The Brentwood Target Parking Lot: A Story of Hatred

If you were my friend on MySpace, you’ve already read the decidedly more risqué version of this little rant.  However, in an effort to both share my hatred of the Brentwood Target parking lot and make my blog a bit more palatable for, well, everyone, I’ve spruced it up, taken out some decidedly non-lady-like verbiage, and bingo!  The things I hate about this cursed piece of concrete conveniently located in a vortex of stupidity: 

1.  There’s usually at least one person blissfully walking off the curb in front of Panera, either on his/her cell phone, or chatting with the large group of similarly-dressed teenagers with whom he/she is clearly associated (they get a lot of volleyball teams in there, it seems.)  Regardless, perhaps you should actually look before you walk in front of what is about to become a Honda Murder Weapon and also realize that maybe you should wait for oncoming traffic to ease before it becomes “breaking both of my legs in an unfortunate hit-and-run” traffic. 

2.  Let’s have a discussion about the “going to wait for someone to get in their car, reverse (complete with a 3-point turn – more on that in a minute) and then finally drive off” people so that they can have a parking spot that’s 3.67 feet closer to the entrance.  These people, and their inability to walk another 3.67 feet, annoy the sheer crap out of me.  In the time it took this person to wait on a parking spot, I’ve already driven to the Longhorn Steakhouse end of the parking lot, rocked the two-spot pull-through (no need to back in when you can pull through, eh?) and am now in the dollar section perusing Superman popcorn cups and Disney princess memo pads.  So, while you waste 2 gallons of gas and contribute to the obesity rate of America, I’m happily scoring Chuck Taylors and awesome sunglasses at discounted rates. 

3.  And now let’s talk about the lovely 3-point turn.  I’m not saying some situations don’t call for one.  I’m saying that if it takes you 2 days and a traffic director to help you get out of your parking spot, the gigantic amount of money you spent on your Mercedes D-Class (I’ll give you three guesses as to what the “D” stands for in that line…and the first two don’t count) SUV has obviously been wasted.  The ability to get out of your parking spot quickly is advantageous on 2 counts.  1.  Less gas is wasted from the moron waiting those two days so he/she can have your moronic parking spot.  2.  It will leave me less time to curse your name at increasing volume while I make fun of the sticker family you have plastered on the back windshield.  And you don’t want your children to grow up to talk like me.  I promise. 

4.  To the lady who walks in the middle of the road, completely unaware of anyone.  Anywhere.  At any point in time:  I HATE YOU.  Get out of my way, or I will run over you and your overflowing shopping cart full of granola and half-priced paper towels. 
That is all. 

5.  And to the “hippie” guy that just walked into Panera for their free wi-fi?  You’re going to lose your hippie card, along with that back bumper filled with obscure band stickers if you cut me off again.  No one needs a bagel that badly. 

6.  Finally, a general, “Screw you” to the people that annoy me, but I can’t really think of anything funny to say about them: 
The lady with the soccer ball, the basketball, and the tennis ball magnets on her minivan with her child’s name “Stevyn” on them:  Stevyn just ran in front of me.  Should this happen again, I will not be responsible for little Stevyn’s fate.  This will be less painful in the long-run, given his name is Stevyn. 
The oranged hooker-esque types walking out of Sun Tan City, happily texting on their cell phone and oblivious to all things, you know, not them:  I will flatten you before you can remove your oversized sunglasses, pick your “Pink” shorts out of your ass crack, and flail your Coach bag in defense. 
The people who sit in the fire lane waiting on others to come out of the Sprint store:  There’s a reason it’s called a fire lane.  Mainly, because I hope you catch on fire for sitting in it. 

The Classifieds of the Game Show World

I enjoy game shows.  There.  I said it.  Whether this puts me in the geriatric demographic or not, the flashing lights and glitter will suck me in time after time.  I remember wiling away many a summer day in our kitchen growing up, yelling out what I thought was the price of Tide detergent to the obviously oblivious contestants on The Price is Right while putting up peach jam, blueberry jam, or some other form of fruit in the form of jam.  Highlights included seeing the outfits the girls chose to wear that day, the glorious days someone on contestant row got the price EXACTLY RIGHT and got to fish a $100 bill out of Bob Barker’s pocket, or, heaven forbid, someone got a double showcase.  Whew, dilly.  Those were the days.  Regardless, this youthful attempt to dodge work that required me to be in a field somewhere eventually cultivated a love for all things game show.  This being said, I’ve also wiled away many a day wondering just how a game show works – who makes the sets?  Who decides the puzzles?  And for the love of all things holy, who gets to set up the Plinko board?  These postulations lead me to wonder, “What would the classifieds look like for the world of game showing?  Here are the conclusions I concocted, based on no actual facts other than the three thoughts battling for squatter’s rights in my head:

Wanted:  Pretty lady to turn letters.  Must have a working knowledge of the entire alphabet, as well as a thorough understanding of the argument Vowel vs. Consonant.  Must be able to walk and touch blocks of light at the same time.  Small instances of idle chitchat required every day, as well as the ability to clap and smile politely, even if someone is clearly an idiot.  Wheel-spinning abilities a plus, but not required.  No uggos, please.    

Attention Creative People!  Do flashing lights make you giddy and not prone to seizures?  Were you voted “Most Likely to Design a Set for a Cher Concert” and never quite made it?  This job’s for you!  Put those gluing skills to use as you fashion a giant mountain with a little guy who yodels until he sadly falls off.  Lighting more your game?  Help us design sets that won’t change until our host’s microphone does!  Experience with velvet, sequins, and bells always welcome.  Come join a team comprised of several hot women and one questionable host.  Apply today! 

Position Open:  Family Mediator.  If you like to ask questions to opposing “families” this may be the position for you.  If you can say, “Survey says” with enthusiasm, successfully count to three*, and pause long enough for your audience to repeat the answer that’s so clearly displayed above you on the game board, then send us your resume.  Searching for someone able to ask five questions in 25 seconds or less.  Also desired, not required, the ability not to kill yourself. 
*Our lawyers require us to say that at least 3 strikes are involved with this position on a daily basis. 

Wanted:  Host who can pronounce words that aren’t even words, one Daily Double at a time.  If you seem to never age, make incredibly lame jokes, and yet can still pronounce “ichthyomis” without the slightest trace of irony, send your resume to our HR department.  Other duties involve turning answers into absolutely asinine questions, crushing dreams of intellectuals by not allowing them in to Final Jeopardy, and telling people how far behind the champion they are currently.  Excellent math skills, along with a large collection of pocket squares, required. 

Attention Applicants:  We need someone to build a pyramid, preferably within a $10,000 budget.

Match-Makers – we want YOU!  If you are constantly setting up your friends in soon-to-be-failed relationships, we want you for our hosting position.  Duties involve asking questions with double entendres, not giggling childishly at the answers, and sending off helpless women with men who appear to be rapists.  Ability to count to three required. 

Needed Immediately:  a set consisting of a tic-tac-toe board and C-list celebrities.  Must be able to differentiate between an “x” and an “o.” 

Writers Wanted:  Position available to write semi-innocuous partial sentences to be completed by semi-wacked out celebrities.  Bonus points if the sentences can be completed to make slightly sexual statements.  Double bonus points if you can write material suitable for our completely racist and anti-feminist host.  Other than that, no abilities required, other than to play to the needs of aforementioned “celebrities.” 

Benjamins and Other Banes

It’s that time again, folks.  After my last post’s sob story about being poor, I’ve decided to whine and complain about something ELSE that’s probably within my control if I weren’t too busy whining and complaining about it to fix said problem.  Whatever.  People that try to sell me that line of crap about “controlling your own destiny” and “put on your big girl panties and deal with it” also annoy me.  So, in the spirit of small underpants, here are more annoyances that exist currently in my life.

1.  $100 bills.  Really, America?  First off, no one uses cash anymore.  This shortage of cash in people’s pockets also results in a shortage of cash in store registers across the good ole U-S-of-A, making the act of making change a pain in my not-worth-a-hundred-bucks booty.  Secondly, when have you ever pulled out a Benjamin and NOT heard the receiver sigh in frustration?  Whether you’re trying to grab a taco from one of the many, truck-driving vendors around our fair city or procuring some crack from one of the many, crack-dealing vendors around our fair city, NO ONE HAS CHANGE.  I believe this hatred stems from an incident when I was serving tables one day.  A lady paid for a $13 check with a $100 bill.  As our register notoriously had only $1 and $5 bills (that still didn’t add up to $87) I told her that I would need to run (it was August.  In Tennessee.  Just a note.) to a totally different restaurant to get change and that I would be right back (this so she wouldn’t think that I was pulling the complete opposite of a dine-n-dash entitled, “Take all of my table’s money.”)  I run.  I almost twist my knee in an unfortunate run-in with a dent on the sidewalk.  I get her change.  And this woman?  The only woman from the entire table to pay with cash?  Left. No. Tip.  That day started my hatred of the $100 bill, and while I don’t mind that they exist, just put them in the bank and pay with your check card.  And the $50?  Don’t get me started.  Try counting a stack of twenties and then come up on a $50.  I dare you to keep count.  DARE YOU! 

2.  Super-strong paper towels.  I’m using a paper towel for one reason – I need a paper towel.  If I need to scrub hard water stains, eradicate the unfortunate blood splatters on my shoes, or wax my car, I’m going to use the appropriate cleaning device.  The reason I’m using a paper towel is because I probably made a mess too big for a napkin and too small for a beach towel.  They’re paper towels.  Not Sham-Wows.  The world does not need Sham-Wows on a roll. 

3.  The new trend of putting your offspring into your TV commercial.  It’s not okay.  Your children are going to grow up constantly being known as the, “Hurt bad?  Call my dad!” girl or the poor kids of the Hickory Hollow Kia guy that I’m convinced only do the commercials because they’re afraid dad will go on another, “ride the Ferris wheel until you throw up and THEN decide to do my commercial” bender.  And girls forced into the slavery of their dad’s television advertising grow up to be afflicted with a condition I like to call, “Daddy didn’t love me, but I bet this large man holding money out of his car window will.” 

4.  East Nashville bumper stickers.  I get it.  You live in the hip on one block/completely ghetto on the next block part of town and you’re proud to still be kickin’ it in your Chuck Taylors.  I appreciate the architecture, the culture, and most of the people.  But the bumper stickers?  Flat-out make me shake my head.  They also make the folks that live in other, less-hip parts of town gloat when we can get out of our driveway during a Titans game. 

5.  The fact that White Castle has chicken rings.  While I’m well aware of the fact that chickens also don’t have nuggets, I would really like for someone to show me where the hell the ring comes from on a chicken.  Things that are supposed to come in rings:  Onions.  Circuses.  Dances around rosies.  NOT CHICKEN.  And how am I supposed to dip a chicken ring in a little vat of honey mustard?  It can’t be done, my friends.  It can’t. Be. Done.

6.  YouTube videos of babies.  Actually, YouTube videos in general, but lately I’ve been getting a lot of “Have you seen the video of the baby 'saying something funny that will probably be Auto-Tuned and put on iTunes in order to add to the baby’s college fund' video?"  Odds are, the baby is doing something most babies do – laughing, drooling, or pooping on something.  Also, odds are that since I find YouTube to be an absolute monstrosity of party-killing evil, I will probably hate whatever you’re about to show me.  It’s not the babies I hate – it’s the fact that I’m about to lose 3 minutes of my life to watch something that I have probably already seen over the course of my baby-sitting career (which consists of the past 7-odd years since my nephew was born.  And then only when my sister, Marian, catches me off-guard with a “So, what are you doing this weekend?  Nothing?  Watch my children!” conversation.*)

Wow.  Reading the last few paragraphs made me realize how much I hate the things I hate.  To renew my faith in all things not-stupid, allow me to list some things that make me stupidly happy.

1.  Canadians.  I fancy the people from “Fake America” frolicking through the streets with their Canadian “bacon” (it’s ham, folks.  Canadians obviously have their parts of the porcine variety confused.) on a stick shouting, “Let’s play some hockey, eh?” while the mounted policemen look at them with smiles from atop their gallant horsey.  I found out recently that a co-worker on another floor briefly lived in Canada when he was growing up, and so now I can say that I (sort-of) know an actual Canadian!  Now, if I could forgive them for Celine Dion, we would be ready to rock n roll with the hosers up North. 

2.  The fact that you can make ANY dish sound fancy just by listing all of the ingredients.  I figured this out the other day when I gave an ostentatiously -long description of what amounted to a quesadilla.  I’ve also figured out this is why the people on Top Chef sound so fancy – they’re just naming every single freakin’ part of their dish!  For example, a PB&J?  “Well, Chef, tonight we have a lovely jam made of farm-fresh strawberries paired with a homemade almond butter on a lovely wheatberry bread.  We (they always talk in “we” speak) serve this with a side of fried potatoes paired with a twist on the traditional ketchup (that means you added garlic.  Or truffles.)   See?  Fancy.  Told ya. 

Unfortunately, per usual, the “happy” list isn’t nearly as long as the “annoying as hell” list, but such is life.  Now I’m going to go figure out how to make chicken rings sound gourmet when they’re made of things like “riboflavin-injected triglyceride modules.” 

*  Remember – if I mention you by name in my blog, it means I love you.  Or that you really, really annoy me.  So, um, just kidding?  Hehe. 

Jamiepolitan: A Guide to Being a Recessionista with an Attitude. (Or, a Poor Bee-Yotch)

I don’t know if you’re anything like me (you’re not, if you’re lucky) but I’m quite tired of the suffix “-ista” being applied to everything.  Fashionista, recessionista, barista.  Stop the insanity.  Why can’t we just say I’m a well-dressed, yet thrifty, person who makes coffee?  However, I really hate the term “recessionista” because it sounds too…nice.  I wasn’t exactly a bundle of sunshine before the low-tide of the economy forced starfish and real estate moguls alike to flounder on the sand, and being poor has done absolutely nothing to improve my attitude on life.  Therefore, I’m not a recessionista.  I am just a poor person.  So, here’s a guide to rolling around in the mountains of poor with me.

You must learn to cleverly accessorize, as a lot of the clothes you buy from Goodwill and “borrow” from people’s clothes lines are going to have holes in them.  Used clothing is often given away for reasons other than it’s out of style.  It might be too small, it might remind someone of an old flame, and it might have a very small hole right over your nipple.  A blazer will sometimes fix the latter problem, as will that used “Miss Pig Fair Teen Princess 1987” banner you just found in the $1 bin at the Salvation Army.  The possibilities are endless as long as you’re creative! Being creative lets you announce your personal style to the world without letting them know that you don’t actually have the money to buy a shirt without holes!

Speaking of creativity, you’re going to get really good at inventing reasons not to go out with people.  My favorite excuse is, “We can’t go because we’re freakin’ broke.”  Sometimes this works.  Other times it invites the response of, “But come OOOONNN.  My ferret only has one birthday a year and you simply CANNOT miss Miss Glitter McGlitterton’s 3^rd birthday!”  If you sense the inviter inhabits a money-filled bubble of reality-repellant plastic, you must bring out the (stolen) big guns (that’s right.  I just implied that we don’t have the money to buy hypothetical guns.)  Sometimes it’s the mundane “my aunt died again” excuse.  Other times the excuse involves a large hippopotamus and several circus midgets with blow torches.  Again, let your imagination run wild (which is totally free!) while you come up with something to get that bubble-dwelling friend off of your monkey-laden back. 

You are going to curse yourself, endlessly, for buying a house at the very apex of the housing bubble.  You may attempt to sell your house to take advantage of lowered interest rates (or, you know, take advantage of the fact that you’re no longer single and would like to move out of your single pad now that you’re married.)  This  is an absolutely moronic idea because no matter how well your house is staged, no matter the rock star you’ve enlisted to aid in the sale, it’s still real estate and “selling your house with ease” is not very en vogue at the moment (at least not in my neighborhood.  I’m sure the Bellevue elite have fewer problems, but their idea of a problem is which seersucker suit to wear to Steeplechase.)  What IS en vogue is deflated property values and shattered dreams of actually moving out of the cramped shoebox of a townhouse that’s slowly driving you, and your husband with a lot of knick-knacks, several guitars, and a full drum kit, to the brink of perfectly-staged insanity.   The upside of this is that you don’t have to join a gym (costly!) because all the self-inflicted butt-kicking is going to give you an ass to rival Beyonce. 

People who have much more of everything are going to abound.  Everywhere.  Nicer cars, nicer homes, nicer iPods, people with ANY iPod, etc.  Seeing the ease with which these people breeze through life is not only saddening, it’s disheartening and induces an innate hatred for everyone.  Just learn to let the hatred burn a pit into your stomach.  Then, focus this hatred into something positive.  Like a blog detailing your hatred for those with more money than you.  You will make no money at this, but you also might not shoot the next 17-year-old you see driving a Land Rover (legal fees are astroNOMical.)  Let the words of anger flow while you stare longingly at the Groupon for a manicure you still can’t afford.  Your financial situation will not improve, but you’ll save yourself some medical bills by not getting an ulcer!

We’ve now come to the end of this article and I’ve offered no advice on repurposing old furniture, growing your own vegetables, or using cloth diapers.  I realize I’ve done nothing but bitch about what a bitch it is to be poor.  Hmmm.  Well, I have a solution.  If you don’t like it, pay me to write something else.  Problem solved! 

How Do I Loathe Thee? Let Me Count the Ways.

I’m fairly certain that the Melrose Kroger – the one right there at the corner of Franklin Pike and the road to hell – will force me to stab someone some day.  Why I continue to go in there is a mystery to even me, as I have never left without muttering, in various volumes, highly-critical words about its parking lot, the service, the selection, or the customers.  Why do I hate this place so much?  Let me explain.

1.  The parking lot sucks.  It’s tiny, it serves as a parking lot for many other businesses other than the stab-worthy Kroger, and I believe that it sucks out people’s brain cells as soon as they enter the property.  I don’t mind walking a little bit, but I DO mind when some idiotic woman on her cell phone attempts to back out her Chevrolet Landslide and almost runs over me AND $75 worth of groceries.  If you’re asking yourself if I showed more concern over my own well-being or my half-price frozen pizzas, you should know better.  Insurance pays for broken appendages, and I didn’t get the DiGiorno add-on to my policy (the deductible is outrageous) and I’ll be run over in a Kroger parking lot before I give up those expensive bad boys to anyone not holding a shotgun.  And the bystander that commented, “That woman bout just run over you” only made the situation that much better.  

2.  The selection is less-than-stellar, to say the least.  I ask you – who doesn’t have pita chips??  I searched for a good 5 minutes yesterday, in uncomfortable shoes no less, and no chips.  Of course, searching for these bits of tastiness would be a lot easier if they didn’t have people stocking things in every.single.aisle.  It’s like they see that a lunch rush might be coming and they think to themselves, “Hmmm.  Better go restock those tomatoes.  And the milk.  And anything else that stupid girl who comes in here and talks to herself constantly might need to get.  Ooh – she’s heading towards the salad bar.  Let’s restock THAT!”  I’m fairly sure it’s a conspiracy.  A yet-unfounded conspiracy, but it exists. 

3.  Through no fault of the establishment, the customers are nauseating.  Oh my, the customers.  Today’s example:  A rather “round” lady (I’m not judging!  I’m not perfect.  But I also don’t wear skintight, pink sweat pants with “Playmate” emblazoned on my ass.) screaming into her cell phone, “Do you want Coke?  I said COKE!  Oh, you want Sprite?  I can’t hear you.  NO.  I’M IN KROGERS!” (and yes, she said KrogerS.  Plural.)  How can I relive this so vividly?  Because I could hear every word from the cake mix aisle while she was in the beverage aisle  - five aisles down.  Then there was the “You can tell I haven’t showered in 3 weeks because simply walking by the celery makes it turn brown” dude who apparently wanted to buy everything that was on my list (how can someone who smells that bad need peanut butter, milk, AND olive oil at the same time I do?)  And who on earth could forget entire family blocking the cereal aisle who apparently couldn’t move for anyone because they couldn’t decide between Cap’n Crunch and Froot Loops (a hint?  They’re both crap.  Go get some wilted celery.)  I can even tolerate the hipsters that flock to this pit of despair because in comparison, they are actually the less annoying evil.  Maybe the parking lot sucks up people’s manners along with their intelligence, but whatever it is, the Melrose Kroger either attracts society’s detritus or it turns people that way.  Either way, I’m steering clear. 

4.  Finally, let’s talk about the checkout process.  This piece of the headache-inducing puzzle is the icing on the crap cake.  I tend to utilize the self-checkout because 1.  I’m probably going back to work.  Since it’s 114 degrees outside, I put my cold products in one bag and stuff that can stay in the car in another.  2.  No matter how many of my handy-dandy reusable bags I bring with me, I somehow manage to bring home one of those stupid, brown plastic bags that will get stuck in my little dispenser on the wall until the day that a Twinkie grows mold.  So, to alleviate the blinding pain these encounters bring, I just bag the groceries myself.  But the self-checkout at the Melrose Kroger has a brand-new kind of blinding pain.  Because it NEVER WORKS.  Ever.  Almost every time I hit “pay now” the stupid Colleen (that’s the name I’ve given the voice at the self-checkout.  I don’t know any Colleens, but I don’t like the name, so that’s the moniker I’m sticking with) says, “Cashier has been notified to assist you.”  Why I need the cashier’s assistance is beyond me, as I’m fairly certain I can swipe a credit card and sign a stupid electronic pad, but the fact that the cashier never acknowledges the fact that I “need assistance” is the nail in the Grocery Store from Hell coffin.  I always have to track her down (yes, it’s the same woman every time) and the reason she’s not paying any attention?  Because she’s busy talking to co-workers.  Or standing there with a blank stare on her face.  Or doing anything other than her actual job.  If this was a one-time occurrence, I could stomach it.  Since it’s happened twice this week alone, it’s quite the un-stomachable dilemma as I’ve determined that she hates her job, hates interacting with anyone who doesn’t work with her, and apparently hates me.  Whatever.  I don’t give a flying rat’s dirty parts if you like me – I just need you to punch whatever button it is that will enable me to actually pay for my groceries.  And when I have to track you down, pull you out of what seemed to be a very interesting conversation about garden hoses, and then watch you give me a disdainful look for politely asking you to do your job, that’s when I get a wee bit pissed off.  I’m not asking for a ticker tape parade – I just want to be able to check out in less than 45 minutes. 

Whew!  I don’t know about you, but I feel much better.  So much better in fact that next week I’ll need a couple of items, think to myself, “I could just go grab those on my lunch break,” and tell myself that going to the Melrose Kroger can’t be THAT bad again.  But then I’m going to read this.  And I’ll drive to Brentwood if I have to – the Melrose Kroger can suck it.  They can suck it long.  And they can suck it hard.

Hipster or No? Find out Now!

If you’re reading this, then you’re one of the few people I have left that actually sort of like me.  I would like to thank you for sticking by my profanity-laced rants against all that annoys me in life (which is everything) and I would also like to pass along my psychiatrist’s info, as you very well may be borderline crazy for reading this stuff.  Regadless, it’s time for our monthly semi-annual whenever I feel like writing one quiz!  You may have read about my complete hatred for hippies.  I also hate hipsters, which are a close cousin in that I hate both groups equally.  “Hippie” is a fairly universal term while “hipster” only recently began to pollute our lexicon.  For those asking, “Exactly what constitutes a hipster?  Am I am hipster?  Who is the band I’m listening to?”  I present to you:

Are You a Hipster?  An Easy Guide to Tell if You’re a Douchebag:

1.        Are you currently:

a.       Drinking a PBR

b.      Enjoying 20/20 vision but…

c.       Wearing Buddy Holly glasses

d.      A dude wearing a scarf in the middle of June

e.      Wearing a t-shirt that used to be serious but is now considered ironic

f.        Unable to feel your legs due to the tightness of your pants

2.       Do you believe the adjective “independent” makes anything better (i.e. farms, music, or the space administration?)

a.       Yep.  The man is going to ruin us. 

b.      Nope.  They call me “Salmon” I’m so mainstream. 

3.       Is Skyline Trio:

a.       A really cool band that had way more cred before they sold out

b.      The latest marketing effort for TOMS shoes

c.       The newest flavor from Pinkberry

d.      Something I just made up to see if you’d fall for it

4.       Do you smile?

a.       Yes

b.      No

5.       When did you last…

a.       Shop at American Apparel

b.      Use the word “solid” in reference to a musical act

c.       Carry a man bag

d.      Wear neon-colored sunglasses.  At night. 

e.      Tweet about the location of a food truck

f.        Purchase an accessory with a feather attached to it

g.       Wear a vest

6.       You were last at Goodwill:

a.       A month ago

b.      Two weeks ago

c.       Right now

7.       How many body suits do you own?

a.       None.  I threw those out along with my 1992 cheerleading uniform

b.      2.  They can be useful in the winter as an effective layering agent

c.       I have no idea, but the number is close to the number of Arcade Fire songs I have on my iPod

8.       What kind of facial hair are you currently sporting?

a.       Clean-shaven here.  Facial hair is only acceptable in pre-90s porn movies

b.      Small goatee and neatly-trimmed sideburns

c.       I went as Paul Bunyon for Halloween after painting my dog blue to go with me as Babe.

9.       Are you smoking an American Spirit?  Right now?

a.       Yes

b.      No

c.       Only because I think they enhance the flavor of my PBR while at an obscure record release party

10.   Your record collection:

a.       Is on file with Metro PD

b.      Came from what my parents gave me when they cleaned out the garage.  Gonna sell those things on eBay!

c.       Rivals my body suit collection

Scoring:

#1:  Give yourself a point for each one you answered “yes.”  Unless you answered  yes to D, and then give yourself a smack in the face in addition to your points. 

#2:  Give yourself a point if you answered yes.  Actually, give yourself a point if you answered no, also.  I don’t really know where I was going with that other than I thought the idea of an independent space administration was funny. 

#3:  Give yourself two points for any answer other than “d.”  If you answered “d,” then congratulations, you might not be a hipster! 

#4:  If you smile, then subtract 3 points from your score.  If you don’t smile, go watch some kittens or something.  Seriously.  What’s wrong with you?

#5:  A point for each one you marked yes.  And if you got over two of those, stop reading this because I probably want to kill you and take your fedora for myself.  I’ll hold your athletic socks with the retro stripes around the top while you jump in to that swiftly-flowing river.    

#6:  Put down the “Don’t Do Drugs” shirt from 1984, stop dreaming about how ironic it is that you’re buying an anti-drug shirt, and give yourself 2 points for any answer. 

#7:  If you answered A, then congratulations.  You’re probably not that stupid.  If you answered B or C, then please realize that body suits are nothing more than bathing suits for land. 

#8:  If you answered A or B, then good job.  Huge beards are disgusting and make you hard to make out with at a Death Cab for Cutie concert.  Shave it. 

#9:  If you answered B or C, then do yourself a favor and put out your American Spirit IN your PBR.  It will make both taste better. 

#10:  Give yourself whatever you feel like.  You’ve probably stopped paying attention by now and if you can tell, this quiz is asinine.  Go scoff at someone, continue to survive on an air of superiority and smoke-filled dive bars, and straighten your man scarf.  Your tassels are getting in my beer.  And since I don’t drink crap like you, I can actually tell.    

*Special thanks to my contributing editor on this quiz, Mr. Travis Yost.  Travis has expressed a hatred for hipsters before, which is one of the many reasons I married him.  That, and his record collection. 

The Not-So and So-Hot List: April Edition

Well, ladies, it’s that time of year again.  White shoes and linen pants are almost wearable again, the air is full of things that make you go, “Ah-choo,” and the person next to you in traffic can hear you curse their entire family because the weather’s warm enough to drive with your windows down.  And with the advent of a new season comes the arrival of one of my favorite things:  A list of things that I find annoying.  Brace yourself.  I’m coming in like a lion.  And leaving like a hungry one. 

The Not-So List:

1. The little fad of what I like to call “Car Families.”  You know, the little sticker families you see on the backs of cars with a dad, mom, and however many children you have.  It’s gotten out of control.  Some of these people have the entire Atlanta Braves roster on the back of their minivan, and it’s annoying as crap.  Am I supposed to tolerate your bad driving because you were able to produce 8 kids and a dog?  Is it possible that you’re driving like a total moron because you can’t see out your back window?  Maybe these things annoy me because my car family would consist of me, Travis, and three cats, thus making my road rage threats of “clawing out your eyes with a rusty crack spoon” a bit less threatening.  Whatever the reason, they’re getting out of hand and the next one I see might need to remove one of the stick figures from their back window after I'm done with them.  Also included in this list are little monogram stickers on the back window, the sorority plates that are undoubtedly on the front of the monogrammed car, and bull testicles hanging from your trailer hitch.  The fact that you need to display a faux set of balls from an animal on your vehicle makes me wonder about the presence of yours. 
2. Cookie tins.  This is really more of an annoyance suited for Christmas time, but so many things annoy me about Christmas that this little blight on society is often overlooked in favor of making fun of the fact that people still think it’s socially acceptable display those “Santa ran into our house” decorations.  It’s great that you want to give me cookies, and it’s great that you want the packaging to look nice. But what do I do with the stupid tin once I’ve consumed said cookies?  How on earth am I supposed to use what amounts to a gold-colored Pringles can in my life?  I feel bad throwing it away because surely I can use it for something.  I then throw it in the back of a closet and only see it again when I’m cleaning out the closet for the hideous process known as “putting your house on the market.”  And I can assure you, nowhere in real estate land does a giant armchair made from cookie tins guarantee the sale of your house. 
3. The fact that a TV shows actually exists about prima donna women going into labor (Pregnant in Heels.  I encourage you not to check it out.)  Why are we reinforcing that this is a good idea by televising it?  You might as well create a show about teen moms that only puts the teen moms in the spotlight and on the cover of gossip magazines that will only make the teens NOT on the covers of magazines rush to have a baby so they can be on the front of US Weekly.  Wait a minute…
4. Which brings me to another teen phenomenon that makes me want to rip out my eyebrows with a pair of pliers and an 18-wheeler:  Taylor freakin’ Swift.  Yes, the latest pop star to feel my wrath while she’s rolling around in piles of money and laughing hysterically at the ramblings of a crazed, so-called blogger with far LESS money is Tennessee’s own Taylor Swift.  She started off okay with “Tim McGraw.”  But as time wore on, so did her, “Oh, me?  Why, I’m not important.  Just look how humble I am!” act and it’s grating on my nerves like a field full of hippies.  Her songs play endlessly in every format ever invented (I’m sure she’ll break into the classic rock market soon.  Somehow.  Because she’s evil.) and they’re pure crap.  Why don’t you start singing some songs about adulthood and normal 20-something activities, Ms Swift?  Are you going to sing about a bathtub full of hunch punch and blacking out a frat party?  So many things annoy me about her that I’m now annoyed that I’m annoyed.  Screw you, Taylor Swift, and the hackneyed, money-laden horse you rode in on.  I’m sure you’re here to stay, and that’s my personal demon to defeat, but I will neither accept nor like you.  And I hope you think that’s “mean.”  Ugh.  And come up with some better names for your songs, please?

And now, for the less caustic portion of this article, I present the “So Hot” list, or, as I like to call it, “Things that make me smile instead of wanting to eradicate a large portion of society.” 

1. Damla candy.  This little Turkish treat came to me by way of the gentleman who cleans our office.  Like any good crack dealer, he gave us the first taste free.  Then, when the delicious, strawberry-tinged pieces of deliciousness were gone, we were forced to find them ourselves, post-addiction.  Shaking and trembling, I hurried to find out where I could get more of this lovely, taffy-like substance that has gotten me more than one long afternoon.  I searched a rather sketchy world market on Nolensville road only to find pig heads wrapped in cellophane and canned quail eggs.  BUT, after leaving a note for the candy fairy, I was told that my candy waited for me at a tiny little place just down the street.  I now have an entire bucket of fun at my fingertips and a tried and true supplier of crack fruit-flavored amazingness. 
2. The fact that not one, but TWO, people waved at me yesterday when I was out visiting my parents.  If you’re not from a small town, you’re probably accustomed to a completely different version of the “one-finger salute.”  In a small town, the index finger is lifted from the steering wheel to each passing driver in a bit of “I’m sure I probably know you or someone to whom you’re related, so I’m going to acknowledge your presence so I don’t get yelled at by my mother” form of communication.  It was refreshing, and it made me smile, so it’s making an appearance here. 
3. Another thing I saw on the way out to Robertson County – a field full of sheep and little baby lambs.  I wanted to nab one of the lambs and take it home and try to convince Travis that our cat, Gibson, had just gotten a little taller and little woollier.  They were just so freakin’ cute!  And I’m guessing “comes with its own self-sustaining wool supply” is an amenity no home-buyer could refuse.  At least not when confronted with the inherent cute-factor of a lamb. 

Stay tuned for next month's issue, featuring a rebuttal from Taylor Swift herself, and a "Building a Lamb Cage in Your Guest Bath" tutorial!