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Stop. Calling. The. Police. Just. Because. Someone. Is. Black.

auto automobile blur buildings
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

One of my neighbors, black, had an uncle come to visit to ensure that his nephew, who had gotten out of jail for stealing stuff, didn’t get in trouble again or start getting his brother in trouble.

One of my neighbors, white, murdered his wife and hid her body in the garage for at least a month.

Theft: not cool.

Murder: oh my god that is so beyond no cool and goes straight into burning in hell.

If you need to call the police on someone, maybe you need to be looking for a lighter skin tone. 

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Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself *

close up photography of two starbucks disposable cups
“…so far away from me…”
Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

*I actually wanted to name this blog “Rethink before you act like a bitch,” but that doesn’t rhyme or sound half as familiar or attractive as a blog title, amiright?

So no shit, there I was, standing in line at the Starbucks in the Target, mostly because I was too lazy to drive to the real Starbucks, and the line was insanely long. For some reason frappuccinos were on some random promotion, and everyone was buying them as if they were stocking their Trump-pocalypse bomb shelters.

It didn’t help that there was only a single barista. She rang up the order of the current customer, went off and made the drink, then came back and repeated the process. One person making half a dozen frappuccinos takes about as long as most people would expect it to. How long is that? Too long.

The group of three people in front of me were muttering, shooting daggers at the barista with their eyes, which she couldn’t see because she was busy running as many blenders as she could. I couldn’t help but think that she felt it, though. Even if she couldn’t, she probably at least knew that people in the line were pissed. Shuffling, grumbling, tapping on their carts. Not hard to figure out that people were getting pissed at her.

I was one of those people.

Frustrated. Caffeine deprived. Super bitchy.

I got to the front of the line.

A Regina George moment was coming on.

I took a deep breath…and I said, “Wow, did they seriously just leave you alone to deal with this line? That sucks.”

She explained that the other barista was on lunch, it hadn’t been that busy, and now she was swamped.

I smiled, asked for my drink, thanked her, and moved on.

I didn’t do it because of the old, stupid “Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” That’s bullshit.

You shouldn’t need a reason to be kind.

You shouldn’t have to imagine that a person is fighting a battle. They could be having the very best day of their life.

You should still be kind.

Even if you have been waiting for more than ten minutes for coffee.

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When is fettuccine alfredo not fettucine alfredo?

What vegans think food looks likeWhen it’s a raw vegan fettuccine alfredo.

So here’s the thing – raw vegan food is…not real food.

According to the well-known, well-researched, amazingly trustworthy source, Wikipedia, “raw veganism is a diet that combines the concepts of veganism and raw foodism. It excludes all food and products of animal origin, as well as food cooked at a temperature above 48 °C (118 °F). A raw vegan diet includes raw vegetables and fruits, nuts and nut pastes, grain and legume sprouts, seeds, plant oils, sea vegetables, herbs, mushrooms, and fresh juices.”

Had I know in advance that the “restaurant” I agreed to go to served only raw vegan food, I might have to question my mental health in making that decision. Instead, I just knew it was vegan, which is somewhat acceptable. I’m a vegetarian, and I like some of the ideas behind veganism, but I’m not down with the idea of raw veganism any more than I’m down with the ideas of breatharians.  (I worked with a breatharian, but more about that in another blog…)

Their menu claimed it would be actual food:
Fettuccini Alfredo – served raw veggie noodles. And it comes with cashew butter with some lemon juice (or so they told me).

Then they brought it out. And I wanted to cry.

How the hell was that fettuccine? Or alfredo?

Trusting to the wisdom of Wikipedia once again, we can see that “Fettuccine Alfredo…is a pasta dish made from fettuccine tossed with Parmesan cheese and butter. As the cheese melts, it emulsifies the liquids to form a smooth and rich sauce coating the pasta. In other words, it is pasta with butter and Parmesan cheese (Italian: pasta al burro e parmigiano), one of the oldest and simplest ways to prepare pasta.”

As I stared at my bowl of not fettuccine alfredo, I was reminded of a paradox I’d heard:

My grandfather had an axe that had been handed down through the family, and he finally handed it off to me.

Unfortunately, after many, many years of use, the handle broke.

I brought the axe to a hardware store, and I got a new handle attached to it.

Then, a few years later, the axe head broke, so I brought the handle to the hardware store and got a new head.

The question is – is it still my grandfather’s axe?

And is it still fettucine alfredo?

 

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“O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.”

bed image meme credited to iFunny.comMe at 8 PM: I definitely need to get to sleep before midnight tonight.

Me at 10:30 PM: Fell asleep taking a bath, but avoided drowning by waking myself up with my own snoring.

Me at Midnight: I should totally go to bed now, but I’m almost done dealing with the checkbook and the bills.

Me at 1:30 AM: This episode of “Lock In” (county jail edition) is almost over…

Me at 2:15 AM: Damn, I’m not even tired!

(Title is a quote taken from Thomas Hood, Miss Kilmansegg – Her Dream.)

 

 

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Ah, the romance of Valentine’s Day!

sad apple by sophisticat at morguefile
Sad apple says he’s sad because he hates Valentine’s Day

It was yesterday that I realized that I don’t care about Valentine’s Day.

Give me any other holiday, and I’m good to go. I even like Easter.

But Valentine’s Day? It has some kind of messed up messages.

Dear Lonely People –
Feel even lonelier! You’re welcome!

Dear Couples –
Go out to a restaurant that’s super crowded, completely unromantic because of the crowd and the noise and the insanity, and if it’s a really “nice” restaurant, you’re probably paying jacked up prices for a limited menu. Once you’ve suffered through a dinner that is probably not exact the best thing you’ve eaten because the wait and kitchen staff are totally overworked and underpaid, go home exhausted and in a bad. And, hopefully, drunk. Collapse into your bed.

Ah, the romance of Valentine’s Day!

And here are some memes to keep you happy.

vday meme1Valentines Day meme _4

vdaymeme5vday meme3

vdaymeme6vdaymeme7

vday meme2

(Unfortunately, I did not find any attribution for them, so if they’re yours, please let me know so I can fix that ASAP.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I’m an asshole

judge ornament - morguefile - davidpwhelanI caught myself being one of those people

You know what I mean, right?

Those people?

That’s right.

I caught myself being an asshole.

I was at Target. I was in a hurry. And Target – being Target on a school day around 2 p.m. when all the moms are trying to buy their groceries before their kids invade their houses again – well, Target was overwhelmed and understaffed.

In front of me was a woman, cart full of baby stuff. She had a super-nice Michael Kors bag, and she was using a WIC card to buy her baby stuff.

I jumped to the conclusion that she didn’t deserve the bag, that if she had the money for the bag, why was she on WIC?

Okay, I told myself. Maybe it was a gift. Maybe she got it from a thrift store. Maybe… Well, maybe it wasn’t my business in any way, shape, or form.

Just because she is getting help doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve some fun and some luxuries. It doesn’t mean that she should be punished and constantly struggling.

Why shouldn’t she buy a Michaels Kors purse? Why shouldn’t she buy Starbucks? Why shouldn’t she buy fancy dinners at steakhouses?

She isn’t any less worthy than anyone else.

If I could assume that she didn’t “deserve” her purse, why couldn’t I instead assume that she did “deserve” it?

Why couldn’t I assume that she worked hard – maybe harder than me and everyone else I knew – and that she was just screwed over by life? 

I hope she uses her WIC for all those necessary purposes and spends some of her income on nice things for herself. I hope she has a fun night out. I hope she has a good, reliable car that she doesn’t need to worry about. I hope she can take days off work and go to the beach, bring her daughter or sons or daughters and sons.

I hope that other people aren’t assholes like I was, and I hope that if they are, that they catch themselves, too, and that they remind themselves that it isn’t their business, either. 

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A Bug Named Sue

Bug Off - Image by Mel Candea via MorguefileNow, I’m not saying that you *have* to applaud me or give me an award. I’m just saying that I deserve your applause. And an award.

There was a bug.

A little beetle-looking bug. Brown. Some legs (I’m guessing there were six? Isn’t that the standard for bugs?). Wings. But wings that were not yet unfurled. Let’s name it Sue.

I only saw Sue because the cat was chasing her. And failing. Failing hard. The cat would run up to Sue. Sniff her. Sue would put on a burst of speed and escape. Then the cat would run up to Sue. Then sniff her. Then Sue would put on a burst of speed and escape.

The race lasted for the length of the kitchen. I watched it, breathless, hoping to see the Sue lose the…battle? That might not be the right word for it. It was more like a baby learning how to crawl and falling asleep mid-movement.

Sue survived all the way to the table. The cat gave up. Well, more than it already had. And Sue was just sitting there on the tile. Looking sad.

I made a deal with Sue. I wouldn’t throw a massive book on her, and I’d put it outside to live out the rest of her little beetle life, but only if she let me sweep her from the tile and onto the dust pan with the long handle that kept me from bending down and getting too close to her without her showing me she could fly.

I figured a verbal agreement was better than no agreement at all, and got the broom and dust pan.

Sue refused to get into the dust pan at first, but the second time, she let me sweep her up and calmly sat there – a little oval of brown in what could be a sea of blue, but was really just some cheap plastic.

Sue held very still as I walked the dozen steps to the back door, and she didn’t jump into the air and attack me with her wings. She just chilled out on the dust pan as I opened the door and stepped out onto the cold concrete of the back patio.

Apparently Sue had gotten comfortable in the relative safety of the dust pan, and she refused to get off it. Without a cat bothering her, I guess she didn’t feel the stress to move. Or maybe Sue hated cold weather, too.

I had to tip the dust pan and gently swat at Sue.

No, I didn’t kill her!  She upheld her end of the deal, so I upheld mine!

She finally slid onto the ground, and I’d like to think that Sue nodded her little beetle head in appreciation for all I’d done for her.

So, hold your applause, for now. Once I finish getting the trophy engraved, there will be an awards banquet. But Sue will not be invited.