This week, I read this:


After reading several of her beginning blog entries, I realized I don’t have as much in common with this woman as I first suspected I would.  But I was initially drawn to her by our mutual manifestation of annoyance and stress into visions of short violent outbursts which would undoubtedly be delivered perfectly and would achieve results in one swift blow.  She imagines a punch to the throat.  I imagine a kick to the head.  Either way, the sentiment is the same, which means that our superiority complexes are only outmatched by our acute senses of self-control.  Perhaps in real life, I wouldn’t like her.  But I suspect that we would at least get along.

So in the spirit of all things American, I’m stealing her idea and calling it my inspiration for today’s post, and if it turns into a recurring theme, I’m giving her the original credit for coming up with the prompt.

  1. People who walk in my blind-spot.  It would be far too easy to complain about bad drivers as I’m sure we can all agree that people who do not signal are just as idiotic as those driving down the highway with their blinker on for miles.  But today I’m not talking about driving etiquette, I’m talking about walking etiquette.  I can’t say that I go to the mall terribly often, but it never fails that when I am there, someone ends up walking exactly one foot to my left or right and slightly behind me.  It’s like they are close enough to make me paranoid that I’m in the way, but just slow enough that they never pass me.  I find myself afraid to slow down for fear they’ll run into me, but instead speeding up to evade them.  Inevitably, they match their pace with mine, step for step.  Part of me is wondering if they are trying to nonchalantly get close enough to smell my perfume, but maybe they are truly unaware of their awkward proximity.  It’s weird.  And annoying.  And it happens way more often than I’d like to admit.  And it is even worse in the grocery store when the person doing it is pushing a cart and is apparently carrying a carbon copy of my grocery list.
  2. The checkout boys at Lowe’s Foods on Lewisville-Clemmons Road.  And speaking of grocery stores, I have a little shout out for the high school boys who work at Lowe’s Foods.  First, trust me, your buddy at register five also does not know the PLU for organic mixed greens.  They are $5.99 a pound.  Just punch it in or call someone.  Also, when you reload my groceries back into my cart (which my child is subsequently still strapped to), it is normal to push the cart behind yourself, to the end of the register, so I can take it with me, rather than making me come all the way around to get it back out.  Despite how cute high school girls may find you, or how cute you find yourselves, I am neither impressed nor charmed when you refer to me (or the high school girl on the phone, price checking for you) as “sweetheart,” or use your eyes to declare how hot you think you are.  I’ll take the chubby red-heads at Harris Teeter any day over you morons.
  3. The Authors of THIS BOOK, (and every other worthless children’s book, for that matter), as there are, undoubtedly, hundreds of thousands too many in circulation.  It is hard to find decent children’s books on the shelves at the library, will you people stop clogging things further with crap like this?  I mean, it is bad enough that your story relies so heavily on rhythm and rhyme that the story line itself is inane.  What I want to know is how did you and your editors fail to realize half of it is written in present tense and half is written in past tense (sometimes both tenses within one sentence)?  The fact that you’ve managed to publish an entire series of these things is truly mind boggling.  I think lines like this speak for themselves but in case they don’t, note the made up words and random use of capitalization mid-sentence, juxtaposed with such pop-cultural vernacular as ‘Game On.”
                 Game on!  It’s a reindeer flying through the sky
                 Practicing for Christmas so Hippiti-High
    I read this book exactly one time before telling Eliott that even her semi-literate-four-year-old-self could write a better book than this piece of garbage.
People I Want to Kick in the Head

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