Wheeeee

Mike Huckabee can suck my caucus.

GO OBAMA!

I'll cut a bitch

Apparently the couple that was, as my real estate agent put it, "in love with the house" are on the fence now. They practically told my realtor to expect an offer. Then their crazy bitch realtor lady, Caroline, stepped in to fuck it all up.

It appears she has been planting the seeds of doubt in their minds.

Our house is old, built in 1912. The wiring is up to code, but we do not have as many amps as a new construction home, and Caroline told them they might be able to get homeowners insurance because of it.

Total bullshit.

When I told my husband this, he was incredulous. We have homeowners insurance. We couldn't have gotten our mortgage without it. What kind of realtor tells their clients lies?

If this couple thinks they are going to find a better house for the price, they are deluding themselves, and I think they know this. Caroline however, is apparently out to lunch.

I keep imagining what else she is telling them.

"They keep a dead body in the basement."

"Plaster walls give you cancer."

"In houses built before 1925, your insurance requires a spiritual cleansing. That can get pretty pricey."

"Hitler was born here."


The whole situation is making me stabby.

Hypothetically...

Let's say you were doing business with someone, a monthly business. Maybe, I don't know, renting storage units for example.

Let's say that when you first called inquiring about information and quotes, the owner himself took your call and couldn't have been nicer.

Let's say you went ahead and used his company over a bigger, national chain because, as you told him, you "like to give your money to local businesses"--the 'little guy', so to speak.

Let's say the minute you signed the contract with Mr. Little Guy, he turned into a complete and utter asshole.

Let's say that they were rude when they dropped off the storage units and got pissy when you asked them to put the 'open side' facing the door you would be taking your stuff out of. Let's say you didn't tell the delivery guy to go fuck himself even though you told them which way to face them before he got the things off of the truck.

Let's say that they were raging jerks on the phone when they called to ask when you were planning on having the storage units picked up because they "really needed to get those back here. It's been 6 weeks!" (Even though they told you that you take "all the time you needed" when you originally asked about it).

Let's say that, months into the business arrangement, you noticed that you weren't being charged on the credit card you gave them.

Let's say, out of the goodness of your giving heart, you called them to make sure you were being charged correctly.

Would you or would you not expect them to at least be cordial about it--that they would at least thank you for pointing out a discrepancy in their favor.



Yeah, I thought so.

One time I hated my (old) job

A hairstylist thrives on referrals. No amount of advertising, coupons or "specials" can replace positive word of mouth. Back when I was behind the chair, I loved referrals from clients that I liked (which honestly, was most of them).

One of my clients was a woman I'll call Diana. She was a little on the shy side, but over time loosened up and even got a bit adventurous with her hair. After a few appointments she told me that she hated the way her fiancee's current stylist cut his hair and was trying to get him to come to me.

"Great!" I thought, "Diana is so fun and sweet, her fiancee must be a great guy!"

Wrong.

I didn't like him the moment his pompous ass walked in the door--late.

I always prided myself on running on time. I hated when clients were late because it could throw off the rest of the night. Generally though, if it was a person's first appointment I cut them some slack as they had never been there before. 99% of the time they apologized profusely and I got over it.

But this guy had been there before, to pick Diana up from an appointment. I remember he waited in the car while she checked out, instead of coming in. Not a total deal-breaker, but it really should have tipped me off to the type of person he was. And he didn't make any mention of the fact that he was ten minutes late for his appointment either.

I should mention at this point that when I did men's haircuts, I washed their hair after the haircut (unless they had 4 pounds of pomade or 63 gallons of gel on it) to get all the loose hairs rinsed away. For a while I washed it before and after, but it became a pain in the ass and all but a few of my male clients found it excessive.

After some pleasantries, I asked him what type of haircut he wanted.

"I don't know," he quipped, "Aren't you supposed to know what looks best on me?"

What I actually said: "Alrighty then. Let's get started."

What I wanted to say: "Right about now, a hatchet in your forehead sounds pretty good."

So, I put the cutting cape around him and he stops me. "Aren't you going to wash my hair? Diana said this was a nice salon."

I explained as sugary-sweetly as I could muster that I would be shampooing his hair afterwards, and he seemed to relax a little.

The rest of the time, he was pretty quiet and then it came time to pay. At the front desk, I thanked him for coming in (I did!), and handed the ticket to the receptionist. As I walked to the back, I heard it.

"Twenty eight dollars?!! And I tip on top of that?!"

Part of me felt insulted. I gave him a damn fine haircut, and he was bitching about the price? The other part of me was relieved. I hoped that this meant he wouldn't be back.

Wrong again. He came every THREE weeks for the next year. He was late for about every third appointment and I truly believe it was because he was such a control freak. He knew I would have to wait on him, and I think he liked being "the boss". He wasn't late every time or he knew I would have to say something. Sneaky prick.

One time, I was cutting his hair and my husband called to ask what he should make for dinner. Mr. Assface found it laughable that my husband would be making dinner for me, himself and the kid all by his widdle ol' self. Turns out Mr. Assface never step foot in the kitchen--ever. "That's my wife's job" (My sweet adorable client had actually gone through with the marriage to this loser). Never mind that his wife worked the same hours as he did doing the exact same job (and I'll go ahead and assume she gets paid less than him for it too!).

Lest you think him simply an old school neanderthal, he didn't mow the lawn either...or fix shit around the house...or take out the garbage...or take the cars for oil changes, etc.

When Diana mentioned that they were going on a Vegas vacation, she relayed in detail the depths of Mr. Assface's cheapness. I'm all for saving a buck, but no one's going to tell me how many drinks I will be "allowed to have" each night of my vacation. I honestly don't know how she didn't kill him in his sleep.

He would do other things to "test me". He'd see someone getting highlights and ask how the chemicals worked. He'd ask why I was using one shampoo in favor of another. I know he didn't care. He just wanted to see if he could make me stumble. I know he thought that because I was a hairstylist, I couldn't possibly be smart, and I proved him wrong every chance I got.

At Christmas time, the salon I worked at closed between Christmas Eve and New Year's. As a rule, it was a slow time and it gave us a chance to recover from the insane hours we put in around the holidays.

The last week before our "holiday break", we reminded clients that we would be gone until the first business day after January 1st. As it turned out, Mr. Assface happened to come in the last night before we were off.

When I told him that we would be closed for about a week, he gave me an incredulous look and said, "B-but, what if someone needs an emergency haircut?! Will you have someone on call?"

Someone on call?!

What I actually said: "No. We are taking a well-deserved break. If someone needs a haircut that bad, they can go somewhere else."

What I wanted to say: "Well, Mr. Assface, if your pussy hurts that bad while we're gone, I suggest you consult a doctor. I'm certain they will have "someone on call"."

It's been a little over a year since I quit working to stay home with my girls and surprisingly, I haven't run into this guy in public yet. I know it's coming. I can feel it. I hope for his sake that when I do, it's not after I've been drinking.

What I should say: Hey, how've you been?

What I will say: You are a fucktard.

Are you really that suprised?

Ann Coulter is running at the mouth again, not that I thought she ever stopped.

If you read the article, it is obvious she tries to backtrack at the end, but the damage is already done. Maybe the hormones aren't working correctly. Maybe she's angry science hasn't yet come up with a way to remove her Adam's Apple. Maybe, and I think this is the key here....

Maybe she's just saying what's really on her mind.

Don't get me wrong, I am not applauding her vile vitriol. I think she is the epitome of cuntiness. But I have to give her credit for her outstanding example of making a complete fucktard out of oneself in the name of Conservatism.

I wish more "right wingers" would follow in her footsteps.

They sugar-coat the spew with their "hate the sin, not the sinner" bullshit, but the truth is they don't like Gay people or really anyone who doesn't buy into their fairytale. And why would they? I don't really care (or maybe it's more of a fear factor) for people who collect Longaberger baskets or who followed The Grateful Dead or Phish around back in the day. The difference being that the people I don't like chose to love overpriced schlock and annoying jam bands.

I'm fine with the fact that people like Mr. Coulter don't like me or people I call my closest friends. I'm especially pleased when they make their case publicly. It just isolates them more and more from normal people with reasoning abilities above a second grade level (no offense to any second graders out there).

Nothing would make me happier than if they got ol' Tranny...I mean Annie to speak at the Republican National Convention come election time. Hell, give her a government job--maybe put her in charge of the Protest Banner Committee. Anything to drag the far Right deeper into the swamp of unelectability.

Less work for me, I say.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Yesterday I got a call that someone wanted to see the house. My husband took the girls to the gym with him and I stayed home to clean up and get the dogs out of here for the showing.

I tend to get a little insane when someone's coming to see the house. I don't know why I get so freaked out. Most people aren't looking at my furniture, paint choices or underwear drawer (Are they? Gross.). Most perspective buyers are checking out the "bones" of the house (ie; the furnace, water heater, roof, appliances, etc.).

Why do I feel like they are judging me instead of the house? It's like I'm getting ready for a date before people come over for a look. I get that same nervous giddiness that invariably turns to bitterness before they even walk in the door.

"Oh goody! Someone's coming to see the house! Must clean, must tidy up. I hope they like the house. I hope we get an offer this time. Oh shit, there's a piece of lint on the stairs. Where did this lollipop stick come from?! Why can't everyone pick up their own shit? I can't keep this up. How can I be expected to have this place perfect all the fucking time? Goddamnit! Fuck these people! If they don't like my house, they can suck a fat cock!"

Rinse and repeat.

I've just about gotten the pre-viewing clean up down to a science but, being in a half-crazed (and usually rushed) state of mind, sometimes things slip through the cracks. The last time someone came over, I forgot to take down one of the baby gates. It wasn't a big deal, and no mention was made of it.

Yesterday I was finishing up and getting ready to put the dogs in the car. This is quite an experience in itself. Pugs aren't generally known for hiding their emotion. When I get out their harnesses, they know they are either going for a walk or getting a ride in the car, both things that send them into a frenzy of snorting, panting insanity. I knew they were going to send dog hair flying about during the harnessing process, so I decided to get them in the car before taking the baby gates down and doing a final scan to make sure I didn't forget anything.

Part of keeping things ready to show is emptying out the upstairs garbage cans. I try to look around the house and pay attention to things I would notice--like empty garbage cans. I don't want to look at someone's used q-tips, so I figure most people don't want to see mine.

This week, to borrow a little junior high slang, Aunt Flo is here for a visit. I visited the upstairs bathroom before leaving the house and, not wanting to leave any garbage up there, carried my little "package" downstairs with me with the intent of putting it in the kitchen garbage (which is hidden under the sink). Before anyone gets all skeeved out, I did wrap it in toilet paper and then the cutesy pink plasticy wrap stuff on top of that.

I scanned the living room on my way down the stairs and noticed some toys behind the couch that needed to be stashed, so I set what I had in my hand on the little phone stand next to the stairs.

The realtor said she was coming over around 10:30 and it was coming up on 10:15. One last look around and I was out the door. Since my husband had the girls with him, I was excited to drive around by myself. Sure, I had the crazy dogs with me, but they generally calm down within a few minutes. I had downloaded the latest This American Life onto my iPod, and couldn't wait to listen to it. I was going to get a latte too. I might as well have been going on vacation!

I don't ask for much.

Ten minutes down the road, it hit me.

If I'm pretty sure no one wants to look at my used q-tips, I am damn sure no one wants too see a USED PAD on the phone stand.

A million things ran through my head. There was really no explaining this away. This was not a forgotten baby gate.

I looked at the clock: 10:25. I had to speed. The dogs jumped up to the front seat, sensing my fear. I worried that I would get pulled over and started picturing me trying to tell the cop the truth. Certainly they would be grossed out enough to let me go. Maybe I would get a police escort back to the house?

I pulled in the driveway and thankfully they hadn't shown up yet. I tore ass to the back door, ran inside and there it was.

Crisis averted.

We haven't heard anything back from them (yet), but at least I know it isn't because of a forgotten piece of garbage.