With a Side of ‘Screw You’

I have a question or two for you.

How many times, in your life, has someone screwed up your order — any order; food, car parts, an online purchase, etc.? If you’re anything like me, that number is a bazillion-trillion-fuckmillion-and-one.

Now, what do you do the majority of the time? Do you make a huge fuss and get whoever’s to blame in trouble? Do you calmly just deal with whatever you’ve been given? Or, if you’re like me, do you make a small fuss, go back (or return or call or whatever) and make sure your item is fixed or correct or whatever, without turning into a raving lunatic and making sure someone pays?

I can’t speak for any of you, and I know there are some of each type of person out there, but I’d bet the majority of people probably does the third. We make sure our order is correct but we don’t make anyone pay for the mistake.

Sometimes we even smile and thank them for doing their damn job the second time.

This morning I went to WaWa. For those of you who don’t know, WaWa is a convenience store that sells cigarettes and bread and milk and ice cream and candy and deli meats and all sorts of stuff (except liquor). They’ve also, in somewhat recent years, starting serving more and more hot to-go foods, like soup and sides and subs and quesadillas and pizza and eggs and french toast, to name a few. So I ordered my usual — what I get nearly every morning — french toast and bacon. Seriously, all they have to do is heat the french toast. The bacon’s already prepared, the french toast is already prepared, it just has to be heated. It takes like 30 seconds for them to heat the french toast and put it and the bacon in a bowl for me.

And it did take about 30 seconds. And I was pleased. Until I got home and realized there wasn’t any freakin’ bacon. None whatsoever. Not even a sliver.

My dad often orders extra bacon, and they forget that because the ordering system is somewhat of a mess and it’s a bit confusing when someone orders extra. I get that. But we’re actually such regular customers that they’ve started adding extra bacon every time we order, simply because they’re so used to it. But this time there was no bacon. How the frick do you forget half of the entire order? Three pieces of toast, and oh, what’s that? THREE PIECES OF NOTHING.

I suppose it was easy for the girl making my order to forget something that says:

ORDER NUMBER 978
FRENCH TOAST (3)
BACON (3)

because she was hanging out and socializing and conversing with her friends the whole time she was making it. The whole 30 seconds of her life I took away from her friends when she was supposed to be working. But instead of making a “bacon” mental note she was probably making a “this guy is so totally cute, OMG” mental note so my bacon was sadly forgotten.

Anyway, I didn’t realize this until I got home, and WaWa doesn’t deliver (though seriously, they should — make a note WaWa) so I had to go all the way back. And go all the way back I did, because fuck eating french toast without bacon.

I told you this immensely long bacon story because when I got there I could have gone up to the person at the cash register and made a fuss to them. I could have demanded to speak to the manager. I could have told anyone other than the girl who made me the french toast with a side of nothing, so someone else knew what had happened. But I didn’t.

I walked straight up to the to-go counter and waited five minutes for the girl to finish texting and then calmly and politely told her that I had just ordered and gotten no bacon. She giggled to herself, said oops, took my order back, and added bacon. Five seconds. Five secondsThen she told me she gave me extra bacon, and I smiled real big and gave her a hearty Thank you! and then she apologized. At the end!

And then I walked past all the other workers and the manager and went home and ate my fucking french toast and bacon.

I’m sure not much would have been done if I had told a manager, but at least someone else would have known. At least she would have been held responsible for her actions. At least, if I had said something and she keeps socializing instead of doing her job, management will realize that maybe she’s not the best worker.

There are so many screw-ups all the time because no one has to fucking answer for their mistakes.

I am what’s wrong with the world, because I give people the benefit of the doubt and think Oh, maybe they’re having a bad day. No need to get anyone else involved. But maybe, just maybe, it’s time to stop thinking that way. Maybe it’s time to get people in trouble so my orders are finally made correctly.

People of the world, stand up with me and be assholes. Let’s make a fuss over the little things, because if we don’t, who the hell will?

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Flatulence Floozies

So I was sitting in bed with Jack the other night, having a beer, when the phone wrang.

No big deal. I got up to get it and OHMYGOD I farted. Now, this is no big deal to me. I know I fart. But, after six fucking years, and endless sleep-flatulence, Jack still thinks it’s inappropriate for me to fart in front of him.

no farting

Photo Credit: Bill Bates / Flickr (CC BY-ND 2.0)

Guess what, guys? Women fart. And women, you should stop holding in your farts!

By now you all should have already heard that holding in farts can be bad for your health. I won’t get into specifics, but some doctors believe it, some don’t, but either way it’s damn uncomfortable to do so.

You know what can happen when you hold in your farts? Your shoulder can hurt. I haven’t looked into why this happens, but I had a doctor once tell my friend, who was recovering from a c-section, that the pain in her shoulder was from gasses and she needed to walk around and fart to get them out. And I know from experience that my shoulder hurts all the time when I hold in my farts.

So, am I going to put myself through pain to make you more comfortable? No.

On average, the normal person farts 14 times a day. That’s at least 14 farts you men expect us women to hold in. And then guess what? Even if we do hold them in, they don’t go anywhere. They come out in our sleep. So it’s going to happen no matter what.

Honestly, I’m sick of this. I’m sick of this patriarchal bullshit that says women can’t fart. Do you know how uncomfortable holding in a fart can be? I refuse to be part of this no-women-farting movement. I’ve decided to make my own movement.

Let’s all become Flatulent Floozies! Flatulence Floozies can fart where they want, when they want, and admit to it whenever the hell they want, because why the fuck not?

[here are more facts on farts]

How to be Happy

[Throwback Thursday — originally published July 2013 while on Ecstasy]

Ticket To Happiness

Photo Credit: Jo / Jo’s Blogs / Found On: Long Beach Bootcamp

Seriously, what is going on with the world lately? America especially. I have witnessed more racism, homophobia, religious in-tolerance, bigotry, hypocrisy, and just plain ignorance and hate more lately than ever. We are all people.

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Here’s the Thing about Feminism

A lot of you seem to be quite confused about what feminism is. So I’ll just say this right now — feminism is not extremism.

feminism is for everyone

Photo credit: Phoenix Dark-Knight / Flickr (CC BY-NC-SA 2.0) (Cropped)

Feminism isn’t about getting mad that there are pink Legos. Pink Legos are awesome. Feminism is about getting mad that pink Legos are marketed to girls while superhero Legos are marketed to boys because what if my boy wants to play with pink or my girl wants to play with superheroes? Feminism is about marketing toys to kids.

Feminism isn’t about telling girls not to like princesses and makeup and dresses. It’s about giving them options to like dragons and camouflage and slingshots as well. It’s about letting them make their own choices, which is nearly impossible if the toys marketed to them are only princesses and makeup and dresses. Feminism is about choice.

Feminism isn’t only about girls and women. It’s also about giving boys the options to like princesses and makeup and dresses, along with dragons and camouflage and slingshots. Feminism is about being yourself.

Feminism isn’t about making women feel bad for choosing to be stay-at-home mothers, or by cooking their partner meals, or doing the household chores. It’s about eliminating the expectation that women are required to to those things, and giving them the opportunity to say no if they want to. Feminism is about letting women choose to stay at home or join the workforce, and it’s about respecting and admiring them no matter what they choose.

Feminism isn’t about expecting a woman with no qualifications to make more money than a man with qualifications. It’s about expecting fair and equal opportunities for women with qualifications, and pay for women worth it. A woman who does the same work as a man should receive the same pay; a woman who does less work than a man should receive less pay; a woman who does more work than a man should receive more pay. Feminism is about equality.

Feminism isn’t about putting men down; it’s about raising women up to be equal with men, and then raising them both up together. It’s not about overshadowing men; it’s about taking their hands and walking side by side with them.

*  *  *  *  *

What is feminism to you? What have I forgotten? Let’s break down the extremism and get back to real feminism!

Santa Isn’t Real

Soon Santa will be coming and bringing all the little children presents (let’s face it, even the bad kids get presents — the only kids who don’t are poor or don’t celebrate Christmas).

There will be trees and wrapping paper and tinsel and candy canes and gingerbread houses. A plate will be left out with cookies and milk and all will be wonderful and when the children wake up, one cookie will have one bite taken out of it to show Santa was there.

The unwrapping will commence and a mythical creature will get all the credit for your hard work.

Nope. I don’t think so. Not in my home.

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You see, I am not filling my child’s head with lies. There is no Santa in my own. I am motherfucking Santa — Momma Santa come to shower you with shit you don’t need. And you better believe I am eating all of those cookies and drinking all of that milk. Waste not, I always say.

Honestly, I don’t really care either way if you choose to tell your children Santa is real or not. But be informed that my kid might very well be the one to break the bad news and send your child home crying one day after school. Sorry in advance about that.

I just don’t like the whole idea. We pound trust, truth into our children’s heads from the moment they are old enough to understand, but before that we tell them stories about Santa and the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy and all the wonderful fake magical people who come and bring treats and presents and money, and why? Why do we do this? To instill imagination and a sense of wonder?

Yeah, my kid has that already, thankyouverymuch.

The other thing is that we’re not religious. There’s no Virgin Mary or Sweet Baby Jesus in our home around Christmas — we simply celebrate it for the shallow notion of the holiday season and the presents. Which is quite alright with us, also thankyouverymuch.

So what does Santa have to do with any of this? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just like there is no special creature on birthdays, we celebrate Christmas because we love each other. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. We enjoy the colors and smell and feel of the holidays and we enjoy getting and giving new stuff and we enjoy our family, so we celebrate. Let me say that again: We enjoy our family, so we celebrate. Santa is not a part of our family.

Lying is not a part of our family, either. Now, I’m not going to scar my child for life or anything. If he chooses to believe, so be it. But I am not going to tell him Santa is real.

For example, Nixon (Nate’s oldest) asked us all the time if the Tooth Fairy and Santa were real. We told her no every single time. But, she wanted to believe so she believed. We didn’t yell at her. We didn’t pound it into her head that she was wrong. We just didn’t indulge her beliefs. And guess what? She’s fine.

I refuse to have this happen to me:

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