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Posts Tagged ‘Lipstick’

Yesterday I had the distinct pleasure of terminating a telephone call with a human who is not familiar with the concept of verbal punctuation. It is amazing that we can get as far as we do in life without applying what ought to be basic instinct. So allow me to move forth from the nicey-froo-froo photos of the last couple of posts, and get on with some pent-up venting about a few issues which remind me of the stench of burnt popcorn:

Robocalls: Since we’re talking about phone calls, I’ll start there. I mean, does anybody really donate time from their life to these? The answer is YES. The political ones prompt an almost-involuntary hang-up response from me, as I take careful note which politician is responsible for sending me into orbit. I don’t even pick up on the unknown numbers. But the ones I am mercilessly held hostage by come from my children’s schools. I am forced into captivity by the office lady’s prerecorded voice for the duration of the call so I can make sure I don’t forget to send my kid with book fair money on the right day, or whatever. I suppose this is only karma in action, for my stint in broadcasting when the population had to listen to my prerecorded robo-weather updates all night long every 30 minutes, long after my show ended and I was home, fast asleep.

I miss the old days of underpaid telemarketers who’d call at the wrong time (it’s always the wrong time, n’est-ce pas?) and get shanghaied into my questions or practical jokes. Or distracting them from why they called and drawing them into the den of my psyche (no, don’t hang up, I was just getting cozy and starting to have fun!). Or the ones I’d wind up performing career counseling on, convincing them to do the country and their self-esteem a favor and find a better job that doesn’t involve commission and the humiliation of getting hung up on repeatedly. Fun with telemarketers is almost as much fun as sharing the beach with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. No, I won’t meekly tell him I have to go. I’m not going anywhere. This is my beach.

I’ll tell him he’ll have to go.

I hope this dude gets paid as many dollars an hour as it is degrees outside!

Street Advertisers: From the vote-hungry politicians standing on all four corners with their twenty best friends, to the dancing foam rubber Little Caesars, to the staggering and hung over Furniture-Store-Going-Out-Of-Business sign-holders, the entities responsible for these road hazards had better carry good insurance. I can’t believe I haven’t heard an account of them causing someone to run off the road and commit manslaughter from the terrible distraction these people pose. As if we’re not already distracted by our gadgets on board. Geez. Now we have something else to keep our eyes off the road while we’re driving. And to the Newt Gingrich puppet perilously occupying the busy intersection: your standing there holding Newt’s sign while looking down texting with your free hand pretty much summed things up for the only-half-in-it Newt camp this time around. Yawn.

The only sign-holding I’ve condoned recently was a declaration created by our third child when our eldest was helplessly two time zones away last December. The younger one, with a big grin, decided he was now “man o’ the house,” held this under his chin and had me text the picture to the older one:

Sibling rivalry at its best...

(Free handwriting analysis: note the correction of the originally small-case ‘o’ in ‘forever,’ to emphasize his intent to emphatically communicate eternity)

Moving on…

Anything by Journey and REO Speedwagon:  (Apologies to my readers who like these groups) Why, oh why can there not be just one day when a song by these bands does not enter my ear canals? All I ask is ONE. Even on days when I go out of my way to control what I listen to, I’ll walk into someone else’s office or into a store and it’s like their songs are everywhere. Must be some kind of monopoly on the airwaves. Their songs were great the first decade or two around. Can we PLEASE retire their songs, already? I’d rather listen to crusty ol’ country songs that predate my birth…at least they sound fresh and meaningful when you’ve never heard them before.

Lipstick: Okay, this stuff got old after the first 20 years of wearing it. There are too many complications with it. Finding the right color, the obligatory blotting routine, not having it go gooey on you in a warm climate, leaving its mark on whatever my lips touch, having to reapply it, losing it, the all-day crap that will not come off without turpentine, and my all-time favorite, having it wind up where it’s not supposed to be, like a streak of it upside your face. Or all over your curious toddler’s face when you’re not looking. I am too active, too distracted, too busy, too inattentive and too impatient for this stuff. Same goes for foundation. I am not a china doll. I can be cute and lipstickless. A little this and a little that, and I’m good to go. I suppose this is what I get for growing up with brothers and being outnumbered by men in the house now. I’d rather spend more time and money on things that pretty me up for the beach, and let the sun paint my sweet lips instead.

Other Peoples’ Meatloaf: Mine is the best. There is little more to say on this subject. All others fall short. (Don’t we all say that?!) One’s own family’s meatloaf must be one of those things we grow up with on our palates that causes all others to pale in comparison. You know what I mean.

Fog Alerts: These always seem to magically appear dead in front of you in a heavy fog. Like you didn’t know you were driving in thick pea soup already. What is the point of having fog alerts and flashing lights if everyone is creeping along as it is and nobody can see past the car in front of them?

Crooked Switch Plates: Really? Really you couldn’t see the screw holes weren’t lined up, and you went ahead anyway and slapped it on the wall for the occupant of the room to have to deal with in perpetuity? Don’t you have a built-in vertical level, or did you forget to plug your eyeballs into their sockets this morning? When we built a couple of homes once upon a time, I either put them in myself or oversaw each one’s installation, only because the crooked switch plate is a needless, careless violation of electrical un-handymanship that occurs far too often. In my office some ditwad put a switch plate in crooked; it was like this when I moved in and I’ve had to live with it five days a week. Worse, it was painted emergency red, as though it controlled the fire alarm system, which it didn’t. I finally got fed up and brought some paints from home and visually righted the damn thing by painting a bright, fiery sun on and around the plate, with solar flares traveling as far as the door jamb (and I painted some flares ON the jamb, too), just to distract the eye from the shoddy plate job.

And, yes, I am the person who goes around righting crooked pictures on the wall. I have trouble relating to those who seem not to notice nor care about such things. I am training myself to tolerate crookedness, however, applying therapeutic interventions to myself at home, seeing how many days I can go with a picture cockeyed. I’m getting better…I’m up to a week, now.

Thanks, God, for stuff to gripe about. Life would otherwise be dull.

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