Morons with Horsepower


I don’t care who you are, there’s one thing (only one thing?) that drives me absolutely nuts; asshat drivers.  Some people are really reckless drivers, and they shall be cursed by me as I screech on the brakes.  But what annoys me even more are idiots with more money than sense.


See, I know the limits of my car.  I know what it’s capable of.  But it’s not a badass car.  That’s fine.  I don’t need a pimped out engine.  I drive to work, not over mountains.  But these super sized monstrosities on the road are annoying.


I don’t like the fact that my mom owns an suv, for example.  She drives to the grocery store, not across rivers.  It’s ridiculous.  But what really gets my road rage going are people who have these kind of cars and drive them like the popemobile, like this idiot today.


If it takes a truck that I’d need a ladder just to climb into an eternity to turn into a parking lot that has a light curb, then that driver is an idiot.


An idiot whom I might or might not have said should die.  I can’t say for certain, because there was this odd reddish tinge to the world while he crawled onto the curb in slow motion.

I don’t have a death wish though. I know it’s not nice to explain people should put their feet on the pedal and their head out of their ass. I keep those windows rolled up while I hurl insults so no one can hear.  But I seriously think that if you can’t drive your vehicle as intended, you should be forced to swap it with a station wagon from the 70s.

Declarations of Love One Hour After Valentines Are Lame


I’ve been away for a few months.  First, it was exams and final grading.  Then I got sick.  Really sick.  Sick for over a month.  And then I got back to work and I was just damned tired from playing catch up.  I thought, gee, it’s nice to not feel like I have a deadline, maybe I’ll just take a break from the blog for one more week, and it’s not like I’m super popular in blogdom anyways…Then I found out I was not just a little sick, but now I’m I-could-die sick from medicine conflicts. While I figure it out, it’s back to doctor visits, insomnia, and general lack of energy.  So no blog.

But sometimes I miss the blog.  I get to call my petty bitching “writing”, and occasionally someone will actually hit the Like button. (I mean come on people, throw me a damned bone.) But honestly, I don’t have a lot of energy, and what I do have I burn at work.  So I’ll be writing shorter posts, probably, and not on any schedule…

I think I’ll change the blog layout too.  There are times you see a woman who is haggard and wilted.  You see her put on some red lipstick and you think “that is NOT helping.”  But that illusion of “refreshing” is helping her keep her shit together.  And god help you if you so much as consider that lipstick isn’t working.  She will find the energy to claw off your face.  So yeah, I might change the blog color or layout.  Just roll with it.

On Growing Apart


This has happened a handful of times to me, starting in 3rd grade when I moved a few blocks away. I don’t like to make a fuss, a big scene. What good can that do?  I wonder if anyone else goes through the same process. I assume I’m not alone, but I thought this might explain the stages of my slow, quiet exit.

Sometimes, you are as happy as you can be with a companion.

You might tug every once in a while, but you’re only doing what seems natural.


And everything seems fine.

Then you notice that you don’t get the same response. You wonder if you’re doing something wrong.

You make contact best you can, with no response. You try to compensate the best you can.

Then you try to ignore it, hoping some space will bring you both back together. But it isn’t the same.
You realize how hard it is to hold on. You think they don’t even notice your effort. Or that maybe they don’t care.

Eventually, you quietly bow to the inevitable.  You let go.
balloon7Goodbye, Friend.

First Week Back


I was listening to NPR yesterday, and there was an interesting discussion on introverts vs extroverts.  The idea was our idea of an introvert is someone shy, someone who doesn’t connect with others, for example. Most people, seeing that I am a professor that steps in front of huge groups of people on a regular basis and do a fairly good job of being confident, clear and comfortable when I speak, would assume I’m an extrovert.

I’m so fricking not.

It’s not that I’m not comfortable in front of people.  I can easily lecture, taking critical questions, for hours on end, be it in front of students, or peer reviews, a whole stadium of strangers.  But get me in a office cafeteria, or after class with a handful of strangers, and I cringe.  Because I hate small talk.  I hate that getting-to-know-you-and-actually-appear-interested dance people do.  I can happily go months without talking to anyone. And if I do have a conversation?  I’m more likely to step into the deep end of the pool with a in-depth, philosophical discussion or debate.  Apparently this is another trait of introverts–we DO like to talk, just deeply.

So I’m not shy, I’m just…a hermit.  Not needy for attention.  Not looking for social acceptance for self fulfilment.  Disenchanted with chit-chat.  Its not that I look down on any of it, or that I don’t see the value and how people can build meaningful contact that way…However I say it doesn’t sound good, but it’s like this; some people really love playing soccer.  They love the interaction, the feedback in the crowd, the team spirit, the rituals, the nicknames and pats on the back, the feeling of belonging to the group…

Then there are those who like martial arts.  It’s more solitary, but your competition is yourself–can you be better?  Can you hold that pose for a minute longer?  And while you’re doing this, you’re thinking about balance, and chi, and how to grapple with fact that your focus and stamina is for something essentially lethal, yet uses more restraint than you have when eating cookies.  And then you start thinking of the concept of restraint as a social construct, and where is that fine balance between Lord of the Flies and Little Women, all while by yourself in a dojo, juggling flaming nunchucks or something.

It’s like that.  Soccer may be great and I totally get that, but martial arts is just more my bag.

Which is why the first week of school KILLS me.  I’m not used to talking anymore, so my voice is cracked from all the speaking.  My head hurts from focusing on caring about a staff members holiday, or what their spouse thinks of sausages.  Sausages, for gods sake.  Or a student who doesn’t leave after class is dismissed, wanting to tell me all about this one funny video on youtube that they can’t quite remember…Why do we talk about this stuff?  Why ask me how I am and keep walking without listening to what I say?  Why ask, when you don’t really want to know?  Should I be honest, or should I be polite?  Do I have to answer at all?  Am I perceived as being bitchy because I didn’t answer when you were already 8 feet in the other direction?

The stress of it all just exhausts me.  I just need some time to settle back into the idea of community.  It’s not natural, but I can do it.  With some pain and suffering…


Parking Tickets


First let me say that everyone has been a parking asshole at one point or the other, without meaning to.  There are times when we all get so wrapped up in life that we aren’t as considerate as we should be.  Or circumstance makes us park like an asshole–like once I was in a parking lot where everyone for 10 cars were all parked offset because of someone long gone who had parked wrong.  So I parked over the line because I had to, as well, as it was the last space left.  I get it.  Dickhead maneuvers are sometimes unavoidable.

What I don’t get are douche canoes who clearly are either dumb as rocks or think they are too important to follow the rules.  Like the asshat who parked next to me this week.  See, we went to Six Flags for my birthday, and the WHOLE LOT was full.  We drove around for 40 minutes to find a single spot!  This was the only one there…and with my small car I was still able to juuust fit inside my line.  But this dickweed didn’t even try. It’s an amusement park with a small lot! In the summer, it’s a busy place, so this dipwad’s parking job is inexcusable.

parkingticketWe all know from past posts that I have road rage, although polite roadrage. Even when I’m walking on the sidewalk.  You’d think I’d blow my lid.  But I didn’t…because I had one of the best purchases I’ve ever made with me: a set of parking tickets.  I flipped through the book and found an appropriate one.  Now instead of getting pissed at these horrendous parking jobs, I actually enjoy them.  And I must say…I have never found one ripped up on the asphalt, so I think people are bemused enough to actually read them.

Insulting-Parking-Tickets-Booklet-640x300I need to buy a new set, because they do keep the blood pressure down.  I think they are funny, and if I got one, I’d find it pretty damned funny too.  But it got me to thinking…parking tickets are a way of educating the public that they are in violation of our rules, and therefore it is an education.  Now, I’m ALL about educating jackwagons everywhere in the world, and why shouldn’t you get the joy of passing parking tickets out, too?  Well, if you can find the ones I got at some tourist shop, good for you.  But I must say, they inspire NO fear since they aren’t parking ticket shaped.  So I decided to make my own…and to share it here with you.  Up close it won’t fool anyone, but at a distance it might make someone sweat, and that’s retribution enough, eh?


I left the ticket offense blank so you could write in your own reasoning, but I also included a back page to print, in case you need help expressing your, uh, diplomatic edification.  I thought up the insults I most commonly give, for the infractions I find the most annoying: parking in 2 spaces, parking with INCHES next to my space or over the line, parking in a NON PARKING ZONE (jesus that one gets me), taking for-fucking-ever to turn the damned steering wheel into a spot (for either asshat behavior like holding “hands free” devices instead of the steering wheel, OR for simply teeny, tiny balls while driving a mammoth SUV), etc.  Feel free to leave a comment on the post with your own poetic barbs for someone to use. (Though if you’re here because you got one…suck it up.  It’s a joke.  And I’m not responsible for what someone else decides is ticket-worthy ass-hattery. If you really want to take it seriously and get pissed, first send me a check for $250 for the fine).


If only I could find a way to give people driving tickets, too…

Bad Drivers and the F-Bomb


I had an interesting experience in the parking lot today.  It was one of those times where you’d like to drag someone into an empty classroom and give them a serious schooling, preferrably through the method of smacking the back of their head with your hand.  That IS a certified method for dealing with dumbass, if the 3 Stooges are to be believed.

First off, I was backing out of a parking lot.  I was already 2/3rd out of the spot when some jackwagon decides to gun it out of his spot. I check my position often because dipwads are often too busy holding up their handsfree device to their mouth while they drive to actually check traffic.  Anyways.  At half way out of the space, no one was moving on either side of me.  2/3rd out of the space, and this jerk was blocking the rest of the way, as he was clearly about to try and zip around.



My windows were down since it was a nice day, and I said “Aww, Come on Buddy.”  Not angry, just with the tone of Murtaugh being too old for this shit.  I wasn’t even talking to him, just talking outloud.  And since it was a nice day, he too had his window down.  I had stopped the car because he was so close I couldn’t turn any more.  Because he was a genius, apparently, and didn’t actually wait for me to finish but decided to drive up next to my wheel.  And then he said “Well, I was going to let you go, but you didn’t have to be rude about it.”


First of all, he couldn’t let me go because the jackhole was way to close.  If he’d stopped 10 feet away maybe, but he’d driven his bumper up to 2 feet away from my front tire with my car at a 45 degree angle.  So he was clearly an idiot and/or full of shit.  Also, I wasn’t rude.  I said so, tiredly laughing.  “Yes, you were!  You don’t think “Come on Buddy is RUDE?!”  No, I said.  I don’t.  I wanted to continue on with all the rude things I could have said, but at his next “Yes it IS” I said whatever and swerved around said jackass who didn’t back up or move away as he should have.

car3I could have been a complete vulgarian.  I’m *good* at being a vulgarian.  WHere the hell is my lollipop for taking the high road???

In the end, I decided that not only was he a bad driver, Come/On/Buddy has no insulting words, so in essence he was insulted that I found any fault with his driving, not my words or tone.  And in the end, I concluded that simply meant he was a waste of space.  And that his birth certificate was really an apology from the condom company.