Maybe I just need a Valium?

I need a fucking vacation.

I feel like I have been in the house for months on end. Part of it is the weather I guess. Part of it is the fact that the girls never stop talking. There is a running commentary on EVERYTHING every second they are here and awake. It's usually them arguing over something really stupid too. I would never tell them that (mostly because "stupid" is a bad word around here...unless we are discussing the current administration), but I do try to explain that they can BOTH be the goddamned sparkly princess dragon fairy ferchrissakes.

I can't send them outside to run off some of this pent up energy either. It's just too damn cold. Even if I did bundle them up and send them out, there isn't even any snow to play in. They'd just want to come back inside after a few minutes anyway. And I wouldn't blame them.

Tomorrow is Sunday and the only day off Jim gets. Ever. I told him that I really need to leave the house BY MYSELF for a couple of hours. Seeing the crazed look in my eye, he wholeheartedly agreed.

Winter is really getting to me this year.

What I'd really really like to do is drop the kids off at Grandma's house and hop a plane to somewhere sunny and warm for a long weekend with Jim...but that costs money we don't have.

I just signed up for the Delta Skymiles American Express credit card. I got the offer in the mail and, even though I dropped a no credit card rule bomb 'round here before Xmas, I might need to use it at the dogs' vet appointment next month.

The bill usually hits around the $600 mark when it's all said and done. I don't have that kind of dough right now and I can't bring myself to skip their annual exams. If I don't get it done they won't get their shots and tags. I can't board them without that which means we can't go out of town overnight.

I got a free "companion ticket" for signing up for the card and I'll get enough miles for a free domestic round trip if I spend $500 on it in the first three months (or something like that).

I haven't read all the fine print on how exactly this deal works, but I'm thinking we might have a couple of plane tickets to burn here in the next couple of months.

Maybe I will actually get this vacation.

Where should we go?

Florida? Vegas? New Orleans? The Gulf Coast?

Spring Break: Not what it used to be

I'm this close to building a cagefighting ring in the backyard and selling tickets.

I may need more medication come Summer vacation.

Playing Catchup

This weekend I went up to Chicago with my friend Travis to see a "band" named Girl Talk at the Metro. What a clusterfuck that was.

Don't get me wrong. I had a fabulous time. We stayed with one of his oldest friends and her husband and I couldn't have asked for better hosts. The evening was a late celebration of the husband half of our boarders.

They had a little get together before the show, and hired a limo to take our tipsy asses into the city.

Travis did my hair and makeup and the end product was stripperific. I loved it.

The show wasn't slated to start until 11pm, so I was leery that I was even going to make it there without falling asleep. When we got to the Metro, the line was wrapped around the block so we hit a nearby bar to kill some time.

Sometime after midnight I looked up at one of the television screens to see that Obama took South Carolina with 55 percent. Suddenly I caught my second wind. How amazing is that? I was positively giddy.

I was so excited that I nearly forgot that we still a show to attend.

At close to 1:30 in the motherfucking morning, we stepped foot into the show. I didn't really know what to expect. I'd never even heard of this "band" before, but it was a free ticket and a weekend getaway so who am I to complain?

That was a joke. I'm totally going to complain.

The show was basically a dude on stage with a DJ setup, playing his CD and pretending to spin records. I think.

I was so confused.

The music was fun. It was basically "mash ups" of intertwined riffs and samples of everything from Elton John and James Taylor to Britney Spears and--I swear to the babyjesus--a snippet of a Tones on Tail song. Crazy.

Travis and I agreed that the whole ordeal made us feel elderly, or "oldsters" as we lovingly referred to our posse for the night.

The people watching was amazing though. I am such a stare queen in situations like that, and I was not left hanging for a moment.

I will say that while I joke about feeling old, I know I'm not. I am however too old to deal with the shitastic bathroom situation at the Metro. It was gross the last time I was there (13 years ago. Mazzy Star.). The full magnitude of its gut wrenching nastiness is even more apparent now without a cloud of smoke to cover it up.

We didn't get back to our hosts' house until almost 4 in the morning. Christ, who do I think I am?

The whole night can pretty much be summed up by the mental image I have burned into my retinas of a girl and her friend parting the crowd just fast enough to puke at my feet.

But seriously, I had a great time. Next time though, I think I'll go to the early show.

A Friendly Reminder to the Fucktard Parents at After School Pickup

There is limited parking in front of the school. Please refrain from stopping your car three feet from the person in front of you instead of pulling up far enough to let another car in the line.

You are not special.

I'm looking at you BMW Bitch.

If you are driving a gaggle of children home from school--presumably other people's children in addition to your own--have enough seat belts and/or car seats for all of them.

Seeing a seven year with a toddler on her lap in the back seat makes me want to see how you'd like being thrown through a windshield face first.

Smoking on school property while waiting for your kid to come out is trashy.

...as is swearing into your cell phone in front of little kids.

That sign that says "Buses and Daycare Vans Only"? It applies to everyone--even you, Mr. Jesusfish Minivan.

Generally, and I'm just guessing here, it's not recommended to blast your stereo at full spleen-shattering volume with kids in the car.

That is all.

Reason #4852 I Shouldn't Own a Gun

On the way home from Mina's first birthday party of the today I had to stop at a gas station to fill up one of my tires. One of my neighbors was nice enough to knock on my door and let me know that he noticed I had one going flat. I thought that was pretty damn swell. Wasn't it?

I pulled into one gas station and their air machine was broken. I will refrain from going into my thoughts on a fucking AIR machine being broken. (Seriously. It's air. Did they run out?).

Next stop was the gas station by my house. Their air machine is free. Honestly, I never understood paying for air in the first place.

There are two non-handicap parking spots one can park in the get access to the machine. One was taken and one was blocked by some asshole pulling out of it as slooooowly as he possibly could.

If it would have been some old person just being elderly and shit, I would have given them a pass, but it wasn't. It was some dude in a POS van, yakking on his cell phone, not paying attention.

Well, not paying attention until he saw my eyelasers fixed on his location. But did that shake him into the real world--the real world where people are courteous and aware of their surroundings? Nope.

Not until I mouthed (mouthed, not said. My kids were in the car) "you need to get out of the way" did he finish his 37 point turn--still having a cell phone conversation--out of the spot I needed.

I thought he had left the parking lot, but was mostly intent on filling up my flaccid rear tire. When I looked up after returning the air hose, I saw that he had stopped his car directly behind mine.

I knew I just needed to get in and put my car in reverse and he probably would have gotten the hint. I knew that the best thing would be to just keep my mouth shut and give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he thought I was going into the gas station. I hadn't gotten my very visible children out of the car. I didn't have my purse on me. It was plainly obvious all I needed was some air for my tires, BUT maybe he was so engrossed in his obviously important phone call he didn't notice that I HAVE SHIT TO DO.

But I didn't keep my mouth shut.

Hands on hips, cocked head and all, I spat a "REALLY?!" at him.

He moved. Quickly.

At times like these, I don't really need a gun.

"Pissed Off Chaylene" is scary enough.

Is it just me?

Lasr night I checked my gmail account and all was well and good until I tried to reply to an email. Suddenly, I was "timed out" and had to "sign in again" even though it still said I was signed in.

Now I can't even access my gmail inbox at all. When I type the address in, all I get is some ask.com search results page. When I click on the gmail link, I get an error page.

Forgive my computer illiteracy. Seriously, I embarass myself sometimes. But what the holyballsfuck is going on here?

It's starting to piss me off a little.

It Has Begun

I was at the grocery store the other day when I heard it. It didn't register right away. I don't normally actually listen to what they're playing over the speakers (unless it's the GoGo's in which case I sing along and dance with my shopping cart).

Maybe it was turned up just a touch louder than usual because halfway down the second aisle, it hit me. Fucking Christmas music.

I have a love/hate relationship with holiday music. Part of me gets the appropriate warm and fuzzy feelings when I hear it. The other part of me, the cynical and angry part, usually beats all that sentimentality into an unrecognizable bloody stump.

I stopped and listened for a moment. How could I even start to think about Christmas when it wasn't even cold enough for socks? I know they have to start bombarding consumers with Christmas shit early in order to convince us to buy shit. After all, nothing says "I love you" like a six page long January credit card bill, right?

It's not just the stores with their music and decorations either. I've noticed the toy commercials are on double time. Every four seconds (as opposed to the usual eight seconds) I hear, "Mama! Can I have that?" "Mama, can Santa bring that?".

At first, I pulled out the speech from last year, "Santa can't bring everything. Let's just put it on the list and see what happens."

But I'm sick of saying it, mostly because they don't even hear me when I do. I've given up. Now, when they ask me for yet another bullshit piece of lead-laden garbage almost guaranteed to make noise/be difficult to assemble/fall apart after 5 minutes/etc, I just tell them that they can have it.

Why not?

How could it possibly backfire?

Random

Dear girl holding up traffic,

I get it. You have great posture and HUGE tits. Congratufuckinglations.



Dear Garlic Press Deli,

Your pumpkin bread is so good it almost makes me believe in God. Whoever made this deserves knighthood or princessdom or at the very least, a street named after them.


Dear woman who teaches 90 percent of the exercise classes I take,

I'm sure you're a nice person in "real life" so I'm sorry for the eye lasers during class(es). I can't help but give dirty looks to someone when they are making me want to cry in public (though my waist and ass thank you for your efforts).


Dear Weather Gnomes,
Please make it nice out tomorrow so I don't feel bad for making my dogs stay outside during the birthday party.


Dear Dogs,
Don't pee on the pumpkins, OK?

Dear Spellcheck function,
"Congratufuckinglations" is a word.


Sincerely,
Chaylene

Fuck you Barbie

It wasn't enough that you gave the little me an unrealistic expectation of what I thought my breasts would eventually look like as an adult (large, perfectly perky and nipple-less)?

Now this? You stupid cunt.



Today is my daughter's sixth birthday. Happy Birthday Mina! I got her a birdhouse kit and a Barbie doll. Not just any Barbie either--a mermaid(?)/fairy Barbie with wings that flutter and a DVD game that is supposed to be easy to use. Whatever.

People have been buying Mina Barbie dolls for a few years now, and I'm just now beginning to get over the guilt of "selling out" to Feminism's Antichrist. I allow her not only play with them, but play with the wretched little hussies with her. I expect the ghost of Betty Friedan at my doorstep at any moment.

I thought I was getting Mina the perfect gift. She wants to have a Fairy-themed birthday party this year, so getting her this particular Barbie fit the bill. She opened her gifts up this morning, and I promised her that she could play with it the second she got home from school. It may be her birthday, but I wasn't going to break the 'no television before school rule' even today.

First off, Fairy Barbie needs batteries. Thank the babyjesus I keep extra on hand at all times...for their toys...yeah...

The battery compartments are located in the doll's inner thighs. I felt like some kind of masochistic perv digging around near Barbie's no no spot. From the looks of her eyeshadow choice, I get the feeling this was not a new experience for her.

Then I was to program Barbie with the DVD remote so that she becomes the remote (so Zen, don't you think?) and can work with the game. It looks so simple, but apparently I am not, as previously thought, smarter than Barbie. I couldn't get the stupid fucker to work.

So, we forged ahead using the actual DVD remote which meant that I had to play too. What good is this toy if I can't sneak out for a smoke break while the girls are entranced by sparkly shit and an 18" waist?

The game itself involves finding jewels, eating seaweed and picking up lonely sailors on the dock.

OK, there weren't any sailors involved. I suppose no one at Mattel shares my love of the inappropriate.

Hopefully when my husband gets home, he can figure out what the hell I did wrong in trying to get that bitch to work.

I'm not touching the birdhouse kit project with a ten foot pole.

Whiny kids and poop

Am I a total asshole for not liking someone else's kids?

OK, maybe that's a little harsh.

Audrey's in a swim class on Thursday mornings with two brothers. One is 3 and one is 6 and both of them are screeching messes once their bodies hit the water.

To back up a little here...

Audrey was so excited to get signed up for "big girl" swim class (the one where I don't get in the water with her). Jim and I made the mistake of bringing her to one of Mina's classes last session and Audrey wailed and tore at her face wanting to get in the water too. At the time, she wasn't potty trained, so I told her that when she graduated to big girl underpants, she too could join in on the aquatic fun.

So, here we are, four sessions into a 13 week session and Fric and Frac have turned my once enthusiastic swimmer-to-be into a puddle of tears.

What happens is that as soon as the teacher tries to hold one of the brothers in the water, they claw at her shoulders SCREAMING for their mother. "MAMA! I'M SCARED! I'M GOING TO FALL! HELP ME!"

It's kind of terrifying to watch for me, so I can only imagine what's going through my 3 year old's head with her front row seat.

Today the intstructor grabbed an assistant to help her out, and Audrey did a little better being distracted from the other two.

I hate to say it, but I wish the Mom would just stop coming to class. Half of the 30 minute class is taken up by the teacher trying to calm one or the other of the brothers down.

It's totally selfish of me to think that, but I feel like I paid $100 to watch some horrible child psychology experiment.

On a sidenote: It smells like a giant shit on my back deck. I don't see any shit in the general vicinity, but it smells like there is big steaming pile of it right next to me.

Note to newly arrived college students in town

If I am driving down the road and my light is green, that means you stop and wait at the corner until I have passed through said green light. My green light is not a signal for you to begin crossing the street in front of me. If you are halfway across the street as my light turns green, I will cordially tap my breaks to allow you approximately 4 seconds to get the fuck out of my way. Otherwise, stand clear because I am usually not in the mood to scrape a skanky freshman coed off my hood.

Pig Sty

Dear people who sold us this house,

I don't remember anywhere in the sale contract asking for you to leave random hairs everywhere, but thanks for allowing me the pleasure of wiping someone else's pubes out of the bathtub. That was a real treat!

It's also super awesome that we get to buy new outlets (not outlet covers, actual outlets) for every room in the house. I think it's soooo great when people are too lazy to paint around them. Kudos to you!

Let me extend my heartfelt gratitude for the bleach spots on the carpet in the basement as well. That looks SO GOOD right there in the open like that!

By the way, it's called a fucking mop--floppy strips of material attached to a long stick, dipped in cleaning solution, rubbed about the floor in the event there is an accumulation of dirt. Check your local supermarket. I hear they sell them there.

Yours Truly,
Chaylene

Oh, fercryinoutloud

We dropped the asking price on Tuesday to try and spark some renewed interest, and it worked!

We had a showing Tuesday, Wednesday and THREE showings today.

Today was rough.

The first one was at 1:00 so I decided that after I picked the girls up from preschool I would take them out to lunch to kill some time. Then a woman called wanting to show the house between 2 and 3. OK, no problem. We just killed a little extra time. I had until 2:45 to pick the dogs up from the doggy daycare place anyway.

On my way to my home from picking up the dogs I got another call that someone wanted to see my house at 5:30.

That's when I started to get weary.

I left the house at 10:30 this morning to drop off the dogs and pick up the girls (who had left the house at 8:30 this morning. It was 3:00 at this point which meant I had at least another 3 hours to kill before I could take everyone home.

My kids were tired from the two hours we spent at the pizza place with a ball pit. (I know those things are gross, but it was in the 50's today, and too cold for the park). My dogs were tired from the four hours they spent sniffing butts and wrestling with other dogs. I was tired from shuttling to and fro all damn morning and afternoon with two kids and two dogs in the car.

We finally got to come home around 6:30. Poor Audrey was so tired that she passed out in the car on the way home and barely woke up while I changed her into pajamas. Mina made it through dinner and a bath, but was dead to the world after one short bedtime story.

I usually go out with a couple of friends for a drink on Thursday nights, but even that sounds like it would take too much effort. I don't know that I would be very good company tonight anyway.

I'm just bitchy and out of sorts so much of the time lately. I have to keep my house clean in case someone wants to see it. That part doesn't bother me so much as it is nice to have everything looking nice most of the time. I do hate having to scoop up the kids and the dogs at pretty much the drop of a hat. Audrey was in the process of giving up her nap anyway, but it didn't help that she keeps getting shuffled around town during her normal snooze time.

I know I should be excited that so many people are looking at the house, but I can't help but feel like I am being held hostage by this whole experience.

Pants on Fucking Fire

Well, my worst nightmare in all of this house selling business has finally occured.

Someone showed up unannounced.

Oh, he said he called this morning. He said he left me a message to call him if it wasn't alright to come by.

He's a giant, cum-sucking liar!

Since the day we put the "For Sale" sign in the yard, I have had my cell phone on and by my side 24/7. It is clearly stated on the information sheet that realtors are to give me a minimum one hour notice before showing the house. As much as I try to keep the house in pristine condition, two little kids and two little dogs make it impossible.

I got home about noon after picking my older daughter up from preschool to find some old guy and a woman unlocking my front door. Thank the house gods I got to them before they actually opened the door, or my dogs would have given them the standard 'lick 'em 'til they're down" greeting.

I had about one minute to get the dogs on their leashes and the ashtray on the back porch stashed. The beds were not made, the carpet was not vaccuumed this morning. I don't even know if the toilet lid was down. To make the messy house look complete, I can only hope my older daughter pooped in the upstairs bathroom and forgot to flush (per usual).

I didn't even have time to put out the sign in sheet, so I may never even know who the hell this guy is.

After apologizing for the house not being perfectly picked up, I told them to take their time and thanked them for viewing the house.

I wanted to chew the guy out for being such a lying liar, but I figured I'd keep my mouth shut and let the chips fall where they may.

Watch, this will be the one to buy the house. Wouldn't that be a hoot?

One time I hated my neighbors

Last week at the grocery store, I ran into our old neighbors. Unfortunately, it wasn't with the car.

When we bought our current house, these people had only lived in it for 4 months. Through their realtor we found out that the husband (Chuck) had had some heart problems and his doctor told him, "No stairs, no mowing the lawn, and no fast food." So they had to move to avoid two out of the three.

We took full advantage of this information by only paying two thousand dollars more than they paid for it. I know they took a bath on the transaction. I felt a little guilty for practically ripping off an sick old dude and his wife, but all's fair in love and real estate.

About six months after we moved into our house, we got new neighbors next door. I was outside, playing with the dogs when I saw an older couple waving at me from across the fence.

"Remember us?!" a witchy haired crone hollered, a sack of greasy fast food in her claw.

"Uh...."

"It's us! Chuck and Cindy! We sold you your house!"

I was instantly bewildered. The house next door, except for less square footage and one less bathroom, is an exact replica of our house. The not-so-secret information their former real estate agent played in my head. Why would they buy a two story house with a big yard? Why, when they had almost the same thing less than a year ago? Why?

I was wasting time wondering about these issues when there would be a whole host of others to contemplate in the years to come.

For instance, why would they rip out a perfectly good fence, tear up the grass next to the driveway, then fill it in with gravel?

Answer: So they could pull their truck up that extra 10 feet to the back door. I think they were afraid the Wendys, McDonalds, or Hardees they ate almost every day would get cold if they had to carry it too far. Also, I don't think they wanted to get any inadvertent exercise.

Answer #2: So their beautiful golden-white Labrador wouldn't have the joy of romping in a big back yard, but would instead be locked up in an 8x8 pen. Wouldn't want the dog to get any inadvertent exercise either.

I didn't get why they even had a dog. I never saw him play with it. Cindy was afraid of it, so he never never got to come in the house. I know not all dogs are spoiled rotten like ours are, but they never brought him inside. They had a perfectly good garage that they didn't even use. They could have put the dog in there when the weather was bad (ie; the ice storm that poor dog endured one winter). Sure, he had a makeshift plywood doghouse inside his pen (giving him even less room to exercise), but it killed me to see him laying on top of it everyday lonely and bored.

So bored in fact, that he barked incessantly. At first, Chuck would yell out the kitchen window to tell his dog to shut up. Over time, that apparently took too much effort as he eventually hooked up an intercom system, pointing the speaker out the upstairs bedroom window to yell at the dog.

Oh, and the dog wasn't neutered either. When I asked Chuck one day if he was planning on showing the dog or breeding him, Chuck looked confused. I pointed out that his dog wasn't "fixed" and I wondered if he was a show dog or was he planning on starting a puppy mill. He got pretty defensive. I started anonymously calling Animal Control about the barking.

I tried to be somewhat friendly with them, but when he casually referred to the renters across the street as "Ni***r Whores", I washed my hands of them. The bumper sticker on his truck of Calvin pissing on the word "France" pretty much sealed the deal of my immense hostility toward them.

I was so damn happy when they finally sold their house and moved. They said they were moving to Las Vegas, and all I could picture was that sweet dog dying of heat stroke in their backyard.

But they didn't move to Vegas. They moved across town. And now I'll probably run into them all the time. Last week "broke the seal" so to speak.

I was nice to them. No sense in being a bitch just for the hell of it. I save that for my husband.

They were pretty excited to see me and the girls.

"Chuuuu-uuuck! Come see your kids!"

Excuse me? "Your" kids?! I know she was trying to friendly and her statement was sort of a "Oh we think you guys are great/your kids are great/we care about you" kind of thing, but it made my blood boil. I didn't like her familiar tone.

"I don't like you!" I wanted to scream across the grocery store, "I think you're a couple of racist, lazy animal abusing fucks! I hate you I hate you I hate you!"

But I didn't. I mentioned that we were in the process of selling the house, and Cindy nodded, "I know! I saw the sign!" (if it's not apparent by now, Cindy yells everything).

Then, without thinking I asked the million dollar question, "Wanna' buy it?"

We shared an uncomfortable chuckle, after which Chuck rolled away in the handicap grocery cart contraption, basket filled with pizza rolls, sausage and whole milk.

One time I was a giant crybaby

My house still hasn't sold, and the beginnings of panic are starting to set in.

I'm starting to see more and more SOLD signs around town and I can't help buy wonder why mine hasn't. I truly think we have done everything within our power (and budget) to make this home more than marketable. Aside from picking it up and putting it on a quieter street, there is nothing more to be done.

At Saturday's open house, a couple showed up and seemed to really like it. My real estate agent said the wife was "in love with the kitchen" and that they told her they had been checking the house out on the realty website. It's a good sign, but a even better sign would say "SOLD" and be parked on my front lawn.

I keep getting positive feedback from friends and even other realtors, and that does tend to boost morale, but it still doesn't change the fact that we haven't gotten a single offer in the 8 weeks we've been on the market.

I'm trying not to let this whole process completely take over my life, but that's hard to do when you are as compulsive and controlling as I am.

I want to start shopping for window treatments and paint and the washer and dryer we'll need in the new house. I want to start planting some flowers and playing in our new back yard. I want to pull into my new driveway and use the automatic garage door opener (never had one of those before!).

Do we need to advertise more? Do we need to offer more incentives? What are we not doing that we should be?

Any and all advice, back patting and handholding will be accepted.

Dear Loud Lady in my exercise class today

It is not necessary to "whoo hoo" your way through the entire class. When the instructor yells out, "How we doin'?!", I believe this is somewhat of a rhetorical question. Please do not count the remaining reps of an exercise out loud, especially when you are two counts behind. That is the instructor's job if she chooses to do so. You are not her Ed McMahon, so please refrain from bellowing "HOOO-WHAAA!" at regular intervals throughout our time together.

This is your first and final warning. If you are to continue in this fashion, I shall be forced to retain photographic evidence of your prominent camel toe and share it with the blogosphere.

Thank you in advance,
Chaylene

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.