Why? Well.

I am irked because TOO MANY HATERS seem apt to treat dogs like sub-humans. Yes, I said “sub-humans.” I say this, despite dogs obviously not being human, because animals should in general be treated with respect (and this is said by someone who was recently bitten by a horse, mind you). They ought to be treated with love. Or, at the very least, with common decency. In particular, I am absolutely sick of people being mean to dogs.

I’m sick of being yelled at by complete strangers because I’m walking Wendy down the sidewalk (mind you, on leash, perfectly well-behaved, and oblivious to batshit crazy lady’s presence HALF WAY DOWN THE BLOCK).

I’m sick of being scowled at in the building where I live because I have to use the “people” elevators and not the designated freight elevator because said elevator dates back to when the building was built (1927!!!!) and is frequently out of service- or stuck with someone inside.

I’m sick of drivers flipping the fuck out and screeching forward when you don’t walk your dog fast enough across the street.

I’m sick of seeing a dog treated inferior and literally dragged down a sidewalk, being yelled at and choked along the way.

And I’m sick of people being downright insensitive as evidenced by this lady’s blatant disrespect when, quite frankly, she of all people should have known better.

I don’t care if this makes me sound like some crazy dog lady. I don’t. My dog and so many other dogs exist only to be loved and cared for. They’re loyal and loving. And to many of us, they are our children and may be the only ones we ever have. Fuck you if you think that’s a dumb statement. You’re a toolbag for being mean to dogs and thinking less of those who love them dearly.

I told you. I’m irked. Toolbags will do that to a person.

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Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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See, the couple sitting next to me turned out to be one of THOSE couples: an Icky Couple. And they were proving to be your quintessential Icky Couple. You know, the kind that can’t seem to walk down the street without grasping hands and kissing at each red light, the kind who can’t eat an otherwise perfectly acceptable meal without rubbing each other’s backs, necks or legs (BARF!), or the kind who has to stick their tongues down each other’s throats before parting each morning like one of them is being sent off to war or something. Dude, it’s nine or ten hours apart. I think you’ll make it.

As for this particular Icky Couple, they were making quite a show of it, acting like a bunch of janky ass fifteen year olds, holding hands, kissing each other’s cheeks, practically crawling into each other’s laps, laying their heads on one another’s shoulders à la “oh-my-god-we’re-so-sleepy-because-we-presumably-were-up-all-night-hahahahahahaha,” and talking in a tone louder than a whisper. Can you imagine?

If they were “just kids,” maybe I could have kept my disdain from growing into the seething fire breathing rage dinosaur it has become, but they weren’t. No. The Icky Couple consisted of two otherwise professional-looking adults, dressed for a day at the office where presumably they hold actual, grown up, professional jobs. So I have to wonder…who’s all this ickiness for anyway? Is it really necessary demonstrater your “love” amidst your fellow CTA bus riders? And is the 15-25 minute bus ride the right place and time to properly display said love? The way I see it, romance isn’t about being an Icky Couple to everyone around you. It’s about genuine and PRIVATE moments that don’t result in PDAs on the #135 route into the Loop before 8 am on a Tuesday.

Which brings to mind the day my own boyfriend and I accidentally wound up on the same bus route downtown. Strolling up to the bus stop that morning, I decided it would be best to throw my hip into him from behind, then wait for him to turn around all surly and shit. Which he totally did, except “Hi! It’s just me! Ha ha ha ha ha!!! Good morning!”

After the initial “Oh, it’s you” moment, we go on standing there all aloof and junk until the bus comes and then we sit down side by side, barely touching. And- this is key- for the short 15 minute ride downtown we don’t talk because 1) we don’t have to, and 2) it’s fucking annoying when people do that on public transportation in the morning. Seriously. Just don’t do it. Whether you know someone riding the bus with you or you dare to use your cell phone. DON’T. And, no, there’s no “texting loophole” either- unless you have your phone on silent and don’t make Icky Couple faces while sexting or whatever the fuck else it is that you’re doing. 

Anyway, to cap off the bus ride with my boyfriend that morning, we parted ways with a blasé eyebrow raise and head nod (from me) and a “peace out” punch to the arm (from him). You know, totally normal stuff really and, most importantly, no one’s morning was stymied in the process.

In closing, all you Icky Couple toolbags out there take note and keep it in your pants. No one wants to witness your “love” on public transportation, in the gluten free aisle at the Jewel, while you’re dropping off your dry cleaning, or you know, like ever (unless it’s your wedding, in which case, fine…I guess).

Shut it down, fuckers. Shut. It. Down.

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Exhibit A: This morning, I’m walking Wendy and we’re having a lovely time in the sunshine and she’s being super cute and sassy and prancey. And then, out of nowhere, there’s a lady standing in the middle of the sidewalk about 50 feet away from us. Just standing there, staring at us. And, apparently, yelling at us. Except, I can’t hear what she’s saying at all. I just see her lips moving and her arms gesticulating.

At first, I thought maybe she was yelling at me to clean up after my dog. Wendy had just conducted her business and I had just disposed of said business, but thought that maybe the OLD COOT hadn’t seen me do so. But then I caught one word- “bus”- and thought maybe she was yelling at me to hold the bus or some junk. Which seriously? I had a dog and wasn’t anywhere near the bus, so how the fuck was I supposed to accomplish that? Whore.

Anyway, so the whole time I’m wondering what the hell this old bat’s problem is, Wendy and I are also walking slowly down the sidewalk and closing the gap between us. Just as we get within hearing distance, I hear her yell, “I TOLD YOU TO KEEP HER ON THE SIDE!” or something along those lines. As she yelled this, she scurried off the sidewalk toward the street and began to swear and gesticulate with her purse.

So there I am, standing with my dog in disbelief, and shouting at her back: “WHAT?! I DIDN’T HEAR WHAT YOU SAID- WHAT’S WRONG?” The whole time, all these people are hurrying past on their way to the bus stop and I feel like an idiot. Except all I was doing was walking my dog down the sidewalk. She wasn’t barking or pulling at the leash or anything. Just walking. You know, really vicious stuff like that.

Before I turned and continue on home, Crab Ass made sure to return the volley: “OH JUST FORGET ABOUT! YOU DON’T LISTEN! STUPID [indecipherable haterade]…”

What. The. Hell.

Exhibit B: Pharmacy shenanigans! There I am (this past January), waiting at the pharmacy to pick up my prescription for vicodin because lo and behold I have a jerkstore kidney stone (just wait, that post is still in the works) and there are three INCOMPETENT OLD DRIED UP TOOLBAGS in line in front of me. I’m practically sweating my face off, hanging onto the HIPPA “privacy” rope in pain, and barreled over. I literally was about to throw up.

Meanwhile, Old Biddy #1 has some old fucker prescription card and it’s not working. “But it’s supposed to.” But it isn’t at all. “But can’t you just run it again?” But the pharmacist has and can’t do anything for her.

So Grandma continues to stand there, looking at the card in silence, turning it over in her hand like it’s magically going to turn into a god damn coupon or some shit. Finally, as she begins to rifle through her wallet, she realizes that’s her old card and that- like her- it’s completely useless. It took her 10 minutes to figure that out.

Which is when Old Biddy #2 came up to bat. I’ll spare you the details of her toolbaggery and simply say that she was completely put out that the pharmacy didn’t have enough quantity of her prescription to fill it completely and could only give her 10 pills at the moment. She argued with the poor pharmacist about this and demanded that it be delivered to her home that afternoon. When the pharmacist actually agreed to do so on her own time after she gets off from work, the bitch has the audacity to say that’s not good enough and that she expects it by 2 pm. No “thank you” or “you don’t have to do that” or “viva la customer service!” Just, “that’s not good enough.”

No joke, while she’s finally being sent on her way five minutes later, Grandpa Jones starts in on the pharmacist about how he’s there to pick up two prescriptions, not one. But they only have one filled because that’s all that was sent to them from his doctor.

Another five minutes go by.

A cart ambles toward me and I see that the panting, old as fuck skank driving it is maneuvering to place her cart in line in front of me. Which is when I pretty much lose it and stare her down. We’re talking daggers. Unrelenting daggers. Old Biddy #3 takes notice and continues on her way, pushing the cart into line behind me. She takes her cane out of her empty cart and actually asks me to “watch” her cart while she goes into the bathroom. I’m speechless and just stand there giving her my best bitch face.

By the time she comes out, Grandpa Jones has decided he’ll come back later and I’m finally at the counter 20 minutes later. As I’m in the process of paying, Old Biddy #3 comes and stands at the counter beside me. Literally BESIDE ME. And she’s panting again. Also, she smells like feet.

I haven’t even swiped my card yet when she gives the pharmacist her name and tells her she’s picking up four prescriptions. I turn and stare. The pharmacist says she’ll be right with her as soon as she finishes up with me. The asshat  continues to stand at my side while I sign my receipt and the pharmacist explains that I probably shouldn’t drive or operate heavy machinery. Old Bag says, “Oh my.” So much for HIPPA!

Exhibit C: If you’re wondering if maybe it’s just me who has the problem with OLD ASS FUCKERS, let me add that Fancy has recently had an epic encounter of her own. Sick and on her way home from work early, she found herself stuck in the Jewel parking lot when her car died. She was blocking a lane of traffic. Which is when the honking began. And the swearing. She became understandably upset. She doesn’t feel good, her car just died and her husband is out of town, and now she’s being audibly assaulted. She begins to cry.

The cherry on this Toolbag Sundae came in the form of one crusty old fucker with an oxygen tank that felt it his job to actually flip her off. Because clearly she did it on purpose just to inconvenience him. Clearly.

When I went to pick her up, the only thing I could say upon hearing what happened was that he was probably just in a hurry because he was afraid he’d die before he reached his destination. Which, of course, must be HELL.

Taken as a whole, I’m still really pissed about this morning’s toolbag encounter in particular. I don’t know what else to do except to say: *(#Y)*(E$@L:E>”#:R(EU*YE$*#(y)&*^&#jnj@jio{!~”~((u#uinjwnrj}we{|#+_)#*(#ji{*(_#U*(#$&*##*@HB@Nk3u2890(***@#&)Q@&#^&#^@)Q_@(###@/+UIBN!!!II(!(O(ue807&Y#$&&^#()*(_+@!!!!!!

Also, $#$)U#*(#JIKNM@IOU)#*()@_*(@)(!I()!KO&*% TOOLBAGS!

*I apologize for the length of this post, but as you can see, there’s a SHIT TON of Old Fucker Toolbaggery happening in the world these days.

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I got the same text again the following day. And the day after that. And later on that same evening. Same weird ass message. Same broken English. Same mention of God and junk. Same “‘love Sharon.”

Which is when “Sharon” became “Who the Fuck is Sharon” in my contacts. That’s right, I have a contact listed as “Who the Fuck is Sharon.” Because, seriously, who the fuck is Sharon? All I’ve been able to gather thus far is that she’s very concerned about my well-being and is apparently quite the persistent communicator.

In the end, however, I decided to set Who the Fuck is Sharon straight. In doing so, I chose what I hoped would be a polite and yet lightly offensive tone in an effort to be effective. There really is little more that I am irked by than when someone gets all “Jesus-People” on me. Your beliefs are YOUR beliefs- let’s keep them that way.

Based on Who the Fuck is Sharon’s response, I guess I should have signed it ”Lucifer.”

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This, of course, would also mean that it is the most convenient Starbucks for me to visit on my way to work. Of course. Because what’s more convenient than a latte with an extra shot of shame?

It all began innocuously enough with the general annoyances caused by the North Shore set. Little things began to happen while getting my usual grande soy milk latte…things like the four year old in front of me in her baby pink Uggs holding up the line while she decides on chocolate milk or hot chocolate. And the morning that the “townie” who’s on a first name basis with the baristas comes in in his grody old man track shorts and informs them he’d like a “kwa- san” (croissant) with his Americano. And then there’s the barista on bakery counter duty. She’s a real gem, that one. Especially when you shout your order over all the noise and she gives you the stink eye for trying to ensure she hears you, à la “Yeah, I KNOW! Stop yelling at me! Gah!”

Annoyances aside, I’ve continued returning to that particular Starbucks because, again, it’s so damn convenient. Until one day…

There I am, in line to pay for my order, and the lady at the register….a slight bird like woman who always seems put out by the whole wearing an apron and making eye contact thing…rings me up. Except, Bitchy Bird Lady Barista doesn’t take it upon herself to actually give me my total and instead waits for me to hand her my money. So I do.

I blankly hand her a $20, which is when she tells me it’s $9.76. Thinking I somehow must have messed up- even though I just handed her a $20- I start to dig into my wallet before I catch myself. I look back at her, dumbfounded and thinking, “Yeah. And?” So she starts to hand my $20 back to me. When I ask her why, Stink Eye Bakery Counter Barista comes over and is all “What’s the problem?” Which is when Bitchy Bird Lady Barista explains that apparently I was supposed to give her a $10.

To this day I still don’t know what I did wrong, but she sure as hell made certain to give me my change in as pissy and huffy a manner as possible. In the process, I somehow felt I’d WRONGED her and was being scolded!

Ever since The $20 “Underpayment” Debacle, she’s given me this distrustful look, as though I’m trying to pull a fast one on her or something. I realize that most days I do go to work looking a bit like a vagrant, but come on! At least I’m not four years old, wearing $100+ footwear, and deciding between a tall and a grande before I roll into pre-school! AND at least I know not to act like a pretentious douche canoe when I order a croissant!

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“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.”

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