Tag Archives: annoyance

Timing is Everything

This will come as a surprise to no one, but I always have to be early or at least on time.


Yes, I’m obsessed with Natalie Dee lately.

This is often to my detriment, as 98 percent of the population is apparently not this way, which means is I end up hurrying to wait. This in turn causes extreme frustration, occasional cursing and the creation of several voodoo dolls. Yet I still insist on being on time for things.


Because, well,  OCD and schedules, but more importantly, because it’s simply respectful.

On a professional note, I’ll just say that deadlines are not suggestions people. You are not a special snowflake. That sense of entitlement and lack of respect is rude and frustrating.

In my personal life, I feel the same way. If you tell me to be ready at 6, please be there at 6. While I understand things happen, making me wait 30 minutes or more is grounds for violent behavior. By the time you show up, I will be too bitter and annoyed that you couldn’t get your shit together to be fun.

That will be your fault.

This is also why I always prefer to be the picker-upper and not get picked up. At least I can sit in your driveway and honk the horn like the crazy person you have forced me to be.

This annoyance is most prevalent in appointments—doctors, dentists, hairstylists, etc. Again, I understand things happen, but there is no good reason for them to happen every single time.

But I think dentists and doctors have figured out we’re annoyed with this and have devised their own plan.

The time spent in the waiting area has been cut down significantly, and at first I was excited to be called back to my own little room rather quickly. However, this was before I realized I was put there so when I freaked out over waiting 45 minutes it would be in the privacy of an exam room and not the public waiting area.

Side note: Please don’t tell me to read a magazine, as those things are like public petri publications full of germs and nastiness. You might as well lick a toilet seat. 

But I’ve devised my own revenge.

I fill the time looking for fun little things I can take as a memory of my excursion. This obviously can’t be done somewhere like a hair salon where going through the drawers and taking bobby pins and shower caps would be frowned upon.

But if you’re stuck in an exam room for more than 40 minutes, you can legally take things like Band-Aids with cool cartoons characters, cotton balls and stickers given to good little patients.*

*I read that on the Internet—right after I wrote it—so it must be true.

Inevitably the same nurse who has avoided me for 40 minutes will walk in the one second I’m looking for a tongue depressor I can make into a little stick man, but whatever. At that point I no longer feel like talking about whatever I went there to talk to them about anyway, even if my head is about to fall off, so why not at least walk out with an art project?

I know, I know. Patience, not petty theft, but if everyone would just stick to a schedule—preferably mine—I wouldn’t be faced with this problem.

Remember that at the end of the day, it’s about respect.

So if you insist in being late on multiple occasions, there’s  a good chance I will either sit in your driveway and blast the horn or steal your cotton balls.

That will be your fault.

Timing is everything.

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Farmers Mark-etiquette

This past weekend I went to the Farmer’s Market for what will probably be the last time this year, as Michigan tends to get cold and nasty in the blink of an eye.


It’s not as fancy as other Farmers Markets, but I love it.

Since I’m still in the “denial” stage of the temporary end of this relationship, I figured I would write a post about our courtship before I progress to the anger and mourning stages of this transition.

Actually, this post was sparked by a few things I observed and overheard the last time I went, so thank you to the douche canoes that neglected to use what I consider Farmer’s Mark-etiquette.

Let’s begin.

Most markets bring in an eclectic mix of people—everything from yuppies with their soy half-calf sugar-free oxygen enriched lattes and hippie types with their messy ponytails and fair trade sandals made of bamboo bark to  families and people like me—most often clad in yoga pants with my reusable tote, ready to knock over the elderly and small children for the perfect loaf of mini pumpkin bread.

In other words, it’s a bit of a market melting pot.

There are a couple of rules that are spelled out on signs, one of them being “no dogs” in the actual market area due to the close quarters.


This doesn’t stop people from stuffing the little ones in bags and sneaking them in, a sight that continues to amuse me on an almost publically unacceptable level.

There are also rules that aren’t spelled out, perhaps assumed as common sense. However, if you’ve ever talked to another human anywhere, you know there should be no assumptions when it comes to common sense.

So if I were deemed the Market Queen for a Day—a position I anoint myself with in my head every time that I go—here are the rules I would post:

  • They are samples people, this is not a buffet. Take one or two and move on.
  • Dogs might not be allowed, but children are. With that said, strollers that are three-wide and plow through like a semi need to be banned. Also, it is not cute when your child who is just learning to walk is staggering down the center of a busy aisle at the pace of a turtle, causing people to run into each other, possibly smashing delicate produce and toes.
  • Bring your own bags, if possible, as carrying around 12 plastic bags while touting your earth-friendly awesomeness paints a picture of confusion.


Now that, Alanis, is irony. Rain on your wedding day is just shitty luck.

May I suggest you do not say the following things:

  • These carrots/radishes/etc. have dirt on them!
  • Do you have change for $100 bill?
  • If I buy two pounds at $2/lb, can I get a discount?
  • Were these parsnips humanely killed?
  • It’s cheaper at Wal-Mart.
  • How come you never have fries or creamed corn?
  • Do you use the good pesticides?
  • How much for just one?

While breaking any of these Farmers Mark-etiquette rules is not a punishable crime, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think that other market goers might harbor inclinations to beat you senseless with a preservative-free baguette or sharpen their aim with a fresh arsenal of golf ball-sized (dirty) radishes.

And as Market Queen for a day—at least in my own head—I can’t promise I won’t join them.

What crimes against carrots and common sense have you observed at the market ?

Bug Off

I’m basically solar powered, so when it’s nice outside, I’m either walking, working out in the yard or basking in the sun like a lizard on a heated rock.

This is my preferred location when it’s between 65-80 degrees. My hot and sexy male suntan applier is hiding out of this shot. 

And much like that amphibious analogy, I occasionally eat bugs—or they go up my nose. Not on purpose, mind you, but as an indirect result of talking or breathing while I do the aforementioned activities. Considering one of those things is rather necessary to survival (although I would argue that both of them are,) it really can’t be avoided.

Just because it can’t be avoided doesn’t mean it doesn’t still tick me off.

Although I know they serve a purpose, bugs suck—both literally and figuratively. Aside from flying up our noses or sneaking in our mouths, they suck the fun out of outdoor situations by sucking the blood out of our innocent souls, leaving us with un-itchable itchy bumps as a reminder of their intrusive visits to our flesh and our fun.

We use sprays, creams, zappers and Tiki torches with citronella oil in an effort to ward off their presence, yet we will still find ourselves cursing the little assholes as we scratch and claw at our bites.


These bugs have balls.

They have no fear.

They laugh at us as we wave our arms around like crazy people and run around the yard with a 75-cent plastic fly swatter that’s about as effective as hitting a softball with a wet noodle.

But I refuse to let them win.

They will not stop me from a) breathing or b) talking, therefore running the risk of accidental consumption or a vacuuming up the nose.

I might not have balls and I might have irrational fears of weird things like sneezing while driving or developing an allergy to asparagus, but I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing—lighting torches and swatting at the little bastards, all the while reeking of DEET and frustration.

You’ve been warned, my flying friends, you’ve been warned.