Blowin' Up

What is it about turning over the last page in the calendar that makes people want to detonate explosive devices in close proximity to their homes? I'm talking about those who, instead of watching professionals on TV deliver a quality fireworks display choreographed to Auld Lang Syne, would rather set off some jank illegal ground mines to the sweet, sweet sounds of Uncle Kracker.

As a person averse to loudness in general, lying in bed waiting for the random explosions to be over and wondering if any of them are aimed at my car isn't fun. It gives me fodder for future PTSD therapy sessions. And what's the excitement in a loud noise? I mean, come on. And it just goes on and on, since there's not usually a time limit set when drunks get a hold of stuff they can blow up. You just have to hope someone blasts their finger off so everyone heads to the ER and you can get some sleep.


At least with a professional display, you get the benefit of some colors and sparkles and maybe one of those newfangled fireworks that looks like a peace sign when it explodes in the air. Now that's progress. If the ancient Chinese come back, we can totally show them the smiley face firework as evidence of our evolution as a species.

Taxi Driver.

You'd think, right, that spending one's entire day behind the wheel of a motorized vehicle would make one, at the very least, a competent driver. That this experience would make one aware that city streets are by and large in fact TWO lanes. That inching up through the crosswalk at a red light when you see pedestrians approaching might not be the most courteous maneuver. That having a nine-hour phone call with a fellow cab driver that necessitates wild gesticulations while you're driving may not espouse the notion of putting safety first. Thanks for bucking these assumptions, legions of Philadelphia cab drivers!

I'm sure it's a dangerous job: when you're not dodging your fellow yellow menaces on the road, you've got to worry if the trick you picked up is going to break your ass and steal your wallet. But it begs the question: are bad drivers drawn to being cab drivers or does being a cab driver make one a bad driver? Or a sociopath, for that matter?

Moving at Midnight.

Did it become socially acceptable at some point to MOVE (either in or out of an apartment) at midnight? Just wondering, because this is what the bowling neighbors upstairs, who had been pogo-ing nightly on my head, did the other night. Don't get it twisted: not having to listen to anything other than the occasional random drunk or abusive parent screeching out in the street has been nothing less than a precious gift, more beautiful than a unicorn's tears. But come on - midnight? On a Thursday? And it's not like they were skipping out on the rent: Landlord confirmed they were indeed gone since their lease was up May 1.

At my last apartment, my jackass neighbors moved IN at midnight. Pulled the U-Haul right up and began unloading, yelling to one another, rolling hand trucks around, the whole nine. (Practically) in the middle of the night. In the middle of the week. In the middle of the city, where there are like, you know, other people around.

Is moving at midnight the new black?

Gross-plait.

I could be biased from my experience toiling in a dry cleaning establishment for a couple of (nauseatingly hot) summers, but it seems to me the chick in this Yoplait commercial is being a total d-wad to this seamstress lady for no apparent reason.

Here's the synopsis: wad lady enters a dry cleaner where she confronts a portly seamstress and mentions that because of all of the Boston cream pie and apple turnovers she's been inhaling, she needs her pants to be taken in. "Out?" says the puzzled seamstress. "No, in, you a-hole," says the d-wad.

Why would a person in any plane of reality would do this? Go in, mention you've been eating truckloads of key lime pie, never mention that it's freakin' yogurt, and then act like someone is a dope for not understanding why this would result in weight loss. To simultaneously flaunt your figure and make some random lady who is forced to work in 1,000 degree temperatures feel dumb?

P.S. It's nice and all that Yoplait does that whole "save your yogurt lid to fight breast cancer" thing, but man - whose job is it to gather up and count the pre-licked lids!? Gross. They should make the wad lady do it.

Totally in my Face.

What's with these people who need to be all up in your zone? If you're talking to me and you're not married to me or at least a good friend, TAKE A STEP BACK. I thought I was going to lose an eye today while talking to this woman and her flailing limbs, since she insisted on standing 2 inches away from me. Back it up, lady, or I'm liable to Mace you. I can't be held responsible. The worst is the personal space violator who could use a hot date with a toothbrush and some mouthwash. Have a mint or step away: it's your choice.

I'm pretty sure this is what precipitated the midget riot that took place yesterday at a poorly executed "America's Next Top Model" open casting in New York City. Peeps were all up in each other's business, and you know these shorties (no one over 5'7", please) were rockin' some stank breath after sleeping out on the sidewalk overnight. Is it any wonder things turned ugly? And as fellow dwarf Bre from Cycle 5 once said, "God don't like ugly."

Springtime Stank.

There's nothing quite like taking a stroll on a springtime tease of a day, heady with the unaccustomed freedom of perambulating about clad in fewer than 14 layers of clothing, and taking a deep breath and inhaling... rank cigar smoke.

While out and about on this weekend, I encountered no fewer than 10 unaffiliated dudes puffing on stogies all within a 20 minute period. Thanks for ruining my first taste of springtime with your big, honking, stank mess. 1996 called and it wants its stupid, Arnold Schwarzenegger-fueled fad back. When I run for President, my platform is going to be 8 weeks paid vacation for all and the outlaw of both cigars and every Bon Jovi song ever recorded. Who smokes them, anyway? Fat Republicans, George Burns and drunk-ass sorority girls at a wedding.

Cigars are by far the most disgusting smoking-related smell. From most to least offensive, the list breaks down like this:
1. Cigars
2. Skunk
3. Cigarettes
4. Weed of the non-skunk variety
5. Pipe
6. Cloves

Who disagrees?

Cine-mastication.

There are many things that should be verboten in a movie theater: smoking, cellphones, infants. Let's add food to that list, too, shall we?

How hard is it to like, not eat for two hours? Is it really necessary to cram a whole box of Jr. Mints into your mouth? Maybe, if you have Type 1 Diabetes. But here's a tip: undoing the cellophane on the box excruciatingly slowly does not make the process any quieter. Just rip it off and get on with your life.

Also, why do they sell popcorn at the movies? It's the food equivalent of Styrofoam packing kernels. THAT'S NOT A PLEASANT SOUND. And eating popcorn with one's mouth open (which accounts for 98% of the population sitting around me in a movie theater) creates an echo chamber which amplifies the sound about a billion times.

P.S. If you're gonna bring a snack from home, how about NOT MAKING IT A SHRIMP BURRITO? Sheesh.

Wee Boy.

While walking home today, I came upon a family sort of clustered around a sewer grate, just kind of standing there and staring down the alley. As I got closer, I noticed that there was a stream of water coming from the 2-3 year old boy and going into said sewer.

On one hand, I guess he was just more or less eliminating the middle man by peeing directly into the sewer. On the other hand, ewww. But I guess it was better than peeing on the side of a building. Or having an accident. But now is he going to grow up thinking he can whiz whenever the mood strikes (as long as there's some sort of drain involved)? Because there are already too many people who are laboring under that delusion. I used to live off of South Street in Philadelphia (where the fabled hippies meet) and every time I looked out the window, there was some clown micturating in the alleyway. It got to the point where I would hold up score cards for them.

While we're on the topic, there seems to be an inordinate amount of like, Snapple bottles partially filled with liquid laying around on the city streets. Have you noticed this? My husband is convinced they are all filled with urine, and I have a friend who supports the same theory. This is confusing. Why bother peeing into a bottle, sealing it, and then leaving it somewhere? If you're gonna do that, just do like the little kid and go directly into the sewer. Am I wrong?

Gym Germs.

When I go to the gym, it's the elliptical machine or nothing. So if one's not available, I'm screwed. Ditto if the only one available is next to the dude on one of the few remaining Stairmasters, who is known for his delightful habit of hacking, grunting, snorting and generally being gross during his workout. And don't tell me he has Tourette's because I've seen him on other machines without these side effects.

Dude, if your workout is causing you to sound like you are dying and to cough all over the place then DON'T DO IT. Go do yoga or something, instead. Or if your calves are the concern, get those boob implants for your legs. Seriously, are you kidding me with these? Remember that guy on MTV's True Life that got those? What the...? Just put on some pants!

Kitchen Capers.

Here's what's nice: having a kitchen at work so you can refrigerate your tuna sandwich instead of keeling over, dead from whatever malady befalls one who dares eat room temperature mayo (I personally refuse to believe that mayo would ever beget harm on anyone - it is manna).

Here's what's less nice - the slobs you work with who are hell bent on sullying every surface in the place. You know the types: those who treat the kitchen as a TOY and not a PRIVILEGE. A magical wonderland featuring a never-ending supply of artificial sweetener, coffee stirrers and microbes. Spilled your coffee? Just leave it on the counter! Dropped some paper towels? They'll pick themselves up! Be sure to lube up your hand with barbecue sauce before you open the refrigerator door to give it a nice veneer of "disgusting." On the inside of the fridge, leave unwrapped, half-eaten Italian hoagies for a minimum of 5 days. This will help the meat properly age to the appropriate level of putridity.

Don't be a chump when using the microwave: covering your food is for suckers! Don't be selfish: be sure to heat up your stank leftover flounder so everyone can take a voyage to the bottom of the sea with you. Avast, ye mateys!

With the proper level of care and attention to detail, the workplace kitchen can be just like Disneyland. With botulism.

Where the Sidewalk Ends (and annoyance begins).

A friend of mine emailed me today after her lunch break, enraged at what we've all run across: peeps who stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk to do whatever - gawk, talk, hawk ("Who wants to buy some stolen mascara?") without regard to the fact that YOU'RE TRYING TO WALK, HERE.

Some other sidewalk-related peeves:
1) Jerkwads who don't shovel their sidewalks when it snows. Do the math: it snows, it melts, it becomes ice, I fall down and break my ass. Isn't it illegal to not clear your sidewalk? Are people gunning for lawsuits?
2) Packs of people who feel the need to walk five abreast along the sidewalk and expect me to move out of their way. Um, no. I'm not tromping along in the gutter so you can link arms like the Monkees or people in some mouthwash ad where you're all laughing with impossibly white teeth while I get pushed into a parked car.
3) Bikes on sidewalks. It's a sideWALK. For feet. Or wheelchairs; I don't discriminate. But it's not for bikes, especially not ones baring down on me at like 30 mph. Get in the road!
4) When you go to London and lose your purse within 15 minutes then fall down on the sidewalk while desperately searching for this Safeway that you JUST SAW to try and find some chocolate to buy with the only 75 pence you have to make yourself feel better and no one helps you up even though you are bleeding and crying. For instance.

What are some other sidewalk irritations?

Door Drama.

Let's be real: part of the reason we're polite is to: a) avoid getting shot (Philadelphia only) and then b) get some recognition for being such a swell person. Am I right?

Like today: I go to the library and on the way in, some lady is coming out with a bunch of books (insert your own "Raspberry Beret" in-through-the-Out-door joke here). So naturally, I hold the door open for her. Not like, half-assedly propping it open after I went through, but intentionally opening it for her. What do I get in return? A thank you? A nod? A smile? Eye contact? Nothing! Who am I - Fonzworth Bentley? I'm not your personal valet, here to roll out the red carpet for you. I'm not running up to Queens to get you a sugar cookie, either. (Incidentally, how excited are you that "From G's to Gents" comes back for Season 2 in a mere two weeks? Here's hoping for at least a cameo appearance by Pretty Ricky.) I'm just asking for some acknowledgement. Come on, give me SOMETHING.

Along the same lines recently was a shrimpy woman in a puffy coat who gave me a dirty look because she decided to enter the revolving door and just stand there, instead of, you know, helping it to revolve by pushing it (as I was doing). WORK WITH ME, PEOPLE.

Cinemadness.

About a month ago in the fair city of Philadelphia where I reside, this guy made the news for whipping out a gun and shooting the father of a family that was talking during a screening of "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button."  He paid his ten bucks and wanted to hear what old-faced Brad was saying, dammit!

Now, I'm not condoning the use of firearms to enforce good manners, but let's be real:  you know you've been in a theater with some lady fishing around in a plastic bag of individually wrapped hard candies for the last Werther's and been tempted to grab the bag, spin it shut and whack her over the head with it.  Or you're trying to immerse yourself in "The Wrestler", contemplating what would happen if you lit a match near Mickey Roarke's face and some jackass next to you is fielding cellphone calls. 

This isn't relegated to the relatively low-rent world of the movie theater, either.  Recently I went to see Frenchie Davis and Ruuuuuuuben Studdard (America's favorite fat lady sex line operator and the Velvet Teddy Bear, respectively) in "Ain't Misbehavin'" at the Academy of Music and the couple next to me proceeded to have a FULL VOLUME conversation THE ENTIRE TIME about how uncomfortable the seats were until I politely asked them to shut up.  WTF?  I'm trying to get my "Fat and Greasy" on (an actual song, not a commentary on either Frenchie or Ruben), and you're kvetching about how you're not enjoying your theater-going experience?  Well, thanks to you, neither am I!  So can it or take a hike.  

Seriously, is it asking too much of people to remember that they are not at home in their jacked up recliners while they're watching these things and that other humans around them actually exist?  

What's your theater pet-peeve?