DQ.  Cue another color of lights in my rear view, and I was pulled over by the 5-0 for the first time in my short driving career.  I didn’t get a ticket (so many tears.  Real ones.  I thought my life was over at one point.   I wasn’t a very rational child.)  I contemplated not telling my parents but decided to anyway.  After the obligatory, “Drive better or else” speech, we all went on our merry ways (mine was a bit merrier due to the fact that I wasn’t in jail, a valid fear after getting pulled over for a traffic violation.)  Turns out a couple of days later some nosy whore of a person called our house to casually mention to my mother that she noticed I got pulled over the other night.  My mother smugly replied that she knew already and wished the whore a good day.  I wished several other things upon her, but one thing is for certain – I now kiss the ceiling.  That’s just good advice for life. 

2.  I have voices and characters for all of our cats.  Yes, we have 3 cats, which is apparently shocking to some, especially our prostitute of a neighbor (she really looked at me and said, “WHOA!” with a look of shock on her face when I told her.  I wanted to yell “Hooker!” and run away, but refrained.)  Mooney, named for Keith Moon because he looks kinda dopey, has an appropriately dopey voice.  Gibson, the fattest cat I’ve ever seen, also has an appropriately fat voice.  Kibby is just a little snobby and I’m fond of making her say, “Screw you guys!  UGH!!!” when she runs off after shoving her butt in your face.  All this is to say that “talking” for my animals should probably be kept to myself, but I don’t and it’s probably a habit that makes someone cringe. 

3.  I’m still not entirely sure what “dubstep” means.  I could Google it, I’m sure, but I just don’t care that much. 

4.  I once ate potpourri.  And it wasn’t on a dare.  I was curious. 

5.  I f'ing love puns.  I especially like mangling people’s names – for example, our friend Brock has been my phone as Brocktopus, Brock Star and Brock Pot while my co-worker Dan has become Danakin Skywalker or Peter Dan Peanut Butter.  I have a problem and I’m not willing to fix it anytime soon.  Now, please welcome to the stage, Farty Robbins! 

6.  I like to eat with my hands.  It began early, with me shoveling peas in my mouth by the handful.  It’s now progressed to me picking up clumps of mac-n-cheese and all other manner of foods that should probably be eaten with a fork and not really caring about the stranger casting dirty looks at me (I pretend that it’s a look of disdain for eating with my hands, not the fact that I stole their food while they were in the bathroom.) 

7.  Favorite phrases of mine include: 
                -  ‘Almost’ only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.
                -  She went through that like Sherman through Georgia.
                -  Don’t bring a knife to a gun fight.
                -  (Just insert a string of various curse words here.  I have a mouth that would make a sailor         blush.)  

Alex Trabek is the Perfect Pronunciation Devil

While driving to work and cursing my fellow commuters this morning, I came to the (not at all) shocking conclusion that humanity sucks.  I feel the world is slowly degenerating into a heaping, flaming pile of poo and when the earth finally says, “Enough” and caves in on itself, it will probably be a blessing in disguise.  And it’s with these happy sentiments that I present another blog on all that’s wrong with this world.

1.  Keurig coffee makers.  Are people aware that you don’t HAVE to make an entire pot of coffee?  Do folks realize that all you need to do to make a cup of coffee is to add less water and less coffee to your coffee pot?  Why do we need individually-sized pieces of plastic to aid us with simple math in the morning?  Answer:  we $#&%ing don’t. 

2.  Alex Trabek pronouncing fancy words all…fancy-like.  I know you’ve hosted Jeopardy for going on 84 some odd years, and I’m sure you’ve gained multitudes of completely useless knowledge in your tenure, but do you have to say those words like you’re the greatest thing since pre-sliced cheese?  Answer:  you *#^%ing don’t.  And Giada De Laurentiis?  Don’t think you’re exempt from this rant, either.  You don’t think we notice that your Italian accent suddenly appears with that ball of mozzarella cheese?  Answer:  we *#&%ing do. 

3.  The fact that the steam cleaner I picked up off the side of the road doesn’t work.  Granted, I had a feeling that the reason my beloved steam cleaner appeared on the curb wasn’t that it worked perfectly, but a cash-strapped gal can hope, can’t she?  I had high hopes when I actually turned on, but after filling the water reservoir and adding (extremely freakin’ expensive) steam cleaner solution, I decided to try my hand at clean carpets.  The problem?  The water doesn’t come out, so you just wind up with soap-soaked carpets and no steam.  I’m now faced with the dilemma of putting the stupid thing BACK into my car and finding someone who will repair it, and I’m fairly certain those people are few and far between, thanks to the popular “it’s cheaper to just get a new one” mentality.  Sadness and dirty carpets:  I have them. 

4.  Looking at rich peoples’ houses.  People magazine has a penchant for running a “Houses of the Stars!” feature that makes me want to punch a baby.  Life sucks as it is and the last thing I need to see after attempting to steam-clean my carpets with a roadside steam cleaner is some rich assclown’s personal bowling alley/wine closet.  It’s like this:  wake up in a house you hate.  Go to a job that you may or may not hate.  Get paid.  Spend your entire paycheck on bills you hate.  And then sit down at the end of a hard week to get slapped in the face with, “We know the country’s in a recession and that you hate your life – but look at the awesome stuff these people have!”  I don’t give a flying rat’s dirty parts about a Kardashian’s custom-designed wading lake.  I just want my property taxes to stop increasing. 

5.  Increased property taxes.  Why my property taxes weren’t rolled into my mortgage payments from the get-go is a complete mystery to me, so imagine my surprise when I got a hefty bill the first year in my house labeled, “Property taxes!” (I may have added the exclamation point for effect.)  After that first slap in the face, I wisely thought, “I know.  I’ll put money away all year so when the property tax bill comes, I’ll actually have the money with which to pay said bill.”  Foresight – it’s a hell of a drug, I tell ya.  So imagine my surprise when I got this year’s property tax bill – and it was MUCH higher than its predecessors.  Deciding to exercise my right to call and bitch about things, I called our lovely tax folks and explained the fact that, if anything, our property values have hit the proverbial bottom and that I’m well-versed in this soul-crushing fact due to the whole “can’t sell my house for what I owe on it” situation we’re in currently.  I mentioned the foreclosures, the bank seizures, and the asinine prices of the abodes surrounding me and was told, “Those aren’t valid sales” when assessing property values.  OH REALLY?  Because they sure as hell matter when it comes to selling the house.  Interesting, Charlie Cardwell, metropolitan trustee.  Very, very interesting.  Assclown.  

Happiness with a Side of Everything Sucks

So the house hasn’t sold yet, but I have had a chance to glare at truck driver neighbor and the neighbor who we’ve decided is selling her body on the street hasn’t been home in a few weeks – in other words, things could be worse.  Since my last “crap that doesn’t annoy me” post garnered us a showing, albeit a totally useless one, I’m trying this optimism thing on for size again just to see what the hell I have to do to unload this heap of wood.  Note:  while reading this, you very well may think to yourself, “These aren’t positive thoughts at all – this is just pessimism shrouded in a cloak of false happiness.”  And you’d be right.  People who are happy all the time should be handled with extreme care, as there is most definitely something wrong with them.  I’ve got things wrong with me, but at least I’m realistic enough to admit it. 

1.  Boxed wine.  A co-worker of mine turned me on to this wondrous delight and I’ve yet to look back since.  Using a shopping cart in a liquor store makes one look like an alcoholic, but when you have the ability to shove 4 bottles of wine into one box, the judgmental looks decrease exponentially.  I’ve found that hanging the spigot into the kitchen sink reduces the amount of drippage you get down the front of your white cabinets.  I’ve also found that sipping this beverage out of a jelly jar will yield several comments about your level of classiness.  (Not to worry, these comments will roll off your back much easier after a couple more jars of wine.)  Finally, there’s nothing like an entire box of wine to make you forget about the fact that your house has been on the market for 2 ½ achingly miserable years.  So go ahead – have another box. It's not like you're going anywhere.  Cheers! (Note:  I don't know who this guy in the picture is, but doesn't he too look excited about the prospect of a BOX OF WINE?)  

2.   The show “Nashville.”  This over-acted soap opera of a show may be a bit cheesy and I don’t care one bit.  The sweeping shots of the skyline are only affirmations of the tattoo I have of our lovely city, plus it’s great fun to say, “I’ve totally been there!” and “Music Row isn’t really walking distance to the pedestrian bridge” or “That’s totally not the actual WSM studio.”  I think the real reason I love the show is that it gives me an excuse to watch totally trashy television under the guise that I’m “doing it for the city.”  I AM doing it for Nashville, but the show’s also filling a guilty-pleasure-shaped void in my rhinestone lovin’ heart, so croon on Rayna Jaymes.*  Croon on.
*I do have to point out that the only other people with that many “y’s” in their name are porn stars.  Possibly a back-up plan once the country music gig dries up?    

3.  Peanut butter.  Another co-worker once said, “I’m only using this apple as a vehicle to get peanut butter in my mouth.”  I realized that I eat a lot of things just for the excuse of shoveling peanut butter down my gullet – rice cakes?  Blah.  Rice cakes with crunchy peanut butter?  BREAKFAST!  And sure, apples are great this time of year, but why not kick that Granny Smith up a notch and slather it in peanut butter?  The one downfall of peanut butter is actually buying it.  I don’t know if you’ve taken a gander at the PB aisle lately, but the possibilities are mind-boggling.  Crunchy and smooth used to be the only options, but now there’s reduced fat!  There’s peanut butter with chocolate swirls (note:  ugh.) and then there’s the peanut butter with the jelly already mixed in (another note:  really?  How lazy can we get?)  However, once you figure out that the jar you’re holding is your sought-after plain ole, run of the mill crunchy, you can escape the peanut butter black hole on aisle 5 and get down to the business of slathering everything you can think of in a glorious paste of peanut mash. 

4.  Dumpster diving.  I will say that the one “perk” of living in the equivalent of a bathtub filled with Krytonite is being close enough to the dumpster to scavenge what our neighbors have deemed unfit for their own bathtubs of superhero downfalls.  I’ve gotten a set of water and food dishes for the cats, a couple of books, two picture frames, and my keys out of the dumpster during my tenure on Timberway Circle (of Hell) and that’s just the stuff I’m willing to admit to on the Internet.  And yes, I did throw away my keys once.  It was sometime in the month of July and it took several frantic minutes of cursing, learning WAY too much about my neighbors, and searching through refuse with a broom handle before I liberated my keys (attached to my all-too-important Suntan City card) from the box o’ trash and returned to work with a completely different outfit and a greater appreciation for our trash guys. 

5.  The idea of losing somewhere around $10,000 (roughly.)  Why is this pleasing?  Because when we DO sell our house for an absolutely devastating loss, I will no longer actually be living in that house.  And for that, I’ll gladly give whoever will take it a large sum of my hard-earned money.  Because there are unused towels in the bathrooms, unfilled fancy soap dispensers on the sink, a permanently-set kitchen table, complete with fake fruit, and all of our cool shit is in storage.  In order to get rid of ALL of this in my life, I would probably carry out a hit on someone’s wife just to get some relief from the anxiety of living in a staged house.  At least my property taxes wouldn’t inexplicably increase on my 8x10 piece of Metro-owned penitentiary. 
(Note:  This is what I imagine I would look like as a professional assassin.  A fairly accurate depiction, I'd say, save for the egregious lack of curly hair.)  

So there you have it.  Things that kind of make me happy but probably shouldn’t.  Bring on the good karma, universe.  Because I still think everything sucks.  

Society Columns and Skinny Jeans

So dawns upon us another hump day here in Nashville, TN and while the weather may be changing, I can assure you that I’m just as angry and bitter as ever (isn’t it nice to have a constant in this world of turmoil?)  And so here’s yet another list of things that I hate, things that I sort of like, and at least one subject on which I’m just completely icked out. 

1.  Let’s talk about society columns for a minute.  I realize in an age of dwindling newspaper numbers, these aren’t quite as prevalent, but really.  Who gets a copy of their local paper to go to page 4 of the Living section, only to be met with a grainy photo of some half-drunk socialite at a random ball that’s thrown to raise money for some charity, some politician, or some politician’s charity?  The half-drunk socialite and her other semi-sober friends, that’s who.  You know the philosophy that people only like pictures of themselves, celebrities, or cute animals?  (If not, it’s because I just fabricated that little bit of knowledge.  But come on – you nodded your head.)  It’s true.  And you, Mrs. Annabelle Snubface, are none of those and therefore the only time I will get enjoyment about of the society pages is when a picture is featured showcasing the attendees’ lack of proper undergarments or making out with the kitchen staff. 
An addendum to this:  overly-detailed wedding announcements.  When we got married, we got the flyer from the paper telling us all the different avenues one may take to shout to the greater Metro area, “WE GOT F’ING MARRIED, Y’ALL!”  Announcing you got married?  Totally fine.  Taking out an full-page, color ad in the Sunday paper to detail the crappy bridesmaid dresses you forced your friends into and the “sweetheart neckline on the bride’s custom-made dress” is stupid.  No one cares that you gave your guests purple bells as a wedding favor (Note:  this is NOT fabricated.  This came from a real wedding announcement I read years ago…and have made fun of ever since.)  If you’re gonna go into details, let’s talk about the half-drunk socialite making out with the bartender and the fact that one of the groomsmen lost his shoe in the Cheekwood koi pond.  That I would read.

2.  Now, let’s examine skinny jeans.  For the majority of my life, I’ve always thought skinny jeans referred to that one pair of jeans you could only wear after two weeks of eating nothing but broccoli and vodka sodas.  But now that trend has expanded so to include jeggings, and the very worst?  Skinny jeans for dudes.  I can handle a girl rocking the SJ’s, especially with the advent of boot season upon us, but dudes in skinny jeans look like a set of uncomfortably bundled genitalia balanced precariously upon the legs of an anemic chicken.  And you know what’s sexy about that last sentence?  Absolutely nothing.   

3.  Speaking of hipsters, can y’all just let off the Mason jar craze?  I know they’re awesome – I’ve been using them for the past 30 years because that’s what you do when your kitchen is full of tomatoes and has been set up as a home canning station for the entire summer.  I’m also aware they’re great drink receptacles due to the lovely ribbing along with rim (helps you not drop your beverage when you’re a bit tipsy…or making out with that bartender.)   However, pretty soon everyone’s going to figure out just how freakin’ awesome these things are and this craze, as they tend to do, will inflate the price of the craze’s object du jour and make them scarce in the marketplace.  Now, my Mason jars come from my family’s home canning station and when I receive them they’re filled with a variety of relish, sauerkraut, or pickles that are so good they will make you want to bitch slap the Queen of England.  If the Mason jar supplies dry up, I’m afraid my home-canned food supply will be cut off, and I, for one, would really like to give Queen Elizabeth the what’s up every once in a while. 

So I lied and I’m not writing about anything that makes me happy in this edition of “Stuff You’re Probably Not Reading” because I’ve rambled on long enough and I really want to get to the part of the prose where I talk about something that just gives me the icks:  hugging.
Here’s the deal – I don’t mind hugging people that are supposed to be hugged.  This group includes family members and close friends you haven’t seen in ages.  And that’s about it.  It’s not that I’m anti-social, I just don’t like touching people.  I’ve never been a touchy person and when Patrick Swayze announced in Dirty Dancing, “This is my dance space.  This is your dance space.  I don’t go into yours, you don’t go into mine” I thought I was in love.  Finally, someone with the same personal space issues!!  Now, I’m not saying that people who are “huggers” annoy me.  They only annoy me if they know I’m not a hugger and still persist with trying to get that elusive hug.  That’s just an idiotic mistake, and one that very well may end with you stapled to the Community Events bulletin board at the local Mapco.

Stay tuned for the next edition of rage and hatred to build on the hugging portion of this one – people who stand too close to me in stores.  Casual acquaintances attempting to touch me?  I can handle that.  Total strangers trying to grope their way over me to get to the cereal aisle?  Absolutely not gonna happen, my friend.  Get your Honey Nuts off my Cheerios, eh?  

So You're Selling Your House? A Guide to Not Actually Living in It

Congratulations on making the first step down a long road of insanity.  After all, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a “for sale” sign in your front yard.  If you’re reading this, then you have obviously made the absolutely crazy decision to sell your house.  Yay!  Allow me to let you in on a few secrets that will ease this transition from a fairly sane, functional human being into a screaming, crazy shell of humanity.

1. Firstly, you’ll want to stage your house.  Staging is a Latin term that means “your taste sucks.”  A good stager will begin by telling you that all of your stuff is ugly.  You will then be encouraged to relocate said stuff into a facility where no one, ever, will be exposed to it (storage facility or large dumpster.  Take your pick.)  After this step is complete, you will be forced to hang art from Ikea over your fireplace and have a fake bowl of fruit on your kitchen table at all times.  Apparently fake pears are a necessary evil in the quest to sell your house. 
2. You will also be forced to make your bed.  Every. Single. Morning.  And not only will you need to make your bed, but you’ll need to hide the pillows that are actually used for sleeping and replace them with large, uncomfortable “pretty” pillows.  Random props will also be placed on your bed that will give your bedroom the feeling of living in a Pottery Barn showroom.  These, of course, need to be taken off at night and replaced in the morning because normal people don’t live like this.  But normal people don’t sell houses.
3. You’re going to want to utilize the idea of a “morning checklist” when your house is on the market.  This will help you to know that your house will look perfect in the off chance that you will get an impromptu showing during the day.  An example of mine:
1. Throw any dirty towels, socks, or ascots into the washing machine before walking out the door.  You wouldn’t want people to be grossed out by your ascot.  And heaven forbid they think you wear socks.
2. I also throw in any dirty dishes that I haven’t washed yet.  I do this because my dishwasher is still full of clean clothes that I haven’t had time to unload due to the fact that I recently ran my nonstick sauté pan through the delicate cycle and broke my washing machine. 
3. Take a look around.  If anything is out that would look out of place at a Williams & Sonoma photo shoot, hide it.  I’ve utilized my refrigerator as a place to hide tennis shoes, remote controls, and the occasional feather boa.  I try to keep electronics in the low humidity crisper and I’ve found I’ve actually gotten better reception to the TV because of it. 
4. A fun game to play to take your mind off of the fact that you’re living in a catalog is the “Where Did I Hurriedly Stuff (Whatever Item You’re Searching For) This Morning?”  Get the kids involved as you scramble to figure out where you threw your sunglasses, cell phone charger, or yard rake before a showing.  Popular hiding places in our house include the fireplace, under the couch, and the trunk of my car.  You would be surprised how many yard implements can be stuffed in the trunk of a Honda Civic.  

Salad Bar Stupidity and Other Stuff I Don't Like

So my posts about things that make me happy netted us a couple of showings on the house o’pain, although no offers.  I’ll wait while you pick up your jaw that’s understandably hit the ground as you fathom why our house hasn’t sold yet.
Seriously. 
I ask myself the same question almost every morning in the shower while I shave my legs with increasing agitation until I resemble an extra from the “Edward Scissorhands:  Leg Shaver” movie that unfortunately never got made.
Anyway, since the positivity didn’t really do anything THAT great, I’m going back to being my hate-filled, cynical self.  Because if we’re not going to sell our house with the power of positive thinking, I’m gonna stop being an annoying optimist and write some more about stuff that annoys me.  It is my comfort zone, after all…

1.  The stupid guy in front of me at the salad bar in Harris Teeter.  Let me preface this by saying that this douche bag’s actions were already probably going to annoy me, mainly because this entire day has annoyed the tee-total shit out of me.  However, with a queue of folks forming behind this guy that would rival a Depression-era bread line, this guy decides to go through the chicken, piece by piece, until he hand-selects the very pieces that would grace his salad.  A note about this chicken:  it’s all crap.  It’s pressed together chicken innards that somewhat resemble a part of our favorite edible fowl, but it’s essentially crap.  And the fact that you’re picking through the crap, to the detriment of my personal time-table and growling stomach, is not only inconsiderate but completely moronic to boot.  And then let’s talk about how the guy answered his cell phone while picking through the chicken (Yeah, I’m still standing here, but please.  I really want your salad to reach its peak of perfection through perfectly picked chicken parts as you ramble about what I’m assuming has something to do with an obscure band and how much PBR you drank at their showcase Friday night.  What’s that?  You’re having trouble finding your phone in the pocket of your skinny jeans?  Let me help you – it's the only bulge visible in your skinny jeans.  Ahem.)  At this point I was ready to grab him by his stupid sunglasses and shove his phone down his gullet, but he finally moved and I didn’t want to get any more bloodstains out of this dress. 

2.  Unsolicited opinions.  Here’s the thing – I don’t give a flying rat’s dirty parts who you worship, who you vote for, who you marry, or who you seriously maim in a salad bar line.  You know why I don’t care?  BECAUSE IT MAKES NO DIFFERENCE TO ME.  And you know something else?  I’m not going to force my beliefs on you because it makes no difference to you.  So please, for the love of whatever you think is holy, stop trying to change my thinking because odds are, you have no idea what I think about these subjects anyway because I often refuse to talk about them.  I would much rather have a riveting discussion about the merits of fresh v/s canned tomatoes, my hatred of Taylor Swift, various meanings  of the f-word, or the advantages to backing into a parking spot.
In closing:  They’re personal decisions and involve no one but me…and possibly that stupid guy I just gut-punched in Harris Teeter…so please.  Just.Stop. 

3.  There’s a Farmville TWO???  What happened to the first one – did it get burned down during Sherman’s ride through Facebook?  I thought I was safe from inane app requests, but now am I going to have to block the “Two” version of everything?  Bejeweled Two:  Shenanigans in Jewelry Heists?  Mystical Mountains Two:  Escape from the Billy Goat’s Grasp?  Café City Two:  A Server’s Revenge through Body Fluids?
JUST F’ING STOP IT. 

4.  The Tennessee Titans.  "But Jamie!" you might be thinking.  "I thought you were a Titans fan.  What's this blasphemy spewing forth from your foul mouth ?"  Let me explain.  I was unable to watch or listen to this weekend's game due to prior obligations.  Now, I’ve watched the Titans get pummeled by Tom Brady.  I’ve watched running backs prance through our line like it got burned up in Sherman’s charge on Farmville.  I’ve watched through injuries, through unfortunate hand gestures to TV cameras from our stoic owner, and through a hissy fit by a thumb-addled quarterback.  And what do I get for sitting through these monstrosities?  I miss what everyone is calling, “One of the best Titans games EVER!”  It’s bad enough that I missed our first win of the regular season, but that pile of the salt in the wound?  Brought to you by the Titans game everyone will be talking about forever. So thanks, Titans.  You wait until I'm not in front of the TV for once to play a great game of football.  I'm hoping this isn't a trend, because I'll be watching whenever I can.  Ya might wanna buckle in for a bumpy ride.   

So I know I said I was going to be totally pessimistic, but there was one bright spot in this crap parade of a weekend…

While driving down Briley Parkway on Saturday, I noticed a loaf of bread in the right-hand lane.  Thinking it odd, and feeling an overwhelming urge to run over it to see what would happen, I continued driving my 55-mph in a quest to get home.  A few more miles up the old BP brought yet another loaf of bread.  And then two more.  THAT’S when we started wondering who was Breading the Opryland side of Briley Parkway.  A truck pulled over in front of Opry Mills brought our answer – the bread was coming from a couple in a pickup truck with a bed full of bread.
Like, an entire truck filled with loaves of bread. 
I couldn’t make it up if I tried.  And I don’t want to.  I just want a sandwich.  

A Unique Upbringing

I’m a little weird, a fact I’ll gladly announce to anyone who isn’t listening (people don’t listen to weird people who will subsequently talk about them not listening in a blog they won’t read) but as I talk to other folks I realize my upbringing wasn’t exactly normal.  Or sane.  Or anything that would allude to me becoming a non-dorky, semi-functional adult.  The reasons I’m weird…as recounted from childhood…

I grew up on a farm.  Not THAT unusual, especially in Tennessee, but a growing rarity in the days of genetically engineered cow-type things and turkeys that can’t fly.  Our farm was unique in that it was organic.  In the early ‘80s, that word was usually reserved for a very intense moment in the bedroom and not a way of farming.  One might say, at the risk of sounding like a hipster, that we were organic before organic was cool.  Farming sans chemicals requires unorthodox methods of agriculture that involve things like me dragging around a bucket of water and cutting down thistle heads in the middle of a Tennessee July (for those of you unaccustomed to Tennessee weather it’s hot in July.  Like, hot enough to stick your head in a bucket of thistle water to get some sort of relief when you’re in the middle of a half-cut thistle field.)  Thistles are vile, evil weeds that have thorns and quite possibly a hive of bees inhabiting them at any given moment.  Organic farmery also required me to take a little miniature flame-thrower torch thing and burn weeds in the strawberry field with a magic wand of fire.  I would pretend I was a roaring giant torching poor cities that dared to revolt against me and my regime, therefore justifying my actions in burning their entire existence.  (Living on a farm also puts a LOT of space between you and anyone your age you may be able to play with…hence the rampantly violent imagination and thoughts of village domination.)  

Another fun part of living in the middle of nowhere?  Your mom has to drive you around to go trick-or-treating.  The first time I went to a “real” neighborhood on Halloween I was absolutely amazed (and only slightly chagrined I wasn’t getting the official chauffeur treatment anymore.)  Kids were walking door-to-door…up to doors behind which stood people they didn’t know.  And they got candy.  Like, a LOT of candy.  Even more than the year my sister was forced to drive me around (she just took me to her friends’ houses and gave me candy so I would shut up about going somewhere else.)  The Halloween traditions to which I was accustomed first involved putting together your own costume – usually consisting of a pair of my dad’s pants, his ever-present hard hat, and a pair of his boots and being, wait for it, my father.  Since I was only going to see about 3 people that night, the quality of the costume didn’t exactly matter, and the neighbors knew my father and thought it was cute that I was parading around like a shrunken, curly-haired version of him.  Secondly, we would drive to approximately 4 houses, walk in, sit down, chat for a moment, and possibly leave with some Cracker Jacks (or caramel apples if you hit Miss Katy May’s house.  And we ALWAYS hit Miss Katy May’s house.)  Finally, we would drive home to wait for possible trick-or-treaters at OUR house, which absolutely, positively, NEVER HAPPENED.  So, my Halloween haul would usually include Cracker Jacks and whatever candy we hadn’t eaten before Halloween night that my mother bought every year “just in case.”  

On a positive note, one advantage of living in the country is that everyone learns to drive at a very young age.  Like, really young.  I mean, it’s not like there’s a whole lotta traffic whizzing by, so my dad didn’t really think twice before he tossed me the keys to the tractor with instructions of driving it through town to its next destination.  I was 11.  After I’d graduated from farm machinery, I got to experiment with the farm truck in the back field with instructions to “not get above 3^rd gear, because with the ruts back there, you’re liable to hit your head on the ceiling.”  I didn’t get above 3^rd that day, but I did come dangerously close to getting the truck stuck in a pile of chicken manure and only after frantically spinning tires for several breathless minutes (both from fear and the stench my predicament caused) did I finally break free of the poop’s grasp into the safety of the aforementioned thistle field.  And while you may think you’d have plenty of room to drive around without hitting anything on a farm, you’d be wrong, as I took out a couple of mailboxes, part of a fence row, and a tractor manifold in my early driving career (a note to my insurance agent:  Please disregard the previous sentence.  I tend to embellish when I write.)  (A note to everyone else:  Please disregard the previous note to my insurance agent.  It’s all unfortunately true.)  I subsequently had quite the colorful driving history in high school, but could proudly boast about only getting 1 ticket from the 9 times I got pulled over (another embellishment, I promise, dear insurance agent.)  (A note to everyone else: what do you expect from a girl who learned to drive in a field completely devoid of a speed limit?)

And there you have it.  A plethora of other stories exist and they all point to the fact that there’s a reason I’m this crazy, but my mother’s calling me and I’m sure the conversation will involve an update on the chickens, the progress of her latest canning adventures, and possibly an anecdote centered around the fact that my mother’s somehow taught herself to yodel.  I can’t fix the crazy, so I might as well enrich it.  

Some Happies...For Once

While I know the name of this blog is “The Angry Curl,” I had a wine-fueled epiphany the other night.  This “cabern-iphany” was brought about while sitting on my couch and looking around at my now-hated condo and thinking, “Just what the HELL do I have to do to get out of this place?”  Then I thought, “Maybe the fact that you hate it so much is the very thing holding you back.  Hic.”  I’ve blamed the housing market, I’ve blamed shitty neighbors, I’ve blamed the obviously faulty St. Joseph we buried in the front yard many, many moons ago.  But I’ve never stopped to blame myself for injecting those freshly-touched-up, yet cursed, walls with enough negativity to bring down Richard Simmons.  So, in an effort to somehow sell our abode of burden with the power of positivity (hopefully without puking before the end of this…I’ve already discussed my hatred for eternal optimism.  *Shudder.*) I’m foregoing my normal, “I hate everything because everything annoys me” and going with a “Crap that makes me happy blog.”  Here goes…

1.  I somehow got added to a “Juggalos and ‘Lettes of America” group on Facebook.  “Why on EARTH does this make you happy?” may be the thought crossing your mind right now, but I assure you, this is comedic GOLD.  Pictures of Juggalos are amazing and a quick listen to the melodies of this Insane Clown Posse prove to be enlightening (and by “enlightening” I mean, “I’m so glad their fan base is limited to some face-painting, Faygo-drinking family members and not the general population.”)  Far beyond the glories contained in lyrics such as “like magnets, how do those work?” I am really starting to realize the depth of this band and, more importantly, its followers.  With posts in the Facebook group citing such wisdom as “Whoop, whoop, mother*#&ers” and “Family!  Whoop, whoop!” these folks are obviously on to something.  They’re totally not racists, either, because the banner at the top of the page clearly states, “We’re not racists.  We’re Southern Juggalos.”  Props, Juggalos and Juggalettes.  Mad, hatchet-carrying props.  You brighten my day.  One awful post at a time. 

2.  While filming a movie a couple of weeks ago, I got a gigantic bruise on my left leg (I blame Brandy Cantrell and her dedication to the art of acting for this travesty.  I did bust her lip, however, so the afternoon wasn’t a total wash.)  Anyway, again, you may be pontificating to yourself as to why this would be a source of happiness in my life.  The reason it makes me giggle?  The bruise…well, the bruise looked like a, how do I put this?  A part of the male genitalia.  The picture is below and I’ll let you decide what YOU think it looks like, but just know that I’ve a lot of fun “flexing” my leg in the past couple of weeks and I’m almost sad that my lovely piece of leg porn is close to fully healed. 

3.  My parents’ chickens and their eggs.  I know, I know.  I write a LOT about farm life and the craziness it brings, but these eggs…oh, these eggs.  First off, the color (inside AND out.)  Opening a carton of these eggs is like experiencing Easter for the first time because they’re all different colors – brown, dark brown, blue, and GREEN!!  Then, upon cracking them open into a skillet, you discover that the yolks are this goldenrod yellow that screams, “Bedazzle me with onions, tomatoes, and spinach, woman!”  I, of course, am more than happy to oblige to the bossy eggs.  I often find myself screaming, “Hallelujah!” when I eat these eggs, because they taste like they fell straight out of heaven’s butt.  And who doesn’t want a ham and butt omelet on a Saturday morning?

4.  Running on Thursday mornings.  Why do I only like Thursdays?  Well, on the Thursdays I can drag myself out of bed and going running through the decidedly more affluent neighborhood down the street, I can rummage through their stuff because it’s TRASH DAY!  These folks throw out all kinds of goodies and since it’s the ass crack of dawn, I get first pick of that “sweet, sweet trash” a la some Always Sunny in Philadelphia action.  My favorite snag thus far has been a steam cleaner, which is still sitting in the closet, waiting to be tested, but it does turn on, so I’m fairly hopeful I’ll have clean carpets soon.  And even if I don’t actually go back and get the items by the curb, it gives me a sometimes startling insight into my neighbors’ lives.  This makes the running go by much quicker, as now I’m trying to decide if that one guy is just really into carpentry or if he’s building a sex dungeon in his basement (judging by his gardening skills, I’m going with dungeon.  Dungeon builders are excellent at growing hydrangeas.  Or so I’ve heard.)

5.  My final piece of happy today comes from one glorious word:  FOOTBALL.  It’s back.  While our cats are probably way less excited about being awoken from a day-long nap with yells of, “TOUCHDOWN!!!” from us, I could care less.  They can go back to sleep, but football’s like the McRib – it will induce long periods of sitting on the couch and it’s only here for a limited time.  

Sam and Sharon: Part Deux

“Your blog totally changed my life.” 
“Reading your blog, it just…inspires me.”
“Write some more about your crazy parents.”

I’ve heard one of the above phrases in my lifetime, and I’ll let you guess which one.  At no point have I endeavored to do anything with this except make fun of stereotypes, text speak, and whatever else bugs the crap out of me in life, but the blog I wrote about ole Sam and Sharon really struck a chord with some folks, and so, in the interest of keeping the 2 ½ readers I sometimes have, here’s another introspective into the lives of my parents. 

1.  I called my mother the other day for the catch-up chat.  When I inquired as to their weekend activities, she said, “Well, Debbie had a swarm of bees…” She then proceeded to explain that swarms of bees are highly sought-after in the bee community and in trying to create a win-win situation in that they could rid the neighbors of the bees and then keep said bees for themselves, they suited up and began Beepocolypse 2012.  The bees were apparently terrified of whatever contraption they came up with to catch the bees and they disappeared completely, making it a win-lose the bees situation.  It also served up delicious fodder for this here blog as I’m almost certain I was the only person in the Metro area having a conversation about capturing a swarm of bees with her mother on a Tuesday afternoon.  On another note, if you too have a swarm of bees, gimme a shout.  I know people. 

2.  My parents also raise chickens and these chickens produce what I’m quite sure are the most glorious eggs ever.  This is not the point.  You see, they got some new chicks a while back and these chicks weren’t yet ready to go in the area with the bigger chickens, so they were relegated to the cellar until they were able to be emancipated.  They started off in a cardboard box, but as they got bigger, so did the box.  So much so that my mother started calling their enclosure the “Chicken Hilton” and became the owner of what I’m sure are the most-hated-due-to-jealousy chickens in existence.  These birds were living it up in the comfort of a cool cellar, a heat lamp, and enough room to order up some room service chicken food.  I would lay an egg if I could live like that for a while but sadly, I’ll just have to keep eating them.  One delicious frittata at a time. 

3.  My father manages a mill for a group of Mennonites in Kentucky.  I don’t think this needs further explanation on why it’s funny because I’ve never in my life heard this as a job description.  What I do know is this job nets responses along the lines of, “Oh, I’m just driving the Mennonites to the feed mill” or “going to pick up a grain auger for the Mennonites.”  Really, though, isn’t any sentence instantly more intriguing when you add “with the Mennonites?” 

4.  My parents’ extracurricular activities are extremely varied and not necessarily limited to chicken architecture and bee entrapment.  My father took a hog-butchering class the other day (I won’t lie, though.  I was a little jealous about that,) they sometimes grind their own flour, and at one point my mother took a class on growing mushrooms (not that kind.  I know.  I asked.) 

5.  I called my mom once and she was extremely excited about the fact that she had just unearthed some forgotten apple trees.  These trees just happened to have been forgotten in their hallway (not to be confused with the several bushels of sweet potatoes that were temporarily housed at the top of their stairs.) 

6.  Once when I was growing up, our wild cherry tree behind the chicken shed amassed quite a few cherries.  We picked what we could, but were stumped when so much of the treasured fruit was beyond the reach of our ladder.  Not to be outsmarted by a mere tree, my mother decided it needed to be pruned anyway.  Cutting down the branches, she brought the cherries into arm’s distance and many a pie was had that summer.  The chickens didn’t have quite the same amount of shade as before, but they didn’t seem to mind that much. 

7.  The majority of my parents’ garden equipment has white stripes painted on the handles.  My mom will tell you this is so they can find them easier if they’re lying out in the garden.  This IS partially the reason, but the real motive behind it is my mother spilled a bucket of white paint once and, not wanting to waste it, gave the tool shed a zebra-esque revamp and painted everything she could find with white stripes.  Easily-spotted implements and the rescue of paint – it was a good day in Robertson County.

And so I leave you with another glimpse into the lives of my folks.  Stay tuned for more stories involving wild animals, produce, and the adventures of Sam at the mill.  It promises to be awesome, because it’s true.  Real Housewives, eat your hearts out.  

An Open Letter to No Shows

I apologize for missing your call.  When the showing service called at 10:51 and requested to show our house at 10:45, I was in a meeting and my phone wasn’t available (and little did I know that I lived in a time warp where my house could make time go backwards!)  I heaved a sigh of relief when I was able to reschedule the showing to a later time (6pm – 7pm,) giving me an entire lunch break and part of an afternoon to clean the house in anticipation of you actually buying it.  

I rushed home, in a dress that could have walked out of “The Stepford Wives.”  Not having time to actually mop, I decided to spot scrub the kitchen floor with a sponge.  Yes, I was crawling around on my kitchen floor, cleaning device in hand, in a plaid halter dress and one of the cats who obviously knew I was deranged.  I put up clothes, shoes, microphones in their proper places.  I ran up and down the stairs probably 17 times (note:  not an inflated number.)  My nicely-straightened bangs of the morning?  Sweat-drenched and slowly going back to curly.  My hand?  Bleeding from…something.  My choice of words?  Loud, alarming, and at times, completely fabricated.   But my house?  My house was freakin’ clean. 
I went back to work, smelling like someone who had just run up 17 flights of stairs in the middle of August in the middle of Tennessee (oh wait – that’s exactly what I did) and proceeded to convince my (very understanding…or maybe he just wanted me out of his office because I smelled so bad) boss to let me leave just a bit early so I could rush home and put the final touches on my showcase de home.  After furiously shoving some last minute items under the bed, corralling three cats into carriers, hauling out food dishes, litter boxes, and other sundries, I politely left the house in anticipation of your arrival.  I was early, so I brought the People magazines that I previously stashed under the sink.  “Foresight,” I thought.  “It’s a hell of a drug.”  It was still pretty hot, but not wanting to run my car for an hour (gas is exorbitant, just in case you didn’t know) I went in intervals of “turn on the car for AC” and “turn off the car for before you declare bankruptcy.”  The cats didn’t seem to mind. 
I read one magazine.  I then completed the crossword puzzle (well, almost completed it.)  I checked my watch and told myself, “They’re probably stuck in traffic.”  I chatted with the security guard, who wished me good luck with the showing.  I jokingly replied, “Thanks!  We need it!”  (Foresight – it’s a hell of a drug.)  I read another People magazine.  I started to fill out the crossword puzzle when the realization hit me.  You, you piece of trash, stood me up at my own house. 
My eyes went a bit blurry and I felt veins pulsing in places you’re not supposed to have veins, and I punched the center console of my car so hard that my hand throbbed for several minutes (and is currently bruising.)  You see, as the time approached 6:30, it was in the back of my brain…”What if they don’t show up?  What if I just did all this for nothing?” but me, being the optimistic dipshit I am, refused to believe that voice that was growing louder with each tick of the clock.  When it finally hit me that you are, in fact, a complete idiot with no sense of time OR decency, I freakin’ had a little meltdown in the parking lot.  Sobbing uncontrollably out of anger, then disappointment, then the realization that we very well may die in this house (be it from old age or the fire I’m going to set to it – take your pick) made me stop and focus all that negative energy on to something that totally deserves it – you. 
I wished things on you and your family that I won’t even put into print, lest it turn into something, let’s say, premeditated.  I don’t even know you, person of dumbassery, yet I can tell you one thing – you are a prick and deserve all of the things that I previously alluded to but wouldn’t commit to typing. 
You didn’t just miss an opportunity to see a house – you’ve brought down upon you a veil of bad karma so thick that you could throw it on the floor at the Brady’s house and call it shag.  You wasted my time.  You wasted my energy.  You wasted my dinner.  And the clincher?  YOU MADE ME MISS THE TITANS OPENING KICKOFF.  
So here’s to you, dumb jackbag (told ya I was fabricating words.) I hope you find a house suitable for your needs.  Heaven knows you won’t need appliances, as you’re probably too stupid to work them anyway, and you obviously don’t need the clocks because you’re an arrogant asshole to whom time does not apply.  I hope this house is infested with bed bugs that are infested with fleas.  I hope someone dumps dirty mattresses on your front lawn on a nightly basis (but they won’t get caught with the expensive surveillance equipment you’re going to buy to catch them!)  I hope your neighbors have a meth lab and several unattended bee hives.  In short?  I hope you’re as miserable for at least some amount of time and have no idea why this misery is taking place in your life.
Because that’s what you did to me, and karma isn’t just a friend of mine.  She’s a bitchy, bitchy friend.  And I hope she finds you, dominates you, and then makes you cry and punch something in a parking lot because the world is full of moronic hacks such as yourself.  

Stuff About Me that Probably Annoys Others

So I spend an abundant amount of time complaining about characteristics in others that drive me insane.  In the idea of “if I complain about it enough, something will get done, right?” I will talk endlessly about the world around us and the sheer amount of aggravation it holds.  While thinking about this, I wondered to myself, “Am I in someone’s blog because I annoy them?”  And then I thought to myself, “Probably.”  So, to turn the tables on myself, I present things about me that probably annoy others. 

1.  I talk to myself in the grocery store.  And in Goodwill.  And well, everywhere possible in public.  Walk past me in the produce aisle at Kroger and I guarantee you’ll hear the whispers of, “No, I have tomatoes.  Don’t I have tomatoes?  Maybe I don’t have tomatoes.  I should probably get tomatoes” while I wander around with my grocery list that is surprisingly devoid of tomatoes.  I’ve had to admit to several people on different occasions that I wasn’t talking to them, but rather to myself in a delusional haze of bad grocery planning.  Follow me around Goodwill and you’ll hear, “Oh, I’m totally gonna spray-paint that later” or “You really don’t need another pink dress, but it IS just a dollar” while I walk around the store on a hunt for a good bargain or photographable mullet.  The point is, people probably (and justifiably) think I’m crazy.  Mainly because I am, but that’s beside the point as I’m sure someone, somewhere has taken some time to talk about stupid people talking to themselves in public.  And I’m public enemy numero uno. 

2.  I have pretty bad taste in music.  The husband once borrowed my iPod for a quick jog and returned it after ascertaining that I was a 1970’s stripper from Alabama from my selection of tunes.  It’s no secret that one of my favorite bands of all time is ABBA (although I blame my sister for this) and yes, there is a LOT of Britney Spears in the ole iTunes account, along with a mixture of Oak Ridge Boys and Ricky Nelson (and Alabama.  I can’t help it.)  Old music from the ‘90s?  Yep.  Classical country music on the AM station in the morning?  PLEASE sign me up.  Having married a music-fan of a husband, my musical tastes are ridiculed by my husband with almost the same regularity as my Food Network addiction.  Oh well.  At least I can dance (badly) in my kitchen to the glorious sounds of Flo Rida’s “Whistle” while I make cornbread waffles thanks to a TV tutorial from Paula Deen.  And yes, I just may have helped Mr. Timberlake bring sexy back while making a batch of toffee.  Don’t hate. 

3.   I’ve been using the phrase “no bueno” with increasing regularity lately.  I don’t know where I picked up this phrase but it’s becoming more and more crutch-like in my daily vocabulary and I’m not okay with that.  Plus, I’m not Spanish, so I’m sure that’s irksome to those down the Mexico way. 

4.  I probably didn’t listen to your voicemail and I’m just going to ask you to repeat whatever it is you said when I finally get around to calling you back (another point of annoyance, I’m sure, is the non-existent quickness I have for returning phone calls.)  I’m sure the other person is thinking, “I went through the trouble to tell you why I was calling and you couldn’t trouble yourself to listen to that for 43 seconds?  What’s the point of even setting up your voicemail if you’re not going to utilize its intended purpose?  And the reason I called you was to remind you to get paper towels.  Had you just listened to the message you wouldn’t have even had to call me back and therefore you’ve wasted more of my time.”  I get it.  It’s rude and I apologize.  And if you reply, please do so in text form.

5.  I have probably never seen the movie you’re talking about currently.  We didn’t frequent the movies so much when I was younger for a few reasons.  1.  We had a one-screen cinema in the sleepy town of Springfield and the movies were often out-of-date anyway.  2.  I peed in one of the seats at the cinema while being forced to watch a Jaws movie which literally scared the pee out of me and I still think about that.  Couple these reasons with the fact that we didn’t procure a VCR until the time “Robin Hood: Men in Tights” rolled out and you’ve got yourself a movie pop culture brain vacuum called me.  I frequently have to ask the husband why something is funny on Family Guy or other shows (you know they’re referencing…something…you just have no idea what that “something” actually is) and he’ll sigh exasperatedly while he explains it’s something from Star Wars (note:  I’ve never seen Star Wars.  I told the husband that I would watch it now but he says it’s too late in my life and I’m not going to appreciate it.)  So there.  I’ve probably never seen that movie unless “that movie” involves “Best in Show,” “Roadhouse,” or “Waiting.”  I have such good taste in cinema.  Aren’t you glad to call me your friend? 

6.  I drive with my windows down almost all summer.  This means everyone can hear me singing in the car and that I probably smell like sweat when I arrive somewhere.   

7.  I also back up my car like a trucker, hanging my head out the window and everything.  It’s pretty classy to watch. 

8.  I sometimes write e-mails that are way longer than necessary and it’s often because I’m just trying to get the recipient to laugh at them.  And then I figure it’s actually just to make myself laugh and I’m forcing the receiver to read 8 pages of text to get the point of my e-mail and he’s probably doing anything but laughing by the time he realizes I just wanted him to pick up paper towels.  My bad.

9.  I once took a picture of a guy in Vegas at the "Pawn Stars" pawn shop.  He offered to take a picture of the three of us (the husband, the best friend, and the myself) and asked if we would take his picture on my camera and send it to him since he had forgotten his own photography equipment.  I heartily agreed as he was very nice, and he gave me his card with his contact info.  
I lost his card and therefore never sent him the picture.  He probably hates me and it's justified because I still think about that sometimes and feel guilty.  I searched and searched, but never could find that little piece of paper with an e-mail address for a guy in Canada who just wanted proof that he stood with the guy from a reality show about people's old crap (hey, I'm not judging.  I totally have mine posted on Facebook.)  

10.  I hate olives.  I like the thought of olives.  I like the sight of olives floating in my martini.  However the thought of eating an olive makes me want to gag harder than Rosie O’Donnell at a Magic Mike screening. 

So there you go.  I could actually probably make this list go on for days, but that’s annoying as my long-winded e-mails, so I’ll bid you adieu, apologize for using the word “adieu” in a closing paragraph, and be on my annoyance-filled way of merriment.  

Passive Aggression and Poison Ivy: A Dangerous Cocktail

A lot of things have been bothering me lately.  Like, more than usual, and I think this is precipitated by a combination of stress over still not being able to sell our house, the fact that I’m fairly certain everyone in our neighborhood hates us, and an increasing sensitivity to all things stupid surrounding me on a daily basis.  Without dragging out this introduction that most people skip anyway, I present more stuff that bugs me.

1.  The fact that Trisha Yearwood has her own cooking show.  I find this irritating because Trisha already has a lucrative career called “being married to Garth Brooks.”  I would like to strongly urge Mrs. Yearwood to let the folks who aren’t already rich have a crack at one of those coveted time slots.  I would also like for her to stop making Southern cuisine because, well, that’s MY specialty.  It was hard enough trying to come up with my sales pitch should I run into a random Food Network exec you know, on accident, while standing outside his or her house with my night vision goggles previously used to spy on Betty White, but NOW I have to come up with yet another way to spin our tasty edibles and stupid Bobby Deen has already taken the “healthy approach to Southern food” and his brother, Jamie, has taken on Southern food AND MY NAME!  Now I have stupid Yearwood food to overcome AND all this other crap (and by “other crap”, I mean Paula Deen.  She’s gonna make it awfully hard, I can feel it) before I get my own show.  I hope you’re “in love with the boy” Trisha Yearwood, because this girl’s gonna take you down.  Figuratively, of course.  I’m sure even the thunder can’t roll with the security equipment in that place. 

2.  Also annoying: eternal optimism.  This really stems from the “not being able to sell our house” portion of the introduction you probably didn’t read.  The whole attitude of, “Don’t worry, you’re totally going to sell it” is complete horseshit because it’s been well over two years and we haven’t had a single offer.  And while I get that people are more than likely only doing this out of compassion, it’s annoying because it’s not true.  We will probably die in that place with a huge collection of letters amassed from the fact that our HOA hates us, our attempts at parking, our movie making, and our general overall existence in their stupid community.  I’m a true believer in the “our world generally sucks” with brief instances of “it doesn’t suck as much today.”  Eternal optimism just makes me want to point out things that are wrong with the world and complain about them bitterly as the optimist in front of me stops asking why the glass is half empty and orders a double shot of Jack in what is now a quite tasty full glass that will soon have them hating the world AND simultaneously not caring.   

3.  Our HOA and passive aggressive letters.  I’ve seen a lot of stupid stuff go down at the pool, including a drunk lady serenading us with “House of the Rising Sun,” footballs hitting not-so-happy float dwellers, and one guy who decided it was completely appropriate to talk about how difficult it is to get AND maintain an erection while under the influence of a $700 meth binge (true, however unfortunate, story.)  However, we received a notice the other day that stated something to the effect of “one of your neighbors told on you for being at the pool too late and we don’t like that.”  And apparently they’re not too happy when one has to climb the fence to the pool after hours.  Yes, we got turned in for climbing the fence by the pool.  The fence-climbing, by the way, happened from INSIDE THE POOL as they lock you in the pool fence after the pool closes, leaving you two options:  1. Sit there and drink the rest of your beer in the hot tub until the gate is unlocked in the morning or 2. Sit there, drink the rest of your beer, and climb the fence to go sleep it off in the comfort of your own bed.   It’s like a really low-budget version of “Bait Car” because now they’ve caught you breaking the law and they’re going to keep you there until they hand down punishment, which in this case, involved a stupid letter with the closing sentiment of, “We’re sure this is just an oversight.”  Yeah.  Because the fence accidentally got climbed, stupid neighbors.  Go ahead – leave your dog shit in the yard again.  Because I’m not going to report you, but I might leave it on your front step.  Petty letters get thrown away, but so do dress shoes with dog poo in the treads.  Ass hat.

4.  Poison Ivy: 1 - Jamie: 0.  I contracted a case of this evil plant rash last week while on a canoe trip down the Duck River.  We've taken this trip for several years in a row now, but this year we came home with some odd tan lines, several bruises, AND a case of poison ivy that would drive Van Gogh to cut off his other ear.  Thinking it was a bug bite, I foolishly scratched and scratched until I realized that it was the curse of the ivy and I'd only spread it all over my body with my incessant scratching.  This cued several trips to the store for calamine lotion and the look of "I'm here for poison ivy and not jock itch" to my fellow shoppers in Walgreens.  Finding the stupid rash on my foot this morning then sparked panic at the thought of not being able to wear my collection of awesome shoes and so to the Minute Clinic I drove.  Going to the doctor is an annoyance that I'll save for another (much, much longer) blog as I HATE doctors, but the idea of a dusty shoe collection had me panicked enough to see a medical professional.  I got prescribed prednisone for the dreaded awfulness that is native to Tennessee's flora and I've now been informed that this medicine makes you crazy, unable to sleep, and incredibly hungry.  So now I'm itchy.  I'm bitchy.  And I'm going to get fat.  F'ing awesome, Mr. Ivy.  Thanks for that.
Really.