Hypocrisies of which I am guilty

—I get all judgy about people who put their stuff on the bus seat next to them … and yet, I get on the commuter bus near the beginning of its run toward home and sit in the outside seat of two every single day. I’ve even pretended to be asleep so people won’t ask to step over me and take the seat beside me.

—I would not kill, skin, and gut an animal for any reason, ever, be it for food or sport, unless my (or another person's) life depended on it (e.g., if I or they were being attacked by a bear). I don’t want to see what goes on in a slaughterhouse or livestock operation … and yet, I eat meat, free of guilt, whenever I please. I prefer to think that it arrived in the supermarket or restaurant as is, and came from no actual animal ...

—The crossed arms and tappy foot ensue whenever all the treadmills are in use at the gym … and yet, I’m on mine for 45 minutes no matter how many people are waiting. Tip: the iPod helps with the Other-People-Ignoring.

—I feel totally superior to girls who spend a ton of time on their makeup and accessories and whatnot … and yet, I am incredibly vain about my hair and will keep people waiting to start Christmas while I finish blow-drying it with the round brush.

—I am The Original Incredi-Snob about people who read crappy books (my face, when I spot a copy of dreck like “The Five People You Meet in Heaven” or an Oprah recommend, is not pretty) … and yet, there’s me every now and again, plowing through a stupid Rona Jaffe novel like it’s goddamned Harper Lee.

—The rolling eyes and put-upon sigh are deployed when the person in front of me orders a coffee beverage that takes more than three words to describe … and yet, come holiday time, here’s me, Miss Coffee Regular, asking for a “tall double-shot nonfat peppermint mocha, no whip.” Seriously, someone should slap me with a giant candy-cane.

How ever do I live with myself?

What I wouldn't give for a large sock, filled with manure.

Listen up, coach cabin air travelers of the world:

If there is a person in the seat behind you -- tall, short, fat, skinny, black, white, blue, caveman, cavelady, Biaviian, what have you -- if there is a living being in the seat behind you, DO NOT FUCKING RECLINE YOUR DAMN-ASS SEAT, YOU INCONSIDERATE DOUCHEBAG.

You're leaning your greazy skull back into my PERSONAL SPACE, you're pushing my tray table into my ribcage, you're (probably) upsetting my cocktail, you're forcing me to shoot LASER BEAMS OF HATEFUL ILL-WILL RIGHT AT WHAT PASSES FOR YOUR BRAIN.

There is no reason for the lean-back -- yes, the seats are fucking uncomfortable, we all goddamn know that, but if you want comfort, PAY FOR FIRST CLASS, YOU CHEAPSKATE. You're not just changing the angle of your seat -- you're telling me loud and clear that the tiny smidge of comfort that the lean-back gains you is worth the fuckton of discomfort it causes me.

It's in the same class as driving a Hummer: Simply by doing this act, you are declaring to the world that you are an asshole.

God bless you, too, I’m sure, and thanks for the … seven cents, bitch.

From a couple summers spent waitressing at a “Mexican” restaurant (which wasn’t all that Mexican — just a lot of cheese and crummy salsa, owned by the whitest people I knew in Whiteytown) and “cantina” (Whiteytown was a dry town in a dry county and served no booze of any kind, which often came as a surprise to the unwary customer driving through town, seeing our sign, stopping there in the not unreasonable hope that they could have beer with their “Tex-Mex,” and then being informed to the contrary by a teenage waitress such as myself):

Top Ten Worst Tippers

10) People who thought it was really a cantina.
You know, people who want a drink get mad when they've been snookered in by false advertising. Can't say I blame them.

9) Teenagers.
Loud, cheap, and out of control — usually nice enough, but you know, they don’t have any money, and they leave the table a complete fucking mess. They’d generally try to give you 10% if they had it.

8) Seniors.
I mean, the AARP-discount type. Nothing against them — I am a friend to the elderly — but some of them had 1932 rates fixed in their minds and would most sincerely think the shiny $1.50 in quarters that they left was a really nice tip. I never got mad when this happened — it’s all about the intent.

7) Local celebs.
We never had any real celebrities — just the local variety (e.g. the head football coach at the high school, the mayor, the wife of the richest guy in town) — and they were unfailingly stingy. Their tip was their glowing presence, I guess.

6) Chatty McTalkersons.
A certain breed of person will spend the entire meal chatting you up, neighborly-like — getting your opinion on the specials, befriending you, asking for all kinds of favors, making you think you’ll be rewarded monetarily. And then they’ll tip 10% on the before-tax total. Thanks, it’s been real nice making friends with you, ya cheap bastard.

5) Cops.
In nearly every restaurant in town, including this one, the cops got 50% off of their entire bill. They’d “joke” with you the entire time, ask you out relentlessly (especially the married ones), then toss a buck or two on the table as they left.

4) Families with small children.
Run you ragged, smile when their lil nippers threw half-chewed animal crackers at your face, make you clean up three or seven spilled glasses of milk or Hi-C, and then leave no tip. Once, the dad left a nice tip, and the mom doubled back as they were leaving; while Dad was busy corralling the kids, she looked straight at me and took a fiver out of the stack.

3) The owners of the restaurant.
What a bunch of asshole cheapskates these people were. Whether they were in alone, or together, or with their entire huge family taking up three tables pushed together and keeping four waitresses in constant motion for three hours, they never, ever, EVER tipped a dime.

2) Groups of women.
Oh. My. God. When the hostess sat a group of women in your section, you knew what you were in for: A completely customized order from each one of them (“I’ll have the Sancho Panza Platter, but with chicken enchiladas — one with sauce, one without — instead of pork tamales, and a green salad instead of rice, and extra avocado on the tostada, and sour cream on the side. Did you get that? ON. THE. SIDE. Write that down. And make sure the taco is hot this time. Oh, and no salsa. Gives me heartburn.”), at least a dozen requests for stuff like more cream for their coffee, a different kind of sweetener for everyone, a new fork or three, extra lemons, et fucking cetera. And then at the end, they’d either take a solid hour divvying up the bill (“Mary Nell, you had that second Coke, so that’s … 97 cents more for you; my meal was $8.75 and Lureen’s was $8.25 so that’s 50 cents to her … Sue Ann didn’t eat any of the cheese dip so that’s … 70 cents to her … “) or ask for separate checks — often after you’d presented the bill, so you’d have to go in, void it, and re-enter the damn thing five times. And then they’d all tip a crisp dollar each.

1) Groups of Baptists just come from church on Sunday noon or Wednesday evening.
These people would come in in their flowerdy dresses and ill-fitting suits, pumped up with their own righteousness, making the heathens cook (see, they weren’t supposed to work on Sunday, but it was OK for you to), getting non-stop refills on their giant iced teas, ordering like one tostada and sitting there for two hours — and then they’d get up, leave some pocket change and a little Bible verse tract, and say “God bless you!” as they waddled off.

She likes her hair to/ get real or'nge

Things that occurred to me this morning on the way to work, while listening to my iPod to avoid having to hear the Stupidest Conversation Ever (which was taking place between a couple of fellow commuters four rows back):

--I wish I had Dusty Springfield's singing voice. So goddamn sexy.

--"Cupid" is a criminally underappreciated piece of the Sam Cooke oeuvre. But I guess that's better than it being all fuckin overplayed on Every Movie and TV Soundtrack Ever, as is the fate of more than one good-to-great song that I now cringe to hear.

--People who write songs about, among other things, finding out from your sister that you're the product of incest, aliens landing on the Vegas strip, and so on -- and THEN ALSO cover a Jesus & Mary Chain song -- kick so much ass, it's impossible to convey the magnitude of the kickassery.

--I'm totally, completely done with the Rolling Fucking Stones. Seriously, can we declare a 100% absolute moratorium on every single song of theirs until the year 2031? If I hear the opening riff of fucking Satisfaction one more fucking time, I'm'a kill every single one of those bastards with their own colostomy bags. Get this shit off my iPod, dammit.

--Seriously, the idea of spreading petroleum jelly on a piece of toast is one of the most disgusting things I've ever heard of.

Satan's Playthings: a list of some stuff I hate

--the smell of vitamins
--spiders (SPIDERS!!!!!)
--missing my bus
--not being able to check things off of a to-do list
--talking on the phone
--cutting up uncooked chicken
--the color of my kitchen sink (no doubt a salvage-yard purchase, Good-Enough-For-A-Rent-House Turd Brown)
--being asked about reproductive plans
--wasps (the kind with stingers)
--the tone of voice in which fundie/evangelical Christians talk to each other
--stingy tippers (especially when the very same people order like kings)
--an un-vacuumed living room floor (mine)
--whoever used to steal my New York Times at our old apartment building (why don't you just break into my apartment, steal six bucks, and destroy something?)

This one time, at "J-Jim's" ...

When I was, I think, 17, I worked for a summer as a hostess at a chain steakhouse in my town, let's call the place "J-Jim's." The Head Hostess Lady, an evil and deeply unsatisified witch who liked nothing more than to make us teen hostesses cry, could not stand to see us idle for even an instant. So we had to do piddling stuff while we waited for customers. Often, she set us to neatening the wax pencil marks on the laminated sheet that showed which tables were occupied (can't have those X-es extending past the little squares on this thing that no one but us ever sees, now, can we?), or cleaning the bathrooms sans gloves, or picking up lint from the carpet with our fingers (yes, really), or, for example, tidying up the salad bar. Place was big on its salad bar, doncha know. So this one time, I found a Band-Aid -- used -- in the great bowl of chopped up iceberg lettuce. I wanted to throw out the whole bowl (and I suspect the health department would have agreed). She flew into a rage, ordered me to remove the Band-Aid, and say no more. I did, because she was an evil witch and I was 17. But Never did I eat there again ...

Frak you!

BSG tonight, y'all ... too bad I won't be home to watch it. Going away for the weekend (oh, poor me!). Which is great and all -- but, you know, no BSG. Damn damn damn.

Starbuck, baby, I've got your back. You can give me those dogtags anyday.

Best. Google search result. Ever.

I was googling for popular girls' names for 1974 (long story as to why), and one of the results was: Are there excess Sharons in genitourinary clinics?

I don't know -- are there? What the hell is a genitourinary clinic, and why is someone investigating whether or not there is an excess of Sharons in them? Don't know, don't care, it's just totally awesome.