GTFO, 2013.

I hate New Years Eve, for a lot of reasons, but I’ve been ready for this one for months. A year, even.

I don’t know about you, but this year was epically shitastic. Not just for me, but for many, many, many people I know. My extended family alone saw three deaths in the last two weeks of February. And another in June. The death of my brother alone was enough to make this year the worst ever, and then my grandpa passed away as well. Big A’s career plans got %$&@ed so next year is going to be a mess of changes, hopefully for the better. I continue to struggle to find a job of my own.

It isn’t just me. So many of my dear friends struggled this year, either with health, loss, jobs, whatever. Aside from a few beautiful births and a wedding or two, this year is hardly worth remembering in my book. It’s hard to watch the circle of people you love struggle in so many different ways.

I’m not even going to dive into the tragedies of the world. Watch the news for that.

Every year has bad moments. But 2013 was the when-it-rains-it-pours of bad moments. It’s hard for me to remember that fun moments I did have when everything is overshadowed. I’ve always been a pessimist so this year was not great for my attitude!

But here’s to 2014. To positive changes, to happier moments, to new opportunities. To less wallowing, more action, less pity, more cheer, less tears, more grins.

So GTFO, 2013. GFY.

GTFO

 

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Bananas are the Worst.

My former coworkers can verify that I used to throw a minor fit when the old developer guy next to me would nom on bananas at his desk. The wretched smell would waft over the short cubicle wall and into my banana-free zone. And I would dry heave. When I was pregnant, I actually had to step away when he (or anyone else in the office) ate them. I never said anything, because really, it’s just a #%!#$ banana. And he was a really sweet guy. And it was all over in a few minutes anyway. Plus, hello excuse to leave my desk.

If you didn’t gather from that enthralling anecdote, I hate bananas. They are good for one thing only: banana bread. And when I make banana bread, I pretty much hold my breath until the pan slides into the oven where is becomes delicious non-banananey goodness.

I don’t know if this is true. I also don’t want to find out.

At first glance, they are a perfect food. Cheap, abundant, wrapped in its own easy-peel wrapper that doubles as a cutting board, full of potassium and some other shit.

DO NOT BE FOOLED.

They are also filled with spiders.

And apparently the bottom end of it tastes like Beelzebub’s booty. (Can someone verify this?)

DID I MENTION THAT THEY ARE FILLED WITH SPIDERS?!

Spiders, people. Venomous ones.  No. Just. NO.

The worst. THE WORST.

Unfortch, Little A goes apeshit for bananas. His first real word is thisclose to being banana. He freaks out when I put them in the grocery cart. He powers through an entire one for breakfast. I have to touch them on a daily basis. And one would think, after five months of a daily peeling, I would be immune to its powerful scent. I am not.

Does anyone really like bananas? IT’S A CHIQUITA CONSPIRACY. I feel like the world thinks everyone LOVES bananas but nearly everyone I know does not. Including my mom’s side of the family, where a conversation yesterday exposed a communal hatred among two cousins, my brother and myself.

bananas

I will continue to give in to Little A’s obsession and continue to cut off the apparently awful tasting booty end. Because I love my little spawn.

The sacrifices we make as parents, amiright?

BANANAS. NO. NOOOOOOOOO.

.

Sidenote: This post was really hard to write as my N key isn’t working so well. SO MANY EDITS.

McCormick and Shits

vet·er·an

n.

1. A person who is long experienced or practiced in an activity or capacity: a veteran of political campaigns.
2. A person who has served in the armed forces: “Privilege, a token income . . . were allowed for veterans of both world wars” (Mavis Gallant).
3. An old soldier who has seen long service.

adj.

1. Having had long experience or practice: a veteran actor.
2. Of or relating to former members of the armed forces: veteran benefits.
(freedictionary.com)

First, it’s Veterans Day. Thank one. If you don’t know one, let me know and I’ll thank one on your behalf. I know plenty.

While one day of recognition is not nearly enough thanks for all the things veterans have allowed us to have, it is something. And many establishments have offered free meals and discounts as a thank you to those who have served. And that’s awesome.

Most of the time.

We found out that McCormick & Schmicks had a Veterans Day menu and it had been awhile since we went anywhere…nice. So we made a reservation, asked specifically for the Veterans Day menu, ordered some wine and enjoyed a great lunch. My husband, active duty with 700+ days of overseas deployment and nearly a decade of service under his belt, had pointed to his meal choice ON the Veterans Day menu. On the check it was listed as a Veterans meal.

Don't eat here unless you hate freedom.

Don’t eat here unless you hate freedom.

Silly us, we thought it would be complimentary. That’s what it had said on the menu and website, after all. WE WERE SO NAIVE.

Apparently, in McCormick & Schmick’s World, the word “veteran” means “retired”. The waitress told us so. She even flat out corrected my husband when he corrected her on the definition of veteran. She also had the balls to tell my husband that he was not a veteran because he wasn’t retired. Seriously. When my husband continued to question the policy, the waitress continued to stand by it and then threw her manager under the bus, saying that’s what she had been told. While the special menu had been labeled VETERANS MENU, they really only meant that retirees were deserving of a free meal. If you bitched enough, they would extend the policy to those who have served overseas.

NO ONE TELLS MY HUSBAND HE ISN’T A VETERAN.

Still serving your country as active duty? HAHAHA, fuck you, you have to pay.

As the waitress walked away in a huff to discuss our anger with management, a woman at the table next to us turned in shock at what happened. She WAS a retiree and could not believe the interaction she just listened to. She seemed to be as appalled and offended as we were.

You guys, the restaurant was packed with people, most of which were clearly military members of all kinds. We weren’t going to be the only ones disappointed and outraged by this “policy”. That’s what hurts the most. This wasn’t about us. This was about all of them, in Baltimore and around the world.

We ended up getting Big A’s meal for free, but the waitress and her lack of apology, rude attitude and lack of understanding of the word veteran talked herself into a hole and out of a tip. Big A asked to see the manager as we left and she made the situation worse. WORSE. We received a haughty apology, with the explanation that the fine print on the mailer specified retired personnel or those who’ve deployed to a war (which clearly wasn’t understood by the waitress who flat out told us deployments don’t make a veteran) only. BUT GUESS WHAT, LADY. We didn’t get a mailer. And the fine print did not exist on the menu or on the website. She explained that the “campaign” had been very successful, acting like she had done us a favor for comping the meal. And not giving a damn that Big A was trying to stand up for his people. She talked in circles, told us the same thing and couldn’t answer questions with anything but “well we comped your meal, so…”. I’m still unsure if it was this particular establishment’s policy or corporate policy, but either way we will never return to any of them.

Other companies are doing much better with their Veterans Day specials. More often than not, active duty members are specifically listed as part of the offer. Starbucks even goes one further and extends the free coffee to active duty spouses. AND stated a commitment to hiring vets and active duty spouses. THAT is how you honor those who fight and have fought for freedom, McCormick & Shits. NOT by exclusion.

Veterans aren’t just elderly VFW gentlemen anymore. We’ve been in major wars for over a decade now. Those young guys in active duty joined WHILE we were in conflict, knowing what they were joining for and they’re going to be told that they don’t deserve a free $16 meal because they haven’t retired yet?

Thanks for your gourmet generosity, assface.

I Can Count on You Making Me Cry. Every Morning.

If you watch TV and you’ve got a kid, you’re likely on a kid-friendly network and you’ve likely been subjected to numerous advertisements for child-related crap. I’ve ranted about ads before, I’m a former advertising major and though not in the industry, I have feelings about these things.

If you haven’t seen the Carter’s commercial (and if you have, you know EXACTLY which one I’m talking about) go and watch it now. I’ll wait.

While we’re waiting, how about those…Denver Broncos? Minnesota Vikings? Montreal Expos?

Okay, we’re all back now?

WHAT THE $%^#!$! $%@$% WAS THAT, RIGHT!?

If you have a heart or a child, you’re feeling things now. If you have both you probably want to break something so it can feel as terrible as you do right now.

Movies should make us feel feelings. Commercials need not do that, at least to that extent.

I feel so…used.

I CAN’T EVEN HEAR THE FIRST LINE OF THAT SHIT WITHOUT LOSING MY SHIT. BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT’S COMING.

Even now, with the script running through my head, I am clenching my jaw in order not to lose said shit.

I watch Full House every morning. This commercial runs several times. Every morning. And I can’t NOT watch Full House. I know this ad too well. We’re frenemies. It starts and I’m all I hate you I hate you I hate you and by the end of that thirty seconds I’m all OMFG SELL ME ALL YOUR GRIPPY SOCKS AND WHERE’S MY KID I HAVE TO GIVE HIM TEN MINUTES OF SNUGGLES BEFORE THIS AIRS AGAIN.

And in those ten minutes of snuggles I get irrationally angry that thirty seconds of advertising can get me so worked up, emotional and a damn trainwreck. AND THEN IT AIRS AGAIN. By the time I find something to throw at the TV, it’s roped me in again and I want to by every pair of pants with animal flair on the butt. In his size AND mine.

carters

When you hold my hand, I’ll hold it right back. And lead you to the mall. Bring your wallet!

It’s brilliant. It’s like the greatest @!#$%#! commercial of all time. It’s working. Even if I want to stab it.

It’s also the reason why I am refusing to watch the telecom ad that is making its way around the interwebz, making everyone I know have feelings. If all those people have the feelings, it’ll probably dehydrate me.

Apparently this spot has been around for a year, according to youTube. It’s only been driving me batshit for a few weeks. There are probably a ton of other blogs that have written something similar. But I didn’t look. THIS IS ABOUT ME HAVING ALL THE FEELINGS. Because I am having all the feelings.

I want you to feel like I do. That you’ve been emotionally manipulated. That your kid is growing up too fast and for the love of tacos don’t let go of his/her hand. That you can barely remember that first night home and you know for a fact that your kid can’t so that girl narrator is full of shit. That you need more striped pajamas with feet.

PASS THE KLEENEX. WE’VE GOT SOME SHOPPING TO DO.

The Military Spousal Guide for Changing Sheets During Deployments

Dear Military Spouses (also Long-Distance Relationshippers, Spouses of Business Travelers, etc):

I don’t know about you, but I hate changing sheets alone. It ranks #3 on my list of Things I Hate During Deployments.

#1 is everything breaking all the time. Seriously.

#2 is changing the duvet. That shit’s hard, yo. I usually get lost in the corner and have to take a nap before I can tunnel my way back out. Plus, no one can fluff like my husband.

*wink*

ANYWAY. After a recent sheet change, it occurred to me. I could change sheets half as often. But not be twice as gross. It’s so simple, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. PLUS it’ll help the mattress wear and tear.

I’m just going to switch sides.

When it’s time to change the sheets F it. I’m rolling over to the empty side.

IT’S SO OBVIOUS.

Maybe the cat will give me more room over on that side, too. He’s been trying to bully me out of my side for weeks.

That's a King Size Bed, y'all.

That’s a King Size Bed, y’all. With a Crouching Tiger.

 

What can I say? I’m a genius.