Especially the Amsterdam episode.

However, I have to do it for work three or four times a year, and because I kind of need to stay employed, I kind of have to travel those three or four times a year.

I bring this up because it’s time to make our yearly trek to Houston, which for me starts with a 6am flight Thursday (3am alarm) and ends Monday night. We put on a party Friday night for 800 people in the industry, 300 people Saturday night and I work the trade show the whole weekend, meaning there are many 14-16 hour days.

That’s not (really) the issue.

The issue is that not only do I pack my luggage for these trips, but I also pack enough emotional baggage to weigh down a 747. I joke about things, but traveling is not something that’s emotionally or physically healthy for me.

I end up trying to negotiate some sort of sanity between my raging OCD, health issues and actual numerous professional duties while trying to find any vegetarian food in a hog-happy city with limited time and resources. When I get home, it takes at least a couple weeks to physically recover, which is one of the unspoken “fun” things associated with being underweight and OCD.

“Sign me up!” – said no one ever.

Anyway, I’m not telling you this to complain—you all have your own crap to deal with and I’ll make the most of my time while I’m gone—but rather to let you know this is one reason my blog has been a bit off lately. My head’s been kind of all over the place.

I’m also telling you this to prepare you for five days of me not being chained to my computer every second, since I’m sure at least two of you would have noticed. I don’t have the Internet on my phone—I’m old school—so computer time will be when I can get it.

But  don’t think you can forget about me and move on to some other bright and shiny blog that’s younger and more attractive with bigger boobs.

I’ll still be checking in, and of course there is my inevitable return when I vaguely recap my adventure as to protect the innocent—and my job—and give you my unique perspective on traveling with issues.

And Uncle June.

This is an old picture of him on a plane last year. I don’t know why, but I can’t put a border on this image. C’est la vie. 

Plus, if I accidentally booked my flight home for a month later than I need, get food poisoning or dragged onto the stage to dance in front of 800 people, accosted by a topless woman painted to look like a peacock or given the opportunity to get my picture taken with a former Playboy playmate/Girl Next Door, that will make for some good blog content.

And for the record, all  of those things have happened, so there’s definite potential.

Stay tuned!

Like the blog? Buy the book.

Where was the last place you traveled? Do you have any weird stories or travel mishaps you can share with the class?

However, I’m so sick of hearing about Pinterest that the only thing I want to do with pins is poke them in my eyes so I don’t have to read about how much everyone loves Pinterest.

There are a couple reasons as to why this is, but the most important one is that I was the ORIGINAL creator of “pinning” things. Have I received any of the credit?

The answer to that would be, “no.”

First, a little background.

If you’re unfamiliar, Pinterest is the latest social media craze that “lets you organize and share all the beautiful things you find on the web. Best of all, you can browse pinboards created by other people to discover new things and get inspiration from people who share your interests.”

Apparently the mission is to connect everyone in the world through the “things” they find interesting, seeing as Facebook, Twitter, email and actual social interaction with other human beings was insufficient to fill that need.

Everywhere you go on the Internet someone is talking about Pinterest, mostly in reference to how much time they’re spending/wasting on Pinterest. These same people talk about how busy they are, but yet spend hours “pinning” things they won’t have the time to create because they’re too busy “pinning” things.

But to be fair, I suppose that I understand the appeal.

You virtually rip pictures out and put them on your boards for “inspiration” without actually having to talk to anyone else in the process. In theory, the fact that you don’t have to interact with or “friend” people sounds perfect for me, except I’m not into lifestyle things, crafting, home decorating, inspiration or spending any more time on the computer looking for things I don’t need.

Considering a falling paper clip distracts my attention, the last thing I need is another diversion.

Primitive Pinterest

But as I mentioned, the real reason I’m over Pinterest is that I was the ORIGINAL “pinner” when I was younger and haven’t received a cut of the profits now that this craze has caught on.

Back in the day when computers were as large as an industrial refrigerator, I had a huge bulletin board in my room that I took pride in filling with things that reflected whoever I was on that day—a little bit athlete, a little bit artist, a lot more weirdo—or what I thought would look cool to my friends.

So I would scour magazines for pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio and Mariah Carey, inspirational quotes and just weird things I could pin next to personal photos that perfectly captured my awkwardness and ribbons and medals from horse shows and swim meets.

I understood these to be the most creative collages ever.

It was my own primitive Pinterest.

Now there are no glue or color-coordinated push pins required, no danger of paper cuts and no need to piece together random letters to create quotes that end up looking more like white trash ransom notes. Just a click of the mouse and your “pinning” power is revealed.

Sigh.

Just like I was ahead of my time when it came to wearing workout pants and no makeup in public—the kids call it “casual chic” now, right?—it appears this is the case once again. I was pinning sayings I wasn’t clever enough to think of and photos I wish I had taken decades before this “Pinterest” thing.

But do I get the credit?

No, because someone else went ahead and actually beat me to it (which I admit wasn’t hard to do seeing as I wasn’t actually trying.) But still…hrmph.

Pin me, “Bitter. Party of one.”

Like the blog? Buy the book.

I’m trying to deal with some issues in a “healthier” way than I want to, so I’m writing, but not about those things. Maybe I’ll write about those things in the next couple weeks if I don’t think it will bore everyone. We’ll see. I’m feeling wordy.

But right now it’s the weekend, and  not to brag or anything, but I’m pretty sure I have a hot date with the shovel. Oh yes. I’m told I could get a good six inches, but then again, those things are always exaggerated. 

Or so I’m told.

The only dating I do is reading expiration dates on food.

Anyway, I don’t have a hot date and I don’t have a stalker. Why? Because I’m 154 percent sure that I would bore him to death after about two days.

During the week, my days are basically the same and involve the same route and the same activities. The weekends are similar, minus the drive to work and the occasional TV appearance that at no point included paparazzi or security guards—except to drag me off the set.

Pretty much knowing where I’m going to be might appear to be the formula for a stalker, but trust me. If parts of my Twitter feed lately are any indication, you can see why they would move on to someone with a social life beyond jilted geriatrics and gang-banging birds.

I think I’m safe.

• For the record, it’s entirely possible to fall up the stairs completely sober. Multiple times.
• Never ask yourself, “Could I make a bigger mess?” as you will promptly find out that yes, in fact, you can. At least if you’re me.
• I need the Dog Whisperer to teach Chauncey how to not pee into the wind.
• It’s kind of amazing how quickly I go from “nothing sounds good” to “why isn’t there more of this to eat?”
• Today I’m going to replace the word “the” with “le” for awhile. Example: “A piece of le cereal just fell out of my bra.” Sounds classier.
• Someone found my blog with “Abby + Gordon Ramsay = fuzzy pink gnome tiara” so I have that going for me.
• Going to Walmart at 6am on the way to work saves the annoying people factor. However, you can’t brag about/show off your teeth. It’s a push.
• Just spent 10 mins playing, “What the hell did I write on that Post-It?” I think I’m inventing my own language, written only in characters.
• I’m still wondering if I will ever look at a man as passionately as I look at just about anything with pesto.
• I think I killed my fake tree.
• Going to write a novel about a young, successful, beautiful woman who achieves great things. What’s the opposite of an autobiography called?
• I can’t be sure, but I think there’s some sort of winter bird gang initiation ceremony going on under my bird feeder.
• Simon says: Shovel, food, couch, hockey game, food, football game, shovel, couch, food, repeat.
• I actually moved things when I vacuumed today, so I’m basically some sort of cleaning Superhero now.
• I didn’t win Miss America or a Golden Globe this weekend, but I did manage to watch football & catch up on “How I Met Your Mother.” I win.
• Despite numerous verbal threats, this bug keeps lunging towards me. I obviously have a very brave adversary. This may take awhile.
• My uncle called because he was at the bookstore and couldn’t find my book. It turns out he was looking for “Abby is Crazy.” Close enough.
• Tonight’s quote from the old people’s home: “He might have left me for a woman 25 years younger, but that didn’t make his peter any younger. Have fun with that pickle, missy.”

Now keep in mind that these aren’t all my tweets or anything. I do actual stuff that goes undocumented. I also only tweet from my computer and not phone, therefore reducing the stalker potential even more.

But if you are so inclined to proceed with stalking, please bring a shovel and at least make yourself useful. If I decide to break out the fuzzy pink gnome tiara, I’ll let you know so you can jump back in the bushes.

Just watch out for the gang-banging birds.

Like the blog? Buy the book.

(I encourage this kind of stalking.)

No, this won’t be about helpful baking hints—this time—but rather that I don’t understand why some people get so worked up about certain things other people do, simply because they’re don’t like or understand the same things.

I joke and gripe about people who watch “The Bachelor” or that feel the need to share their obsession with self-portraits or the reproductive habits of sea mammals 25 times a day via every social media site created, but in all honesty, I really couldn’t care less.

My sarcasm is like a high colonic for creative constipation, so I vent my issues.

But if a responsible adult* wants to spend their time on the Internet “pinning” things or reading blogs, watching sports or trashy TV or scouring store windows for shoes or shingles, who cares?

If a responsible adult wants to marry someone of the same sex, do something horribly misguided with their hair or occasionally spend the money they earned on something slightly impractical, how does that really affect everyone else in the “big picture”?

Most of the time, it doesn’t.

But yet people will make a point to express their displeasure and confusion over the fact that someone made a choice they didn’t personally agree with or understand.

*Of course the key word is “responsible” adult, meaning other necessities such as family, friends, cleaning, bills and employment are not neglected as a result.

For example, you probably knew I’m a vegetarian.  If you don’t, you do now.

I choose not to eat meat or fish, and unless someone has expressed an interest in my lifestyle, I will never preach about my or their diet. Ethical/ecological issues aside, their diet doesn’t affect me, just like me not eating meat doesn’t affect them.  All it basically means is more greens for me and more meat for you.

But for once my point isn’t really about food.

It was just one example because there’s often a lot of judgment surrounding the topic. I could have just as easily used anything as it relates to lifestyle, recreational or professional choices — they’re all under the microscope of cynicism from time to time.

Don’t get me wrong in that I snark and watch “Fashion Police” on my couch in sweatpants and my ESPN T-shirt. However joking about it or being annoyed is one thing—come to think of it, it’s kind of my thing—but there’s a line between general griping and judgmental interference.

I’m not sure if it’s part insecurity, part boredom or just “I want this person to be this way but because they’re not I’m pissed.” Whatever it is, I have to ask, who cares? 

Well, sometimes I do.

But then I remind myself that wasting my energy on worrying about the things other people do leaves less energy for me to worry about the person who searched for my blog with, “Are women wearing banana clips and fuzzy thongs again?”

Now if you don’t mind, I have some research to do.

Like the blog? Buy the book.

However, there have been a few specific things lately that have been brought to my attention—by me—that I want to just throw out there. Either you will explain them to me, or I will continue to make you feel extremely normal in comparison.

Here are some things I currently don’t understand:

• Certain words that look like they should rhyme, like “wager” and “lager” or “mouth” and “youth.”
• When people feel the need to explain why they were away from the computer for one day. Really? You need to explain that?
• Brunch. While I understand the concept—it’s not complicated—why would you want to forgo being able to have two meals by combining them into one instead? I take any opportunity I can for a meal, so I don’t get it. I just know white people talk about it a lot.

This.

• People who constantly refer to days other than Friday as “Today is my Friday!” No, it’s your Wednesday (or any day other than Friday.) Just because you have the day off does not mean Friday is moving up in the week.
• On that note, why are people so enamored with Fridays? Yes, I enjoy them, as it means I usually don’t have to go to work the next day. However, I still have to go to work on Friday and I’m usually beat down by the end of the week. In my book, Saturday > Friday.  TGIS!
• Why I can’t knit a little sweater for my computer so that it stops freezing at inopportune moments, which would be any moment.
• The obsession with CrossFit and how these fitness fads come and go so quickly the bandwagon should be cited for speeding.
• People who think they have to make a dessert from scratch every time in order for it “to count.” They make box mixes for a reason people, as even though homemade is preferred, it’s not always practical.

A brownie mix, cupcake pans, a cutout cardboard heart and you have yourself a fun little dessert to take along.

• How Twitter selects the “Similar to you” suggestions on the side. Sometimes I glance over there and seriously question the direction my life is headed if I am similar to some of those people. Then again, I also feel bad for whoever’s sidebar I show up in, so I suppose it’s a push.
• Why the second I turn off the water in the shower, every single brilliant idea I have ever had escapes down the drain with the water.
• Bloggers who talk about monetized page views, SEO, blog earnings, etc. For all I understand, they might as well be talking in, well, html code.
• Sticking with the blogging thing a minute, I don’t understand why so many people expect every blogger to actually be a good writer. Good writers can be bloggers, but not all bloggers can be good writers. Once you drop that expectation and enjoy it for whatever it is—Ooh! Pretty pictures!—it’s much more enjoyable. If it’s not, you can move on.
• Laugh tracks on TV shows. We have come a long way in terms of entertainment and innovation, yet they still think a forced laugh track in the background of a sitcom is necessary in order to cue us to laugh.
• Why I can pluck out every freaking eyebrow on my face except the one eyebrow that I actually want to pluck. Yes, I need eyebrow wax.

There are a couple more, but as I was writing this I realized they needed a post of their own. Unlike my enthusiasm, apparently my confusion knows no bounds.

I don’t get it.

Like the blog?Buy the book.

So, what don’t you get?

Neighbor’s cat passed away. Just buried it in my backyard. He’s wearing a sweater. Carry on.

This was my tweet the other night as I sat at my dining room table, just a bit before dusk, when I looked up and saw my mom and two friends walk out to my garden with a shovel and a large lump wrapped in a blanket. I knew what that meant.

It was time for a pet burial.

This isn’t him, but it looks a lot like him—only, you know, alive—and I needed a visual.  Play along.

A Little Background

My mom has a pet cemetery that is currently home to everything from our cats  and birds to friends’ pets that needed a final and proper resting place. All are buried with their favorite “thing,” be it a toy, a blanket or a treat.

This includes my late neighbor’s dog who we buried a couple weeks ago on a dark rainy night, clomping through the muddy back yard with a shovel and a bundled up blanket. We concluded the event by serenading her with “Gangsta’s Paradise,” as it was in my head for some reason and “raising the roof” fit the mood.

Surprisingly, my mom’s neighbors haven’t called the cops. Yet.

We haven’t run into many issues, save for having to keep my bird in the freezer for three days or having to cut holes in a shoebox for my pet rabbit when I was in elementary school. Evidently rigor mortis couldn’t wait to set in until after I got home from wherever it is six-year-olds go, so the little rabbit’s legs were sticking straight out by the time we tried to put him in the box.

We cut some holes. We worked around it.

Some people might think we’re crazy—I wouldn’t argue with that claim—but I would argue it’s not because we care about our pets. They become members of the family and deserve a proper goodbye, just as we deserve to mourn them. We plant flowers, we place markers, we know that they were loved.

Sam I Am

That brings us to me sitting at my dining room table, watching this cat burial.* *It was cold. I stayed inside. Respects could be paid later, as he wasn’t going anywhere.

The normal view of my birdfeeder—often surrounded by squirrels drunk on fermented fruit and power—was instead filled with my mom and my late neighbor’s two best friends. They were there to bury Sam, a 16-year-old 25-pound cat who had lived with all of them at some point.

Seeing as he lived next door to me for a while and liked me better than crazy neighbor lady anyway, it was thought a proper burial spot would be in my garden.

Things appeared to be progressing normally until I saw my mom hand Sam off to Jeff and pull something bright red out of a bag. There was a little bit of discussion before Jeff unwrapped the blanket and held Sam up by his armpits.

At this point I was intrigued.

The next five minutes involved my mom carefully trying to finagle what appeared to be a bright red dog sweater over the head of a dead cat as Jeff tried to keep Sam up in the air and maneuver his legs through the holes.

When at last it appeared Sam was “warm and styling up in heaven,” as my mom would later tell me, he was raised up in the air for final approval before being wrapped back up, placed gently in his new dirt bed and sprinkled with catnip.

A stone angel marker now designates this space, both to commemorate his furry little soul and to warn me not to dig there when I plant my spring seeds. There was a minor incident a couple years ago that involved planting flowers and hitting a shoebox, so it’s better safe than sorry.

But don’t worry.

Nothing larger than a 30-pound cat has been buried at my mom’s.

When the day comes, Gram is safe.

Like the blog? Buy the book.

It’s a reflexive action, kind of like the way I want to slip a right jab to the noggin of people who say “could care less” instead of “couldn’t care less.”

The truth is that yes, sometimes I am fine. Then again, sometimes I’m not. And when you ask me how I am, I have a hard time believing you really want to know. But since this is my blog and I am queen of the land, I will tell you.

I am secure enough to admit I am sometimes insecure.

This isn’t something I normally broadcast to the fives of tens of people who flock to this blog or that I run into on a daily basis, but whenever someone says, “You know who you are,” I always wonder if it’s me and I don’t realize it.

Insecurity is annoying.

But I don’t take compliments well and often have a hard time accepting that people might genuinely be interested in what I have to say or do and not just because they expect something in return. I realize this suspicion is often unwarranted, but past experience has shown me that I shouldn’t rule it out.

So I’m guarded, and many of the decisions I make are often second-guessed. In fact, I will see that second-guessing and raise you a third and fourth guessing, and then a couple days of obsessing over something seemingly minute.

Taking interest in others without expectation? No problem.

Accepting others can take an interest in me without expectation? Problem.

But I have a theory.

The more blogs I read or conversations I have with people, the more I see something in the people I am attracted to that keeps me coming back—a  rawness, perhaps?

My theory is that they’ve gone through “something,” whatever that is, and have a self-awareness that produces something genuine, something that pushes things past a superficial level—online or off.

I don’t share 99 percent of the things I think or write (you’re welcome) and I have to imagine that’s the case with others (so thank you.) But when we make ourselves vulnerable and share it? It produces some good shit, and most often, a genuine connection.

Because I can see that in them, I’m slowly allowing myself to believe that the people around me can see that in me, that they like me for me and not because they feel obligated or expect something in return.

Considering you interact with me under your own power—unless one of the henchmen I sent to your house to sit on you and force you to talk to me or read my posts is actually doing his job (good help is SO hard to find)—I’ll try and drop that insecurity.

After all, no matter what you say or do, someone will find a fault or a reason to be offended. And while I try and keep things light, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t express myself and hide behind that veil of doubt that creeps in from time to time.

So how am I?

I’m secure enough to say that I am sometimes insecure—especially when I post things like this—and I’m a constant work in progress.

I’m okay with that.

Thanks for asking.

This post is in response to this week’s Studio30 Plus prompt:

The Big Question

P.S.  I updated the “Book” tab on the blog to include a clip of me on a morning talk show in case you want to check that out. Or, you know, you want to buy the book.

It doesn’t help when commercials or songs have sirens in them either, but that’s not my point.

My point is that I have nothing but respect for law enforcement—my dad was a cop and various family members/friends still are—but when I’m driving, it scares the crap out of me to see them on the road.

There’s really no reason for this paranoia.

I am normally a very law-abiding driver, give or take a few road rage urges from time to time, and I’ve only had one ticket in my 14 years of (legally) driving. It came when I was in high school after I unsuccessfully argued that there was no way my piece of shit Ford Escort could actually go 70 mph without spontaneously combusting.

The officer didn’t seem to care. 

Aside from that $80 misunderstanding, I was also pulled over two other times in college in the same exact spot in the same week—both times when I was skipping class, which should have been a sign. But that’s not important, as no ticket was issued either time.

However,  now every time I pass a cop and I’m actually going the speed limit, I feel like I should get some sort of extra credit or build up a stack of bonus points that I can cash in on those days I might not be going the speed limit, hypothetically speaking, of course.

This hasn’t caught on yet, but there’s still hope.

I bring this up because there has been an interesting development recently concerning the speed limits on a few of the roads in my area. They have raised them without telling anyone, and by “anyone,” of course I mean me.

There are a couple stretches of road that have been set at 35 mph and 45 mph respectively for as long as I can remember, and quite honestly, that was kind of a ridiculous expectation. Most people—not me, of course—went 45 in the 35 and at least 50 in the 45.

These stretches of road were also popular speed traps.

But as I was driving along the other day, I noticed that people were flying by me a bit more than normal. After mentally performing a citizen’s arrest, I caught sight of the speed limit sign, one that seemed to have gained 10 mph since the last time I took note.

What? How is this not broadcast on the news? Did I miss a memo?

It seems the powers that be either tired of having to hear bullshit excuses from people being pulled over in this area or finally realized the ridiculousness of their “speed suggestions” and changed the speed limits. This delighted me, not because I want to speed, but because it just seems to make more sense.

But the truth?

Now that the law has been changed, I feel like a total rebel badass and purposely go that route at times just so I can legally zoom down the streets a good 10 mph faster than I’ve been able to do in the past. People who haven’t been as observant as yours truly stare at me as I whiz by, most likely praying I get caught in the speed traps so often set on this stretch.

But little do they know that I will NOT be caught in this trap, as I am simply abiding by the new speed suggestions. Yes, now I can legally drive 55 without crapping kittens* if I pass a cruiser poised on the side of the road sticking something that resembles a hairdryer out of his/her window.

*OK. That’s not true. My heart will still jump into my throat, but that kind of detracts from the badass-ness I am trying to exhibit here.

I was born to be wild.

So spill it. How’s your driving?

Like the blog? Buy the book.

Heloise gained popularity a bit before my time, but a quick summary is that she’s a writer/columnist who took over a syndicated column from her mom in 1977—"Hints from Heloise”—in which she dispenses  lifestyle tips and hints on everything from travel and pets to home improvement.

She also has an editorial  gig in Good Housekeeping, so basically she’s like Martha Stewart without a mug shot or an empire.

Anyway, if I were ever given a column, it would be a more  bastardized “Dear Abby meets Carrie Bradshaw” type thing than Heloise, as I am no domestic diva.

But I do have my own house, and even if it often plots against me, I’ve learned a thing or two.

Hints from a Domestically Disabled Diva

If you read nothing else, the most important thing I can tell you is this: It’s easier to throw away and replace a mini-blind than to actually clean the one you have. 

They have created cleaning items specifically for this job—I have one myself—and although they help, you still end up inventing new combinations of profanity that neighbors with young children will not appreciate.

Bonus hint: The same goes for shower curtain liners.

Buy a $5 liner from Target—and ONLY the shower curtain liner, not $80 worth of other things you didn’t go there intending to buy—and simply cut it off the hooks when it’s time to change it. Trying to open and close the hooks to take off the old liner when you already have to open and close the hooks to put one on will take years off your life.

Just cut it off and cut your losses.

This Sucks

True story: I had a roommate when I lived in Detroit that simply bought a new vacuum cleaner when it was time to change the bag on the one he had, only because he didn’t want to have to change the bag.

I don’t recommend this, but I kind of understand.

But bagless vacuums help, but aren’t necessarily the answer. I have one with a cool light on the front of it and everything, but emptying the container causes a bigger mess than what I just sucked up. As a result, I pull out the dust buster to suck the dust up, only to face the same situation in emptying the dust buster.

I don’t have a solution for this one other than to NOT empty either container the same day you vacuum. At least you can feel like the house is clean for a few hours.

Small victories. 

This Stinks

Due to the fact that I eat a lot of vegetables—namely steamed broccoli at least once a day—my house has the potential to smell like I eat a lot of vegetables.

Delicious? Yes. Delightfully fragrant? Not so much.

I light incense right before I eat to combat this aroma. True, I usually forget that I lit incense and freak out five minutes later thinking something is burning in my kitchen, but at least is smells nice once I recover from my panic attack.

But my absolute favorite thing?

Glade Water Blossoms spray.

I have never smelled water blossoms so I don’t know if I’m being ripped off or not, but I don’t care. It’s delightful.

It’s A Wash

When it comes to laundry, well, I don’t really have any great hints. The time spent folding clean laundry only to unfold it and hang it up is time that could be spent shopping for a new mini blind or doing anything else. My only hint is to buy clothes that never need to be ironed.

We’ve covered this before, but I currently have a pair of cute pants I haven’t worn in months simply because they need to be ironed and my ironing board is better suited for a Keebler Elf.

The only upside to laundry—aside from clean clothes and the pleasure my OCD takes in cleaning the lint tray on the dryer—is that if you slip on a fabric sheet dropped on your kitchen floor, you instantly turn into something that resembles a manic  figure skater having a seizure.

It’s quite impressive.

So there you go.

I have many more hints and tips I could dispense, but I don’t want to overload your brain with too much valuable information in one post. Perhaps I will present a sequel in the future. You know, if the whole bastardized “Dear Abby meets Carrie Bradshaw” –type column thing doesn’t pan out.

Because sorry guys. If offered syndication, you can bet I’ll take it and run with it. Unless of course it requires writing about coordinating throw pillows.

In which case, I’m screwed.

Like the blog? Buy the book.

But don’t worry.

This won’t be about how I freak out when they’re out of something I need—not want, but NEED people—or the fact that some cashiers don’t know the difference between a banana and green beans.

No, this is about the checkout, specifically the plastic dividers.

I enjoy the grocery belt divider for the practicality and simplicity it provides.

Placed on the belt, it divides my order from the one in front and the one in back. There should be no confusion as to where one order starts and one order ends.  If for some reason confusion does arise, it’s not hard to clarify and say, “Oh, that’s not my stuff.”

However, there are still people who are entirely too concerned that the cashier will confuse their things with the next persons, protectively creating about two feet of extra “empty” grocery belt space between their order and the divider.

Intercom announcement to this person ahead of me: I did not load up my cart and assume that I could sneak 25 items to the end of your order, dupe you into paying for them and then follow you out to the parking lot to retrieve said items.

But with that said, I do have an issue with the people behind me from time to time. While I don’t exhibit the behavior mentioned above and often graciously place the divider at the end of my order, this is apparently not enough for some people. No, instead of waiting for the cashier to move the belt along, they insist on using every single square inch of belt space up to the plastic divider.

This I can overlook, as it’s their own bread they’re squishing in an effort to unload their cart at warp speed.

What I can’t overlook is when they insist on using every single square inch of personal space past the plastic divider, creeping up closer to me with their cart and sighing so heavily at the apparent lack of cashier expediency that it blows my coupons off the checkout stand.

Intercom announcement to this person behind of me: Regardless of how close you creep up or how many items you throw on the belt, you will be next—after me.

If you continue to creep up, I will pretend to go through my coupon keeper for an extraordinary amount of time, chit chat with the cashier and lift up the plastic divider and put it back down repeatedly under the guise of making room for a pack of gum I am actually just using as a prop to piss you off.

But because I’m all about solutions, I propose that instead of the grocery belt divider, we install a plastic divider in the LINE to keep the person behind me from creeping up and invading my bubble.

It could be like a shower curtain or one of those things you walk through at sporting events that simply lifts up and down when appropriate.

Now I realize this plastic divider could be symbolic of the way our society is divided and that unity can only be achieved when we remove these barriers, etc. People who think that are insane. I’m all about being friendly, but we need personal space—on the grocery belt and in the line.

Intercom announcement: Until they install these new plastic people dividers, please just back your shit up.

Unless, of course, you would like to pay for my produce. In that case, I welcome you with open arms and an open grocery belt.

Like the blog? Buy the book.