“Let me just pull up your account…..I see you have our SUPER-DOUBLE-WHATEVER-WE-WANT-TO-REBRAND-OURSELVES-TO-COVER-OUR-INCREASE-IN-PRICES package.”

“Yup…same one I’ve had for the past nine months.”

“Right. Well, due to an increase in operating costs, I’m sure you can understand, we’ve had to raise our prices ever so slightly. I do see that, as a special thank you from us, you’ll receive HBO for the next six months for free.”

“Yeah, I’ve had that for free for the past nine months too. What if I just trade you HBO for my $10 back each month?”

“Are you unhappy with your services?”

“No, I guess not. I just don’t know what value I’m getting for $10 more a month.”

“We’ve recently enhanced our Internet speed….”

“Really? It’s working the same as before….”

“Well, if you want to upgrade to our…”

“No, I don’t want to upgrade. I just don’t see how I’m better off.”

“We can look at other SIMILARLY-PRICED-IF-NOT-MORE-EXPENSIVE packages if you…”

“No. You know what? No. Maybe just don’t acquire a network on its last lap around the drain (sorry 30 Rock, I still heart you) and stop hiring Don Draper to do your commercial voice-overs. Maybe then you wouldn’t have to raise prices.”

“……….”

“Well, not you. You know what I mean. Hey, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Anyway. So, $10 more a month?

“Yes.”

“GREAT.”

How the conversation really went….

“Hi, I’m calling because I keep getting cryptic calls from this number and want to know why.”

“Let me just check your information………..right. We’re just calling as a courtesy to verify your service disconnection request.”

“My what?”

“Service disconnection.”

“Ah, no. I didn’t request that. Don’t do that. No.”

“Okay, well, that’s why we have these sorts of calls! Hehehehehehehe…”

“Yeah, but you didn’t even leave a message or anything. Also, why am I even being called about this?”

“With computers these days you just never can tell. Somebody pushes the wrong button here and it comes out wrong there and….you know how it is. Anyway, I do see that you have our SUPER-DOUBLE-WHATEVER-WE-WANT-TO-REBRAND-OURSELVES-TO-COVER-OUR-INCREASE-IN-PRICES package.”

“Um, yeah. Just to be clear, I’d like to keep it. Again, do not disconnect anything.”

“Right. I also see that while your rate will be only $10 more a month, you’ll also receive HBO for six months for free as a special thank you from us.”

“Yes. Great. Already get it, but okay. Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

“No. Just don’t get rid of anything.”

“Got it. Thank you for calling OVERPRICED-REBRANDED-COMPANY-THAT-JUST-PUT-ONE-OVER-ON-YOUR-JANKY-ASS.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks. Bye.………wait, what? Ten dollars more? Hello? Hello? Ah, hell.”

My new neighbor/roommie moved in the first weekend of May and it didn’t take long (all of three nights) for me to introduce myself in the bitchiest manner possible. At approximately 11:27 p.m. on a Monday night, he thought it was a good time to move boxes from the living room into his bedroom, dropping them on the floor above my bed each time. Later, he put a hammer to use. A hammer.

After 30 minutes and more than a few “Ah, hell no’s,”  I threw the covers back and sprung into action. I’m going to lay down the law now before months or a whole year goes by. I’ve lived here five years and I’m entitled to throw my weight around. Or, at least that’s what I told myself as I scrubbed the night-time mask off my face in a fury of angst, shoved my feet into my slippers, and barged upstairs where I banged on his door like a hell-bent census worker.

On the other side of the door, I heard a scramble take place between the bedroom and the living room where some hitherto unheard country “music” bullshit was quieted. Moments later, the door opened, showing the perp’s identity. A mangy, skinny, baby-faced 22-24 year old hobbit. YOU’RE the one making all that noise, I instantly thought. Instead, what I said was something along the lines of…

“I’m your downstairs neighbor and I realize you just moved in and probably have a lot of unpacking to do and whatnot, but whatever it is that you’re doing right now above my bedroom is loud and just…no. You have to stop. Maybe do it during the day, or I don’t know, before 11 o’clock at night.”

I tried, I really tried. I wanted to sound just scary enough to be taken seriously but also not completely off my rocker. In retrospect, I’m sure the threadless t-shirt I was sporting reinforced my intent more than my words. It was a gift.

This is not me. In case you were uncertain....

After a wide-eyed initial apology and just as I was about to return to my den of haterade, he says, “Can I ask you something? [dramatic pause] Is it really that loud?”

I’m going to be honest: with that, my mouth fell open. “You’re building furniture above my bedroom at 11:30 at night. Yeah, it’s that loud.”

I didn’t wait for him to respond further. I marched downstairs and went back to bed. After another 10 minutes of noise, he finally quieted down. The next morning, I awoke proud and empowered. Take that, world! But by Wednesday, he was at it again. He came home after 11 p.m. with a slam of the door and swiftly returned to his “construction zone.” The boxes must have been emptied and the furniture built, but dammit, he still had his hammer. I can only imagine that the thought process, or lack thereof, ran along the lines of: “Have hammer. Have walls. Must. Hang. Objects.”

What can I say? With all his late-night woodworking antics and home improvement tendencies, my neighbor’s a regular “Geppetto.” Also, a real asshole.

So this morning, as I sat in the center lane of an intersection to turn right (because crossing traffic for the Lake Shore Drive on-ramp backs up and blocks the right-hand portion of the intersection), I was simply doing what any city driver would do. I was going to work and I knew where to avoid getting hung up. Apparently, the silver BMW X5 in the right turn lane next to me didn’t share that knowledge.

When the light turned green, I pulled forward to turn right around the line of stopped cars blocking the intersection, which is when the X5 moved to cut me off. Incredulous, I laid on the horn for dramatic effect and made eye contact with its driver- a twenty-something platinum blond sporting sunglasses on a cloudy morning. I’m going to be straight with you, neither the make and model of her car, nor the physical traits of her persona did her any favors with me. Before I knew what I was doing, I muttered, “cunt.” GASP!

Now, I have to pause for a moment because this is the first time I’ve EVER called anyone this word. In fact, I never say it and I won’t let anyone around me say it either. It’s ugly and hateful and derogatory. But, while I’m not proud of my verbal reflexes today, she shouldn’t be proud of being such a c*nt either. Moving on…

C*nt or not, I knew I was going to let her through, but not before I fucked with her a little. I surged the car forward and slammed on the brakes a few times to make her think I was going to go ahead anyway. She wasn’t very happy about that. When I did let her go, I did so knowing about the double turn lane ahead where I would be cutting her off, which I did. She really didn’t like that.

Normally, you’d think that would be the end of Ms. X5 and her shenanigans, but 10 minutes down the road as I sat in a row of cars on Sheridan, she found me. She slammed on her brakes in the adjacent lane and tried to ridicule me with her own horn blaring. Notwithstanding the cars backing up behind her, her window came down and her sunglasses came off. She extended a tanned and bony arm, and then….a finger. One finger on the hand laden with the weight of her diamond engagement ring and wedding band. My own windows were rolled up and I had music playing, but I was still able to clearly hear her parting epitaph for me: “Fuck you, you fucking bitch!” before she sped off in a blur of bourgie glory.

I proceeded to spend the remainder of my drive to work reflecting on her antics. Hers was not the most creative of come backs, but she got her point across. And I have to hand it to her, she really went out of her way to track me down and tell me to “take that.” I’d venture to guess it was that level of gumption and studiousness that nabbed her the husband who likely bought her that WASPy pre-motherhood crossover. Good for you, honey. Good for you. So it must really suck for someone like her when even one little thing doesn’t go her way in life. With that in mind, I feel fairly certain from what I could see that she’ll wind up being adequately miserable simply by virtue of being who she is.

Lesson learned: driving in the leather-seated comfort of your BMW, to the job you expected your marriage to make obsolete, is hard.

Once I arrived, however, I realized just how naïve that ambition was. Most of the items on my friend’s registry were nowhere to be found, and not just because baby stuff is merchandised in a way that makes zero sense. Towels and washcloths are in one place and the baby bath mat thingamajig and accessories are in another.

After going back and forth between the two aisles and finding only the powder and lotion from her registry, I figured I had three options. It was too late to buy online and have anything shipped, so I could: a) Give up, go home, and deal with it tomorrow, b) Gift card, or c) In the words of Tim Gunn, make it work.

So, I punted. I got as close as I could to what she registered for. I’d equate it to eating a Boca burger and telling yourself it’s still meat. Rather than the yellow towel set with yellow fish that she registered for; she’s getting a yellow towel set with a yellow turtle on it instead. In my head I reasoned that, Turtles swim too so that still counts, right? Of course, next to the pseudo fish- turtle towel there was an ample stock of blue and pink towel sets of what I was supposed to be buying. It mocked me. Damn blue and pink fish. Also, damn people and their refusal to find out if it’s a boy or a girl! Jerks.

Anyway, after a few more similar efforts, I managed to load up on baby lotions, powders, washcloths, towels, a duckie faucet cover, bath mat, water temperature gauge, and some contraption that keeps water out of your baby’s eyes. My arms were full, and that’s when I knew I’d made a crucial mistake. A cart! I didn’t get a cart. Shuffling about, bent backward and peering over my stash, I managed to drop every single item while on the hunt. As it turns out, not only should I not be trusted to hold babies, I should also not be trusted to hold baby accoutrements.

Eventually, I found an empty adrift cart and dropped the items down, which is precisely when some 16 and Pregnant episode contestant came out of the woodwork and yelled at me like I was stealing her car or her monies or something. Embarrassed, I feigned cart loss…. “Oh, you mean this one isn’t mine? Hmmmm….silly me. It must have wandered away. Ah ha ha ha ha…” Abort, abort, abort!

Undeterred by my failed cart ganking, I set out to find a better option and was much more successful and stealthlike the second time around. With both hands now free and flipping through the registry one last time, I steered my not-stolen-but-found cart over to the greeting card/ gift wrapping section.

Facing a wall of shiny papers and ribbons and bows and buttons and bags and just everything that a person apparently has to have in order to give a gift, I reached for the largest bag in hopes that it could hold all that I had somehow pieced together. The bag was decorated brightly with a colorful animal…a dinosaur or buffalo or something- I don’t know, it could have been a caterpillar even, I didn’t really look. The thing is, the bag refused to refold once I nixed it. And that’s when all manner of clusterfuckery happened.

Apparently, the gift bag aisle is also an up and coming thoroughfare because as I struggled with the bag, a lady rolled her overstuffed cart- bursting with storage bins- into my ankle. Before I could react or shrivel in pain, a family of four shoved past yelling in Spanish what I can only assume was, “Quick, there’s a run on baby gifts! Get the last yellow towel set, kids! Fish or turtles, doesn’t matter! I’ll corner the gift bag market!”

And then, some hipster dude sporting the saddest facial hair since Mariah Carey’s crustache in Precious, pulled up thisclose to me. I can only assume that the pastel polk-a-dot tissue paper made him thoughtful, as he gazed with a fierceness that not even my blatant stare of disgust could tear him away. I scrunched up my forehead, crinkled my nose, raised an eye brow. Still nothing. Incredulously, I threw the bag on the floor. He walked away. Meh.

I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish by eliciting a response, but in a matter of only 30 minutes I had gone from confident, prepared, unfettered career woman supporting her friend’s life choices to befuddled, butterfingered, stupid, single girl without a clue. I was frustrated and fuming and nothing would just WORK! Baby gift shopping had broken me and I’d *maturely* decided to take it out on a colorful gift bag, which I didn’t even buy.

Admittedly, I had botched the whole thing horribly, comically even. Not only did I not go to my friend’s Baby Couples Shower, but now I couldn’t even get her a proper gift. I was weak with hunger and failure, my bangs were plastered mercilessly to my forehead, and a blister had formed on my right heel. It was then that I looked down at the forlorn, deflated dinosaur-buffalo-caterpillar-mystery animal gift bag and thought; This…this is what my life has come to.

A gift bag was never so symbolic.

Like most women, I hate shaving my legs. I hate it for a lot of reasons, but mainly because I wake up really early to get ready and commute 90 minutes to work, which means I’m typically awake between 5 and 6 a.m. Shaving at that hour is next to impossible in that 1) my eyes are barely open, 2) I haven’t allotted myself enough time to do it adequately, and 3) I wind up cutting myself multiple times.

Adding insult to injury, as a Chicagoan shaving often proves to be an exercise in futility. The minute I catch a chill or step out into the COLD ASS pre-dawn air, goosebumps form and then it’s game over. Instant stubble. Why is that anyway?

But lately, although I may dislike the chore of shaving, I’ve been having a whole other slew of problems. For some reason, for five days after shaving my legs, my janky ass pores pitch a hissy fit. It’s not razor burn or dry skin, but my shins continue to itch horribly. I’ve tried organic products- shaving cream, oatmeal based lotions, sea salt exfoliating scrubs between shavings. I even went to a dermatologist last summer about it, though it proved entirely unhelpful (her answer was to “take a break” from shaving in the middle of August. I don’t know about you, but a leg full of hair isn’t exactly how I want to accessorize my cute strappy sandals and sundresses). All to no avail.   

So I finally caved. I decided to try waxing. Certainly, the idea of not having to worry about shaving and avoiding the reaction I’ve been suffering from seemed well worth the cost and pain. Or so I thought.

Walking into a local waxing establishment, I believed I had come prepared after a week of not shaving. But when I bared my legs, the motherly Korean lady began to study them and doubt. She pawed at my calves, craned her work lamp closer, interrogating the hairs into submission. She hemmed and she hawed, made odd guttural noises that you’d never want to hear in a hospital or a car repair shop. And then she was off. She vowed to “try.”

Unceremoniously, she slathered a random swath of wax across my shin. I wasn’t prepared for its heat, but in a moment the burn was covered with a canvas strip of cloth and she was smoothing it out. And then….RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPP!

I felt the pain shimmy all the way up to my forehead; the skin at my temples shivered, the sudden sting on my leg lingered. We both leaned in to examine the results.

Success. Partial success. As gross as the canvas strip now looked, there were stragglers. They mocked us. But, valiantly, she carried on and waxed despite her complaints of my hair being “Too thin! Your hair too thin!” Um, sorry lady. Believe me, I’m not enjoying this either, I thought.

In the end, the results yielded my looking akin to a hastily plucked chicken. We termed it, “much better,” though in reality I think we both we’re thinking, “good enough.” But before I could gather my things, she tried to force a bikini wax on me. She stood pointing to her own lady bits and said, “I have lot of hair here but it not hurt.” Not only did I want to laugh at the utter absurdity of the bold-faced lie she’d just told, but I was horrified that she had just grabbed her hoo-ha and described her pubic hair all before I’d had a chance to get coffee.

“No, thanks,” I told her. “Maybe next time.”

As for that next time, would I do it again? Yes, just not at the same place. This establishment had the wherewithal to classify some of its waxing options as a “Bikini Dance for Women.” That “dance” included (and I quote): Samba (Brazilian), Gogo (Regular), Hip Hop (Hip), and Cha-cha-cha (Anus). Yes, it says “anus.” GDF, Emo, and I all agree it should say “bung hole” instead. Even though it would still be a gross description, at least it would be funny because “bung hole” is definitely a funny word.

So yeah…I think I’d pony up for a more spa-like atmosphere. I’d also toss back a few shots before going in for any future waxings. And, as far as working my way up to a bikini wax, my thoughts are thus: go big, or go home. For me, it’d have to be a full on Brazilian, and at this juncture, I honestly don’t think I could both drink enough and not have to be carried into the place to successfully execute that one.

And yet, the comment never posted, was never approved. In finding that to be the case, I immediately felt insulted, incensed even. And then, I laughed at the absurdity of the blogger who refused to share my advice with the rest of the readers, to allow my words to be a part of the conversation. I had been censored.

As a blogger for four years, I’ve only ever committed the same error of judgment on one occasion. It was my own ignorance that prompted me to do so. My commenter had written what I thought was “IMAO,” and I immediately had to google it to learn what it meant. In my arrogant opinion. Huh. Well, that’s just stupid and hateful, I thought at the time. And then I realized that the “I” wasn’t an “I” at all but instead a lower case “L.” Laughing my ass off. Oh. I immediately undid what I had done, but was embarrassed nonetheless.

Since that mistaken understanding of modern day acronyms, I’ve encountered a few barbs here and there from commenters. I’ve approved them each time. And in some cases, deliberately. The comments were judgmental maybe, critical of my life choices and/or my writing of them. I’ve been accused of such things as whining and being selfish. Maybe I am whiny and selfish. More likely than not.

But, whereas I may not have liked what was written about me, I approved the comments as an accurate depiction of my reading audience. And- perhaps selfishly- I also wound up throwing those commenters to the wolves. The wolves being my longtime and loyal readers. In my own general refusal to respond to such comments, my readers picked up the slack and questioned the kindness and consideration of the offending commenters. Thank you.

I’ve been quite lucky in that regard and in general as far as pure hateful comments go. I’ve managed to avoid the distasteful character attacks that some of my fellow bloggers have come up against. Those kind of comments are ridiculous and simply uncalled for. The ethical dilemma of whether to approve such comments is in fact an easy one to decide.

As for my unapproved comment, I chose to drop that blog from my reader. Good luck and good riddance, I say. Despite the very serious and concerning drama about which the blogger writes, I must assume they are uninterested in my thoughts or advice, and therefore can do without my support as a reader as well.

Behold, my list of unabated and MAJESTIC! snark…

• I hate the abbreviated usage of the word “appetizer.” I always think of Lincoln Park douchebags who begin most sentences with “a couple of my buddies and I…” These are the same fratastic Jäger bomb drinkers who spout “let’s get some apps” all the time. AH! Hate hate hate that. Which is only compounded these days by all the iPhone “there’s an app for that” bullshit. How about there’s an app for SHUT THE HELL UP?!

• People who don’t say “hi” back or look at me all “I don’t give a shit, you whore” when I smile politely at them as I pass by. Smile, dammit! I’m nice, despite all evidence to the contrary.

• Easter grass. The plastic static cling kind. I detest the stuff- always have. I hate how when you’re reaching for that hidden treasure (Reese’s egg), you invariably come away with the janky ass crap on your shirt sleeve, which transfers to your pant leg, which you find on the side of your couch two weeks later.

• Eat Pray Love. I proudly stand as my own one woman crusade of haterade for Elizabeth Gilbert. I think her book- and I read it cover to cover- is a misguided epitaph against mental health awareness. I should note that I’m supportive of therapists and anti-depressants from my own need for both and the benefits I’ve experienced as a result. Which is why I think it’s unethical for dear ole Lizzy to perpetuate the stigma attached to treating depression by her own ill advised decisions to treat hers with food, yoga, and a freaking man. Problem solved. Yeah, right.

• Board and/or card games, also known as my personal hell. Although I have been known to make exception for Scrabble, Uno, or Jenga. Mostly because I divide and conquer at Scrabble. Bring it.

• The words “loin,” “pussy,” “tits, “moist,” “fashionista,” “taint,” “va-jay-jay,” “discharge,” “c you next Tuesday”… hell, who am I kidding? We could be here all day. “Panty,” “vom,” “muffin-top”…

• Jeggings. Seriously people, just stop. Stop it. Back away from the overpriced stretchy fake ass denim “pants.” They cost as much, if not more, than honest to goodness jeans. And what’s with those pockets on the back? Why not just wear some effing skinny jeans and call it a day? While I’m at it, I hate crocs too. If you’re going to wear crocs, why don’t you just give up on life? Because that’s what you look like when you shuffle along wearing them.

• Sweetest Day. One word: LAME.

What gets you unabashedly snarky?