Hello everyone! Chris is having a spa vacation, getting facials and having his eyebrows waxed and his heels exfoliated and he asked me, Melissa Lion of Recovering Californian fame, to post for him. He also asked to borrow my fluffy pink robe and some pointers on “girl talk,” both of which I gladly gave him.
Because Chris has built a whole blogging empire on describing things that drive him nuts, I thought for my guest post, I’d add my two cents. I thought I’d identify new annoying things because perhaps these things are underrepresented. Maybe there are a few blog readers who are sitting there thinking, well, I love this blog, but what about the things that make me want to throw bricks and inanimate objects? What about the things that drive me nuts? Okay, that might be just me who feels that way. And I also might have the thought that Chris should post a picture of him with his shirt off. Maybe after his spa trip, he’ll share that.
Things that drive me nuts:
What the fuck is she so pinchy about? What is so damn wrong in her life that she always looks like she just drank a pint of cat piss, and enjoyed it the tiniest bit? I’d like to believe she looks like that all the time because the war in Iraq isn’t going quite the way she’d like, or maybe the injustice that a book as seminal as The Bridges of Madison County never reached the status of, say, the Guttenberg Bible, but I’m fairly sure her face is permanently in ass-pucker mode because she not only slept with, but married a guy in a puka shell necklace.
I’m not so into the touching. Particularly when I don’t know the person. Please don’t fake-slug me in a solidarity way, like, “hey, wasn’t that funny when I said that thing about The New Yorker’s Obama cover?” Um, it would have been a lot funnier if you hadn’t touched me. I don’t want to hug after the first time I meet someone. Sure we got along great, but if I hug you, some of your cells and hair and dander might be on me. Once we know each other for several years, then perhaps a hug is in order. Like at a funeral.
Exiting Public Restrooms
I’m not a germaphobe. I wash my hands after using the restroom, but I don’t use a paper towel to open the door, and I don’t use my elbow. I press the door open in the appropriate place with my hand. For a few reasons, 1) Enough people use paper towels to open the door that I’m fairly certain it’s clean by the time I get there 2) Enough people use their elbow that I don’t need to worry about their hands. However, seeing people contort themselves to avoid a potentially germy restroom door, makes me question my own tactics. I mean if it’s important enough to look like a jackass, well, maybe I’m in the wrong. Maybe I’m the one who’s a dumbass. What can I say, I always seek out an opportunity to be self-reflective.
It’s just impossible to ever get them fully inflated. Impossible. The valve must close. And then ugh, that critical teaspoon of air escapes and the thing that’s supposed to be rock solid is squishy like an overripe peach and goddamn it, there is nothing you can do.
Sitting in the passenger seat in a parked, but on, car while the driver fiddles with the heater/ air conditioning / music selection.
These things are supposed to be done while driving.
Gritty Bits in My Sheets
One day (soon) when I’m a millionaire, I’m going to be a humanitarian. I’m going to travel to a third-world country and buy an orphan and bring him back to the states and show him how democracy works. He’ll live in deluxe accommodations in the basement, kept warm by the water heater; he’ll learn to read by cooking elaborate meals from expensive, inaccessible cookbooks for me and my family (he can totally eat the leftovers); and he’ll get his exercise by carrying me around town on a Chesterfield filled with feathers and draped with gold tapestry while my admirers throw gilded lilies at my feet. He’ll also change my sheets daily because as soon as I feel the smallest, tiniest little thing in my bed, I can’t sleep. I’m up and itchy and crying because Mumsie and Dadsie NEVER let their baby girl sleep in day old sheets and WHAT HAS MY LIFE BECOME???!?? Okay, I just get annoyed and then fall asleep thinking about what I’ll name my personal third-world orphan – Hope? McKenzie? Joe?
Okay, I think that’s it. Except I also hate the commercials on commercial radio, gristly meat, when mechanics tell me to “smile,” and melons. Maybe the next time Chris goes out of town, we can cover those other things, or maybe Chris will return and do a post about them as a form of thanks for the pink kitten-heeled bedroom slippers I lent him.