Who You Callin' Stupid?

Syntax has been, and always will be one of the defining factors of our kind. Regardless of your language or dialect, ability to arrange words in order to convey a message is a basic requirement to function in any society. The words you choose says a lot about you. Do you take the time to say things the way you understand them, or do you simply regurgitate what you are told in the manner in which they are presented?

I am by no means a linguistic, I have poor spelling and grammar, and make up more words than the average Nana in a Scrabble contest. I do however know that we have been listening to the same broken record of buzz words for a while now, and I’m waiting for someone to break the needle.

“New Economy”, “Economic Reinvestment”, “Stimulation”, and “American Recovery” are just a few words that have become more popular than fanny packs at an amusement park. It's almost as if using these words validates whatever action they have been linked to. In fact, just outside of our driveway there is a 5x5 blaze orange sign stating “Putting Americans to Work. Funded by the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act”. Ah, yes – the road project that was scheduled to start over 10 months ago will finally begin. I don’t know about you, but I’m glad the government paid for a giant sign to point out that they’ve been slacking, and will finally get started on their “honey-do” list. I makes me wonder how the neighbors would feel if we started leaving behind signs like “Making our Community Greener – One Poo Pile at a Time”. Or, maybe my boss would like “My Presence Here Stimulates the Economy”. Disagreeing could easily label you as an anti-environmentalist, or worse, anti-American.

While it is no secret that our nation is in what I would classify as a hot mess, these canned statements are nothing but focus group-selected verbs attempting to fog and simplify our thinking. Million dollar words thrown out in hopes to diffuse the situation, banking on the fact that we are all too lazy to look into them a little closer. You say “reinvestment” - at what point were we not invested? You say “stimulation” – aren’t some of our struggles due to “over stimulation”? You say “American Recovery” – aren’t we recovering from the irresponsible behavior of ourselves… fellow Americans?

At the end of the day, this is nothing but polishing turds. Yes, the massive pot holes down our street are finally going to be fixed - and they've dug up enough money to consider putting in a much needed traffic light. The real story however is that the project fell behind and now there's a little cash to get it started. A handful of guys will have a job - just long enough to show improvement for the next unemployment poll - where shortly after they will be laid off and left waiting for the next wave of stimulation.

But really... doesn't their way of phrasing it make you feel better??

Reduce, Reuse, Re-delagate your Responsibilities

Dear environmentally conscience neighbor:

I award you a green thumbs up for your continued efforts to soften your carbon footprint. However while you work to wisely sort your waste, I can’t help but notice you have overlooked a couple of minor details in your environmental movements. Every Wednesday morning you proudly display a cornucopia of recyclables. From large cardboard boxes, to Fiji water bottlers, you neatly arrange your tidy trash week after week.

What you have clearly over looked is the fact that your elegantly presented bin blows over about 14 minutes after you drive away. “Impossible!”, you say? Oh, quite the opposite. You see after letting the dog fertilize the lawn she proudly chases after your stray Gatorade bottles and crushed milk cartons for a few minutes. When the novelty wares thin, we pick up your recyclables and tuck them neatly in our trash can. Our unsorted, messy trash can.

Environmentally irresponsible? Maybe. Lazy? Likely. Polluters? Ahh… actually no. We’ll leave that ball in your court, Mrs. recycling lady. Yes your intentions are good, yet you are single handedly littering the neighborhood week after week. Much like a 5 year old's first attempt to use a hand mixer, there comes a point when even the most patient of mothers realizes their little helper is more of a mess than benefit. And you, our neighborhood litter bug, are a bigger mess than benefit. Your failed efforts make as much sense as an environmentally responsible light bulb...made out of toxic, hazardous materials.

So… next time you turn your nose up at our failure to recycle, or send a picture to the association to prove our dog takes a dookie in the grass – please take comfort in knowing we are doing our part too. Before her fresh environmental movement settles in the soil, we promptly seal it in a plastic bag, (which likely contains B2), and toss it in the trash right next to your meticulously sorted droppings.

Of course if you’d rather, we can put it on your doorstep – seeing that your party pizza box has found its way to ours….. You’re call.

Triple grande caramel mocha with a shot of self-esteem, please.

While passing out cups of java joy, I couldn’t help but notice you keep conversations brief and cordial for most customers – respecting their morning zombie-like haze. Yet, day after day you have delivered a shot of insults with my beverage. I don’t seem to recall asking for a tall-half-caf- vanilla-make-fun-of-my-hair- latte. Nor did I ask for a grande-criticize-my-outfit-mocha. What did I ever do to you mister Starbucks man. I apologize if I somehow managed to offend you with my order, but I find your vicious attacks are very unnecessary.

I’m willing to let a few insensitive comments pass before 7 a.m., but I must draw the line. Consider today your warning… the line has been drawn. Next time you stand there with your graying hair and expanding beer belly, be careful as you inform me that I that I look very old – old enough to be your mother. I also suggest that you choose your words wisely when telling me I would be lucky if I could ever find a boyfriend, and nobody would marry me. Once you hand over that cup, you’ve fueled a beast and I warn you – there’s no turning back. I can, and I will go Arabian Mocha Java on you, sir.

My sarcasm is typically intended for good humor, however you’re playing with fire. I’m fully prepared to unleash a flurry of hurtful jabs in your direction – Ralphie and Scutt Farcus style. So hand over that cup, and nobody will get hurt. One more poorly chosen line from you and I’ll show you why there is in fact a reason to cry over spilled milk.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi…

Oh mother dearest – please don’t worry about controlling that 3 foot beast running down the condiment isle. Seeing that you forgot to grab the child leash so charmingly disguised as a monkey, I’m sure you are feeling just a bit overwhelmed. After all, how does one expect a mother to manage a shopping cart and child without a Labrador-like restraining device? And yes, the high pitched screaming and tantrum throwing is perfectly acceptable considering the circumstances.

So, don’t mind us as we reach around your precious angel for a jar of Vlasic bread and butter chips. And as for the minor traffic jam your “little peanut” has created at the intersection of juice and crackers – no worries. We didn’t really have anything else to do today. We’ll just wait until you and all of the other parents finish counting to three before we scope out the Chex Mix inventory. That’s when something magical happens, right? Thank goodness you were bestowed the gift of counting to three slowly enough to create the illusion that your little terror mysteriously saw the light and adopted a socially acceptable demeanor.

If you would like, I’m happy to join in on the counting next time. Because let’s be realistic… we’re going to share this experience again once we hit the cookie isle. And as friendly warning, I may not be as patient if your little sweetie pie comes between me and the Double Stuff.

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right – here I am.

Life is full of difficult decisions, and you often find yourself having to pick the lesser of two evils. Not out of laziness or lack of interest – but purely because all options simply suck. For example… you board the bus at 6 a.m. only to find that you’ve stepped into a chamber of bacteria, oozing out of parkas and wool mittens. You quickly assess the situation, hoping a golden beam of light will illuminate an open seat surrounded by sunshine, daisies, and a babbling brook. Instead, the flickering lights reveal your grim options of slush covered seats.

15 seconds to choose a bus mate… who do you go with? The man with the rattling phlegm filled hack? The woman that has already sneezed 5 times and is yet to cover her spray of snot? What about the lady you thought was safe last time, but turned out to be a flatulent culprit? Or, do you take your chances with the personal bubble invader, and hope she stays within her defined portion of the seat?

Of course, the bubble invader is the least offensive to the senses. So, congratulations Mrs. Space Invader. While your elbow and leg was rhythmically bouncing against mine through the entire ride, and you cracked open a bag of Doritos for a crunchy, (very crunchy), early morning snack… you have proven to be the least offensive person on the bus this morning. Take pride in this achievement. Walk into work - head held high as you welcome your coworkers with your recognizably Doritos aroma, knowing that even at your extra cheesiest, you were in fact chosen as the lesser of this morning’s evils.

Who pimped my ride??

To the %*&@$ it may concern:

The dime sized chunk you took out of my bumper has made me furious, and I must share my frustration. My very first brand spankin’ new car and some near sighted dill weed nudges up to my poor, innocent bumper until their license plate screw viciously digs into the smooth, dare I say perfect, back side.

Your failure to respect the junk in my trunk has been eating away at me for days, so I must tell you the level of disappointment and lack of trust I have in you – you mystery bumper nudging butt head. I took special care to avoid the prime parking spot near the station wagon at target knowing the 8 year old inside was bound to test the hinge in his mother’s car door… likely dimpling the smooth complexion of my passenger side. I have even been taking corners a little slower to avoid that curb I usually take out.

Yes, I’ve been taking special care to show this new car a little love in hopes that on that -25 wind chill day it will greet me with a smile and say “Hey, buddy! I know you don’t want to walk home in the cold, dark, up to your femur-snow drifts. Let me start right up and get toasty and warm for you.” I tried to protect it from the harsh world, but you – mystery bus rider – have tainted my wheels.

Thanks for getting that first ding out of the way for me. I was really dreading the day I had to come to terms with the fact that I put the first scratch on the surface. You really did me a big favor…. So thanks for that. I hope one day you come forward so I can show my deep appreciation in your bumper. Until then, keep on truckin’.

Idle Idols

The shock! The horror! How could he? What was she thinking? Better yet…. why on Earth are you so personally affected when a celebrity does something stupid? Are you BFF’s? Does Tiger Woods have the other half of your heart shaped friendship bracelet? Can you please tell me why his domestic issues have made people say that this "proves that nobody’s perfect"?

Tiger Woods may have been cheating on his wife with a baker’s dozen of yesterday’s pastries. Brittney Spears may be getting married to another trailer park prince. Angelina Jolie may be placing an order for the 2010 model of 3rd World orphans. Why do you care so much? Don’t model your life after them; buy perfume, clothes or makeup just so you can be like them. In case you didn’t know, Sara Jessica Parker doesn’t use Garnier Hair color – she spends $500 a month to get their roots touched up in some posh boutique by a guy named Zeek.

I’m not really sure why people seem to consider celebrities as the definition of "perfect" and get so upset when they let you down. Am I the only one that remembers the days of Angelina’s tongue taking residence down Billy Bob’s throat? Billy Bob.... If that’s perfection just call me Mother Theresa.

If you’re too lazy to pave your own path in life and need to look up to someone that you only know because you read headlines while standing in line at Cub Foods… I suggest you model yourself after a dead person. Living beings are too volatile. Their reputations may not be flawless, but they are set in stone. Rest assured that next month Einstein won’t be on the cover of US Weekly sneaking into a Motel 8 with Jessica Simpson’s dad, and Marie Curie won’t suddenly develop a breast augmentation and rhinoplasty obsession.

Aristotle defined perfection as "the ultimate completion of that which cannot be any better." So… unless you’re dead, you don’t qualify as perfect. I think there was a story about a carpenter that had the same moral….

Playing Cutsies

Hey, Jerk. Back in kindergarten I learned about this thing called a "line". It was also referred to as "waiting your turn." I don’t expect you to follow the ladies first rule, but it would be super if you weren’t so pushy. You seem to be under the assumption that your time is more valuable than mine. You also seem to be under the impression that by pushing me out of the isle you will get to your final destination faster. For this reason, I make it a point to park closer to the exit than you do, and take great pleasure in cutting you off at the stop sign every evening. When you start playing nice, I will too.

Must you push my buttons?

You may notice – the elevator button is illuminated. That’s because I pushed it. Actually, you watched me push it. And since there is only one button, and you witnessed the selection, I’m not sure why you felt the need to push it again. Did I not push it correctly? Do you have a magic index finger that will summon the elevator more quickly? If so, is there a reason that magic finger pushed two buttons when you boarded the elevator? “Oops!” You say, as if you really didn’t realize you work on the 26th floor and not the 15th. That’s okay… I look forward to spending more time with you and your intersting mix of Hugo Boss, LeAnn Chin, and cigarette smoke as a result of your compulsive button pushing magic finger.

I have a magic finger, too. But I’m too much of a lady to use it.

When Boots Go Rouge

Pardon me, Miss. While I am not claiming to be a fashion expert, I must beg that this boot trend must stop. I know that tucking your jeans into fur-lined boots is all the rage this winter, but the cuteness factor is lost on everyone over the age of 10. Which, clearly you are.

Maybe I critique out of jealousy. You see - I can't seem to stroll through Target so confidently while two miniature abominable snow monsters cling to my ankles. I fell like I have just caught the tail end of a mating ritual gone rouge - right as the UGG devours the boot-leg Levis.

On the other hand, maybe I criticize because it seems as though you've brainwashed your husband into following this awful trend. While I know absolutely nobody will believe my tail of two boot-crossed lovers, you've left me with no choice but to take drastic measures. Yes... that snickering you hear is me, hiding behind the Moxi Chocolate as I try to snap a picture to prove that I saw a real life Ken and Barbie Ski Cabin Weekend collector set.

I suggest you take a walk down isle P5, and get a good look at your look. If your still convinced your pant eating Maltese feet look good - by all means continue to rock your (not-so-original) style. But please, I beg of you.... stop dressing your husband up like Ski Cabin Ken. I have shopping to do, and it's difficult to focus when I'm so concerned that your husband's boots are going to eat what's left of his manhood.

*Yes... that's the photo. The figure in the white sweater is the husband. Believe me now??