Extreme Annoyance

You aren’t going to know what I mean if you don’t know Houston streets, but I’m going to say this, anyway. There sure are a lot of stupid, rude people driving down Allen Parkway in the mornings lately. And in the River Oaks area, in general.

Stupid woman in the Lexus SUV with the bluebonnet license plate who lives in (or visits someone in) Allen Parkway condos: You almost killed me the other day, and you didn’t even notice.

Rude people coming west down Memorial, then going left on Shepherd: Quit running the red light, assholes. Quit running the red, then filling up the intersection on the red, then having the nerve to honk at me when I’m trying to come east down Memorial and go right on Shepherd while I have the green freaking arrow. Who do you people think you are? Do you think that, because you’re going into River Oaks, that makes you special? You’re wrong.

People going south on Shepherd, turning left on Allen Parkway: That’s a two-lane left turn. See the arrows on the signs? Stay in your lane, or don’t throw the finger at people who honk at you to keep you from wrecking.

Stupid people driving Hummers or Tahoes while texting on your phones: Stay in your lanes, or else don’t act all hurt when I honk at you for coming out of your lane and drifting toward my car.

There — I feel better having typed all that. I know it won’t keep me any safer, though. Unfortunately. Constant vigilance…

What Not to Pay a Lot For

Today I’m wearing a $3 sweater. It’s fuchsia, 100% mercerized cotton, from Jones New York. Also, I’m wearing $8 pants — black, lined, perfect fit — the label of which was removed before I found them at the thrift store.

My shoes are heeled loafers from the Kohl’s Junior section. I bought them on clearance, along with two other pairs, before I realized that Kohl’s had a junior shoe section. It’s where they put all the shoes with chunky heels, looks like. So, like… training heels? For teens who don’t yet know how to walk in heels, but still want to? I think I’m the only one buying them, though.

Normally I don’t wear heels with pants, because I don’t care enough, but today I have to because my favorite black loafers — flats — have finally given out. They’re broken in a way that I can no longer fix them. *Sighz!!1!!*

This is boring, isn’t it? Let me sex it up for y’all, then.

You don’t own me. Nor do you own my wardrobe.

I have this friend named Julio, and as his name implies, he is a latino male, and therefore he embodies certain stereotypes on a regular basis. (I’m sorry, latino men reading this, but y’all do. Y’all just do.)

Me: … and I had to wear heels today, because those shoes I wear every day? Now have a big old hole in them.
Julio: [with knowing look] That’s not why you’re wearing heels.
Me: It’s not?
Julio: Come on. Don’t play dumb. What does your boyfriend say about it?
Me: Dude. Stop being latino.

You see what he’s saying? No? Okay, here’s another.

Julio: I like your ring.
Me: Thanks.
Julio: So, is your boyfriend going to pop the question?
Me: What?
Julio: Come on. Don’t play dumb. We both know why you’re wearing that ring on that finger. You’re trying to tell him something. So, I guess all that stuff you said about not wanting to get married… You’ve changed your mind now, huh?
Me: I’m wearing my ring on this finger because I finally lost enough weight to wear it again, but I haven’t lost enough weight to move it to my middle finger yet.
Julio: Oh.
Me: If I want to get married to my boyfriend, I’ll just tell him that. With my words.
Julio: Okay, sorry. You don’t have to get all mad.

You see what I’m saying now, about latinos? No?

Me: So I have to go meet with the underwriter after lunch.
Julio: Oh, I see. So that’s why you’re wearing a skirt today.
Me: What the hell? Julio, I’m wearing a skirt because all my pants were in the wash this morning.
Julio: Whatever. Look, you don’t have to lie. I know how women are. If you have a crush on this underwriter guy, it’s fine with me. But does your boyfriend know? He’s gonna figure it out, when he sees that you’re wearing a skirt.
Me: No, he isn’t, because my boyfriend isn’t a possessive, self-centered latino. He knows that I dress for myself and not for every man on earth! Dammit!
Julio: That’s what you think. I have to hand it to your boyfriend — he plays it pretty cool, and obviously that works for him. But all men are the same, and we all know how women are. He knows why you’re wearing that skirt. You’d better watch yourself.
Me: Oh my god! What the hell is wrong with you and every other latino man I know??!??1!1!

I’m not obsessed with my weight. I’m obsessed with the means of measuring it.

My scale finally broke all the way. For the past month or so, it’s been telling me that I weigh 354.5 pounds. (That’s not really the number, but I don’t feel comfortable saying the real number online. So I’m telling y’all analogously, instead.)

One day last week, it told me that I weighed 351.5, which was my goal weight at the time, so I chose to believe my scale on that day. Then it went back to 354.5, and I chose not to believe it.

Now I should weigh 349.5, if I’m counting my calories right. (Which I am, because — hello — look how obsessive I am about the numbers, here.) But the scale won’t tell me that I’ve lost two pounds this week. Instead, it obsessively sticks to 354.5.

This morning, it said 99999, then it said 298.5, then it said 351.5.

I guess it’s time to get a new scale. I was all freaked out about that, starting from a new baseline, within a new system. Because, see, I don’t care if the scale tells me my true weight — I only care if it accurately gauges weight loss. But if I buy a new scale, the baseline will presumably change, and what will I do with that integer of difference?

Julio said, “That what standards are for.” I said, “I have standards. What are you trying to say?” But he said he meant mathematical standards, and that I should put a filled 5-gallon jug of water on each scale, to gauge their difference, and then make my calculations from that. (He’s good at math. He has a degree in it or something.)

I was happy. “What a good idea!” I said. “But I’ll use a ten-pound dumbbell, instead.”

So now all I have to do is buy a new scale.

“So is that why you’re always in a bad mood lately? Because you’re starving yourself in order to change the numbers on your broken scale?”

“No. Shut the hell up.”

“What does your boyfriend say? Does he say you’re always in a bad mood lately? Does he think it’s worth the weight loss, to hear your bitching all the time?”


Turkey Day, or Pork Day, or Mussells in Black Bean Sauce Day

I’m not cooking for Thanksgiving, after all. What with all the stress of my ex-husband suing me for custody of our kids, I am simply unable. Plus, I don’t have the kids for Thanksgiving this year, anyway, so I’d prefer to spend the four-day weekend loafing, not washing dishes.

We’re going to a Chinese restaurant — me, my boyfriend, and all my family members who’ve been displaced by my decision not to cook. My boyfriend wants to buy me lobster. I said I’d rather just eat pork. Or mussels. Or shrimp. Or tofu.

And I’m thankful. I give thanks for my boyfriend, my family, my friends, and especially my kids.

It looks, by the way, like this whole custody suit thing might work out better than I’d feared. Fingers crossed…

Whining Done

That’s it. No more whining. Really, I’m relatively content now — the bad stuff has been handled and potential good stuff looms on the horizon (always). So, I’m good. I’m thankful. I’m hopeful.

What are y’all doing for Thanksgiving, peeps? What kind of pies are you going to make? Will you send me a piece? A 100-calorie slice, please?

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Posted in domestic, sexism, Thanksgiving, vanity, venting on 11/15/2007 12:08 pm

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