Remove your shoes . . .

I’m one of those people who will make you take your shoes off before entering my home. And it’s not strictly because I’ve so concerned about the integrity of my wood floors (although they are a bitch to clean – and fortunately I don’t clean them myself). I’m not trying to be annoying, or expose your holey, mis-matched socks.

I insist on shoe removal strictly for health purposes — because God only knows what the hell we walk through outside on the street.

Case in point, I drove to work today and as I was exiting the vestibule of the parking garage, there was a “street crazy” inside, facing the corner with his hands somewhere near his crotch. I didn’t know what he was doing. I didn’t WANT to know what he was doing.

But, as I pondered what he MIGHT have been doing (none of those were great visuals at 7:20 am), I walked outside and nearly stepped in what he had DEFINITELY been doing prior to entering the building, which was peeing on the street. I’m assuming that he thought it was appropriate to pee against a building on Franklin and Van Buren – right in front of everyone – and then go back into the building to . . . ummm . . . readjust himself.

The point is that I almost stepped in his cheap-wine-vodka-whatever-the-fuck-kind-of-$1.00-swill-he-could-get-his-hands-on piss. There would not have been enough disinfectant in the world to get my shoes clean enough after that experience.

And then I suppose I would walk into my house with that toxic mess on my feet, and then perhaps lay across my floor and watch TV or exercise? I really don’t think so. To do that would be to voluntarily roll around in bum piss, or dog poop, wasted food, or whatever there is to be stepped on in the streets. Yuck!

If anyone else thinks it’s appropriate to further expose themselves to atmospheric filth, have at it. Not me. I’m filthy enough as it is.

Having said that, don’t ask questions . . . just remove the shoes.

Thanksgiving et al

I finally have use of my DSL again, so I’m thrilled to be able to blog about all of the shit that’s been building up over the last 4 days.

First, Thanksgiving. Typically I cook Thanksgiving dinner. I make the whole shebang, and I invite my parents and whatever strays I can muster. This year, there were no takers. My parents weren’t in the mood, and I couldn’t find a stray if I tried. That meant that I had the day off for Thanksgiving for the first time in . . . well . . . forever.

I decided to take advantage of it by flopping on my couch for as many hours as possible. For me, that’s not many hours. I can’t sit still for too long, but I certainly tried.

I became hungry at lunchtime, so I meandered over to the grocery store — the one in my neighborhood that I detest — to get a few odds and ends. I was the only one in the store who wasn’t looking for turkey seasoning, milk, rolls, soda, turkey, cranberry sauce, cakes, etc. What was I buying? A couple of Lean Cuisines, frozen waffles, cat food (just because I wasn’t planning to have a turkey dinner didn’t mean that the cats shouldn’t indulge in canned turkey & giblets for kitties).

The holiday cheer ended when I reached the “Express Line.” Despite the sign that said “15 items or less,” the woman in front of me had no less than 35 items in her cart.

Now, let’s be clear. We’ve all been guilty of sneaking an extra item in here and there. A few times, I’ve had 17 items in the 15 or under lane. And you know what? I’ve felt guilty about it. Who was I to upset the system?

Well, apparently, Little Miss Full-Basket felt no remorse, or social responsibility, as she shamelessly unloaded her cart while those of us behind her in the queue stared at her and sighed dramatically as we held our handcarts containing 5 items.

And then I started to wonder why the cashier didn’t tell her that she had too many items. In fact, several Jewel employees walked by her, noticed her cart, and didn’t mention that she probably had three times the amount of items than she should have.

I just gave her my icy, dagger stare to the point where she stopped looking in my direction.

And let’s discuss the contents of her basket, shall we?

She had no less than 3 10-pound buckets of chitterlings. Not having been a pork eater for a minimum of 15 years, I’m certainly no chitterling expert. I do know a few things about them, however. 1) They stink to the high heavens, because 2) They’re pig intestines and need to be cleaned rigorously. 3) If cleaned properly, it should take hours, and probably makes a big-ass mess.

So, knowing what I know, and looking at my watch while standing in line, I estimated that if she planned to eat that nasty pig mess for Thanksgiving, she wouldn’t be eating dinner until about 2:00 am.

She had a whole bunch of other disgusting items in her cart that her roughly 9-year-old son unloaded as he smacked on a bag of not-yet-purchased Dorito’s.

When I finally made it to the cash register, I couldn’t resist making a sideways comment about the women in front of me and “her 97 items.” I didn’t get a response.

I returned to the comfort of my couch, and didn’t leave it for hours. I got up later to visit the parents, and ended up driving through White Castle during an extreme moment of hunger at about 10:00 (I figured if I didn’t indulge in the usual mac & cheese and 15 desserts, a deep friend chicken patty certainly wouldn’t kill me).

The next couple of days were uneventful. I tried to go shopping on Black Friday, but was majorly unimpressed with the sales.

Sunday was interesting. I took a friend out for dinner, and while we were out I received a call from a number that I didn’t recognize. And for the record, I’m a shady call answerer. If I have no idea of who it is, I refuse to answer the phone. This caller didn’t leave a message, but called back a second time, within 5 minutes.

I noted the persistence, and answered the call. It was a collect call from Cook County jail. It took me a second to figure out that it was a jail call, and when I did, I didn’t pay attention to the name of the caller, I just hung up the phone. Certainly none of MY friends would have ended up in the clink, right? Or would they? Hmmm . . .

Later on, I felt guilty. What if someone had gotten arrested for something stupid, and I abandoned them? So I set myself about calling the people who I felt would use me as the emergency call. It’s a small universe of people.

I made the first call, and my friend j. was safe and sound. No worries. No Cell Block B.

I made the second call, and that person was EXTREMELY put off that I would think that he was in jail. VERY irritated. He told me that it was fucked up that I immediately thought of him. I told him that I was just checking because I was concerned. He didn’t quite see it that way. I’m afraid that I won’t speak to him for a while.

Because of that reaction, I didn’t make the third and final call. Oh well. If it wasn’t a wrong number, that person needed to call his mother.

Cleaning crew redemption

FYI, the cleaning crew redeemed themselves. They did a beautiful job with the stainless, the floors were spotless and I haven’t detected any broken items . . . yet. I think they knew their asses were on the line. I guess I’ll tip them the next time.

Now before you go thinking I’m an ogre (which would be easy to do if you read this blog regularly), I tip the cleaning people sporadically, but when I tip, I tip well. I was certainly not going to reward them for doing a bad job with the floors and doing damage to my home.

Looks like I’ll be hiring them again.

And FYI, I always tip 20% in restaurants (unless the service sucks, in which case I tip 15%). I certainly don’t want to contribute to the theory that black people don’t give good tips. There are enough of us that feed that stereotype, and I’m determined to be the exception.

The nosy

I’m a pretty inquisitive person. If I don’t understand something, I’ll ask. If a friend alludes to something that might indicate a deeper story, you’d better believe I’m asking for back-story. If I’m curious, I can rarely hold back.

But here’s the thing . . . I reserve that behavior for people that I actually know.

I do not feel that I have the right to demand the same information from complete strangers. And I wish they would feel the same about me. I pour my heart out here and in the column, but I’m a private person in my day-to-day life, and hate giving out any additional information.

I often complain about the security guards in my office building. My more corporate day job requires that I show up at the Sears Tower on a daily basis, so I have to deal with having any bag that’s larger than a purse x-rayed upon entry. Some of the security guards are overly flirtatious — occasionally to the point where they might actually threaten our safety.

When a security guard is x-raying our bags, they should be looking for weaponry, explosives, or any other ominous substance that could threaten the lives of the inhabitants of the Tower. Anything else they see should fall within the realm of “things that are none of my business.”

So, imagine my irritation when one of the security guards actually had the audacity to comment on the contents of my bag last week. I was returning from my lunch workout at FFC on Jackson, and as the guard x-rayed my gym bag, he asked if I was planning to workout. I gave him an icy stare, and said “no,” without offering any additional information.

Was that an “evil bitch” move? Perhaps. But seriously, what business was it of his? I guess if he saw a tampon in my bag, he would feel the right to ask if I was on the rag? I don’t think so.

I’m also offended by nosy cashiers in the grocery store. Let me be clear — I don’t have problems with the cheerful ones — the ones who say hello, ask how I’m doing and tell me to have a nice day. I welcome those sentiments, and gladly reciprocate the pleasantries.

When they start asking my about my purchase decisions is when I take a nasty turn.

I LOVE the self-service lanes, because there’s nobody to ask me about the items that I’m purchasing.

I actually had one woman bag an item, and then remove it from the bag to further examine it while I was attempting to hand her my money. I asked if there was something wrong with the item, and she said no, and that she’d never seen it before so she wanted to look at it. She then started asking me questions about the item, and whether or not it works (it was some sort of cleanser). I didn’t really answer — I can’t really remember what I said. I can confirm that I did NOT say what I was thinking, which was “If you’re curious, you can find it in aisle 4 on your break. Now throw it in the bag and take my money so that I can get the hell out of here.”

Another cashier found it humorous that I was buying 20 cans of cat food. “How many cats do you HAVE?” she said with a snicker. Instead of telling her the truth, which was that I buy in bulk because I hate returning to the grocery store repeatedly to consort with the likes of her nosy-no-home-training-having ass, I just gave her what is becoming my signature icy stare and said absolutely nothing, which willed her to stop the laughing and get to bagging.

Now, those who are more sympathetic will tell me that their jobs are boring, and that they’re just trying to infuse some fun into their day. And, personally? I could care less. Aren’t things like grocery shopping and going through security enough of a pain in the ass? Do we really need the added pressure of having to explain what we’re buying or carrying (if it’s not a security violation)?

On another note, I get the occasional piece of fan mail. I also get occasional hate mail, but that’s a totally different story. I usually try and respond to all of it, unless it’s so ridiculous that I wouldn’t know where to begin. Or if it’s someone looking for advice and I don’t know where to start. Anywho . . . I got a letter last week from someone who wanted to know a) my real name; b) where I live; and c) how much I get paid for writing my column. I chose to ignore that letter (far better than the response of my dreams: “Bitch, are you insane?”). I’m sure I’ll get a followup letter telling me that I’m a total bitch for not answering those questions.

Oh well. It’s Sunday, which means a return to the grocery store. I’m asking the Universe for serenity.

Thanks for entertaining my rant. I feel so much better now.

New column!

The new column dropped on Friday. It’s a gift-giving guide for the holidays for those of you who are inclined to stress out. Check it out.

After a long blogging vacation . . .

Lots to blog about. I’ve come to the realization that the blogging gets away from me. It just does. Between work, and work, and the column and my family and needing a few glasses of wine from dealing with the abovementioned, the blog falls by the wayside.

However, I’ve been coerced to keep a more regular schedule because it helps me. Blogging helps me vent, sharpen my ranting claws and communicate. I so love to communicate. Really, I do.

So, here are a few things that I’ve been dying to blog about over the last few weeks:

Halloween – fortunately my house wasn’t egged or vandalized. At least not that I’ve yet realized.

Drex in the Morning on KISS-FM – I love listening to 103.5 in the morning. Granted, I don’t always drive in, but whenever I do, I make sure to tune in. They have the best topics. For example, this morning the topic was “My significant other’s kids love me, but I hate them.” I had to weigh in on this one. I called in, and Mel T. started in on me immediately to tell me that I don’t return e-mails. WHAT? I have no idea what address they’re using, but I would have written them back immediately had I received a message.

The story I shared was about a guy I dated MANY moons ago, who had the most unruly kids ever. I would find anything to do rather than hang out with them. And the interesting thing is that they really liked me, despite the urge I controlled to take them across my knee and give them the non-politically-correct spankings that they needed.

And, as an aside, what is it about the fear of spanking these days? Let me be clear – I was spanked as a child. But . . . was I abused? Absolutely not. Before you call DCFS for retroactive parental arrest, relax! I don’t have any permanent scarring, and I’m not in therapy trying to deal with my parents’ disciplinary tactics, or feeling guilt, or shame, or whatever it is that people like to say is the root cause of their fucked up adult behavior and inability to deal with life. (If you’re one of those people, don’t e-mail me or leave foul comments. My opinions will remain the same.)

The truth is, I was a bad-assed little kid. Plain and simple. I know exactly why I got each spanking, and I can say with surety that I deserved every one, and never repeated the act that got me spanked in the first place. I will even go so far as to say that the mere threat of my mother’s wrath kept me from doing a lot of things that I shouldn’t have. Before doing something questionable, I imagined the spanking, and thought better of it. Because, really? After you administer a few good spankings, you can stop, because the memory lives on. My mother only had to look at me, and I would stop dead in my tracks.

I have friends who refuse to spank their kids. Some are lucky enough to have mild-mannered kids who are really good kids and fine without the occasional swat. Others . . . well, let’s just say that some of them are raising little criminals in the making who run the household, and could stand an afternoon with my parents to straighten out some of that behavior.

And what’s the rebuttal? “I don’t want to stunt his creativity!” or “Spanking is abusive. I just think it’s wrong!” You know what’s really wrong? Wrong is kids who bring guns to school, or have no fear of authority or don’t respect adults and think that they can say and do whatever they want. See if time out cures that problem.

The real problem is that there are people that go too far. Our country is full to bursting with citizens who don’t know when to stop and then laws have to be set by what the most extreme, out-of-control person is prone to do. It’s not enough to have anything in moderation — it has to be done to death.

Doctors can’t tell pregnant women that it’s okay to have an occasional glass of wine because there’s someone out there who thinks that ‘occasional’ means once every two hours. And those are the very women who will sue their doctors when their children, carried to term, weigh in at .86 pounds. Some of anything probably won’t kill you. The occasional spanking will not hurt a kid. Every day bludgeonings with an extension cord is a bit much.

Really digressed on that one. Let’s see . . . what’s next?

My new appliances, that’s what!! I used to have white, generic appliances. They were Kenmore, which is a good brand, but really not the sexy stainless steel that I had in the old place. I missed my sexy stainless.

So . . . I finally broke down and took the plunge. I’m SO glad I did. I mismatched the brands because I wanted the big Maytag, French door fridge with the ice and water in the door, but I also wanted the GE range with the griddle in the middle. The good news is that the handles match so that my kitchen doesn’t look like a hodgepodge of random appliances.

My cleaning crew was at my house today, and I hope to God they knew what to clean them with. Somehow those people manage to screw something up EACH time they clean my house. One day they cracked a mirror. Another day, they put the electric AirWick air freshener back into the outlet upside down, which spilled lavender oil all over my floor. I love lavender, but seriously? WTF??? Most recently, I suspect they somehow broke the dimmer switch in the living room. This was also coupled with a few scuff marks that remained on the floor. This is their last shot. If something else is ruined after today, they are never darkening my door again (or brightening my floor).

More later (post inspection).