I'd like to call these Pet Peeves, but I've never had a pet who irked me in this way, so I'm calling it People Peeves. Things friends and lovers say that peeve. Clearly I attach too much importance to words, tending to take every single alphabet grouping to heart. I don't think I can work it any other way, though.
“I’m taking up too much of your time.”
Why? If you believe what you're saying, then what the hell are you doing that for? That is clearly a manipulation, especially when I give you no indication that you are doing so. Don’t you know yet that if I want to hang up the phone, I have no problems saying so? That if I am ready for you to leave, I can tell you easily that it’s time for you to do so? If you are ready to go or hang up, just say so instead of putting it on me. How old are you?
“Sorry to bother you.”
Another manipulation. You want me to say, “It’s no bother,” to give you reassurance. Because we are friends or acquaintances, I’ll give you the reassurance the first couple of times, but if you continue to say it every time you call, I’m going to stop talking to you eventually, because you annoy the crap out of me.
“I didn’t mean to …”
This is a tricky one, as sometimes we do things that bring up “unintended” consequences. I have to say that if you say that a lot, you won’t say it a lot to me as I won’t be putting myself out to you for long. And I’ll know when you mean to apologize.
“You think you know me, but you don’t.”
Ahhh, the phrase that indicates your long-time partner is hiding something from you and wants you to be astute enough to figure it out instead of coming clean themselves. It’s not good news.
"You have no idea how much I love you."
Well, you know what? It’s because you are doing a damn poor job of showing me. So shut up.
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Friday, November 5, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
White. American. Cheese:
Sliced Thin, But Not Too Thin
My daughter told me that her friends always offered cookies or chips for a snack when she was at their house. I said I offered cheese when I was living at home.
She thought that was funny, and probably thought it typical.
Not that my friends were in the house, because they weren’t. My parents both commuted to work every day so were gone from about 6:30 a.m. to 6 p.m. and we were not allowed to have friends in the house when no parents were home.
That didn’t stop me from being hungry, even when we were outside. And my friends in the neighborhood all wanted some when I offered, so I’d go inside and get the cheese (always white American cheese) and peel off slices and hand them out. D2 thinks it hilarious that I
(1) would offer cheese; and
(2) that my friends would want some.
What she doesn’t know is that we could be completely on the other side of the neighborhood or up at The Big Tree (really on the other side) and if I wanted cheese, we would all go to my house and hang out in the driveway, eating cheese.
My mother actually was thankful that I only asked for more cheese when she went grocery shopping, having known in my soul that cookies, cakes, soda, sugary snackage of any kind, just wouldn’t ever make it onto the list.
I used to sneak sugar in my water sometimes, just to drink something that wasn’t plain water. Guess we didn’t have Kool-Aid either, because when I got married, I always had Kool-Aid and potato chips and dip in the house, until we learned about the horrors of too much sugar and FD&C Red No. 3.
Then there’s the other cheese story. I’m amused that I have at least two cheese stories.
Don’t ask how this started because I don’t remember, but as a young teen I used to like to have a cup of hot tea, with milk and sugar, and then rip off pieces from a couple of slices of (white American) cheese and hold them in the hot tea, just until they melted enough but didn’t rip off and fall into the cup. I liked melty cheese. I’ve done this as long as I can remember.
So my other daughter, D1, told me she had some friends over one time—this was at D1’s place—and they were drinking tea and she got out some cheese and started dunking it and her friends started freaking out. D1 had no idea that the whole world didn’t do this! It was one of those “aha!” moments. I think she was a little embarrassed—I don’t really remember—I do remember she called me about it!
She thought that was funny, and probably thought it typical.
Not that my friends were in the house, because they weren’t. My parents both commuted to work every day so were gone from about 6:30 a.m. to 6 p.m. and we were not allowed to have friends in the house when no parents were home.
That didn’t stop me from being hungry, even when we were outside. And my friends in the neighborhood all wanted some when I offered, so I’d go inside and get the cheese (always white American cheese) and peel off slices and hand them out. D2 thinks it hilarious that I
(1) would offer cheese; and
(2) that my friends would want some.
What she doesn’t know is that we could be completely on the other side of the neighborhood or up at The Big Tree (really on the other side) and if I wanted cheese, we would all go to my house and hang out in the driveway, eating cheese.
My mother actually was thankful that I only asked for more cheese when she went grocery shopping, having known in my soul that cookies, cakes, soda, sugary snackage of any kind, just wouldn’t ever make it onto the list.
I used to sneak sugar in my water sometimes, just to drink something that wasn’t plain water. Guess we didn’t have Kool-Aid either, because when I got married, I always had Kool-Aid and potato chips and dip in the house, until we learned about the horrors of too much sugar and FD&C Red No. 3.
Then there’s the other cheese story. I’m amused that I have at least two cheese stories.
Don’t ask how this started because I don’t remember, but as a young teen I used to like to have a cup of hot tea, with milk and sugar, and then rip off pieces from a couple of slices of (white American) cheese and hold them in the hot tea, just until they melted enough but didn’t rip off and fall into the cup. I liked melty cheese. I’ve done this as long as I can remember.
So my other daughter, D1, told me she had some friends over one time—this was at D1’s place—and they were drinking tea and she got out some cheese and started dunking it and her friends started freaking out. D1 had no idea that the whole world didn’t do this! It was one of those “aha!” moments. I think she was a little embarrassed—I don’t really remember—I do remember she called me about it!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Death lives!
I’ve been watching a short-lived gem-of-an-HBO series using Netflix: “Dead Like Me.” It’s a quirky, entertaining little show, well written, tackling the ever-interesting subject of the after-life.
Ellen Muth stars as George, an 18-year-old, life-avoiding girl who is working the first day of her first job after high school graduation as a file clerk at a temp agency when she goes out during her lunch hour and is killed by a space shuttle toilet seat plummeting to Earth. As you can imagine, she is pretty much blown to smithereens and her mom, dad and 11-year-old sister have to pick up the pieces of their lives and try to go on. But the story isn't about them.
Immediately after death, George finds that she’s a grim reaper, part of a small group of reapers headed up by Rube, played by Mandy Patinkin. She’s known as Toilet Seat Girl, thereby confirming my own suspicion that at least the writers of this show think like me: Life is no different after high school or death. Most people don’t seem to change. (Did I say high school equals death?)
The reapers must take the souls from bodies of people about to die and they do it after getting a name, time and place on a Post-It note from Rube, every morning at a pancake house where they meet.
I'm just saying, hilarious.
They make their way to the place, find a way to discover the person there who is scheduled to die and run their hand along an arm or shoulder, drawing the soul from the body. A moment later, whatever is scheduled to happen to that person takes place and they lead the just-dead person away from the scene and toward his or her “light.” Each reap has a twist of its own.
One kicker: George is a reaper in her hometown, something that is unusual even by reaper standards, and she gets to check in on her family every now and then. She is seen by the living, has to live and work among them, earning money for her expenses as if she was alive.
But reapers don’t look like themselves to the living. George takes advantage of this to visit her family, pretending to be somebody else and see how they are dealing with her death. This is not encouraged by Rube as it can wreak havoc with your focus. There is one day a year—Halloween, natch—when they are seen as they looked when alive.
The stories are great and ironic and interesting. The series ended all too soon, as the good ones all do.
Ellen Muth stars as George, an 18-year-old, life-avoiding girl who is working the first day of her first job after high school graduation as a file clerk at a temp agency when she goes out during her lunch hour and is killed by a space shuttle toilet seat plummeting to Earth. As you can imagine, she is pretty much blown to smithereens and her mom, dad and 11-year-old sister have to pick up the pieces of their lives and try to go on. But the story isn't about them.
Immediately after death, George finds that she’s a grim reaper, part of a small group of reapers headed up by Rube, played by Mandy Patinkin. She’s known as Toilet Seat Girl, thereby confirming my own suspicion that at least the writers of this show think like me: Life is no different after high school or death. Most people don’t seem to change. (Did I say high school equals death?)
The reapers must take the souls from bodies of people about to die and they do it after getting a name, time and place on a Post-It note from Rube, every morning at a pancake house where they meet.
I'm just saying, hilarious.
They make their way to the place, find a way to discover the person there who is scheduled to die and run their hand along an arm or shoulder, drawing the soul from the body. A moment later, whatever is scheduled to happen to that person takes place and they lead the just-dead person away from the scene and toward his or her “light.” Each reap has a twist of its own.
One kicker: George is a reaper in her hometown, something that is unusual even by reaper standards, and she gets to check in on her family every now and then. She is seen by the living, has to live and work among them, earning money for her expenses as if she was alive.
But reapers don’t look like themselves to the living. George takes advantage of this to visit her family, pretending to be somebody else and see how they are dealing with her death. This is not encouraged by Rube as it can wreak havoc with your focus. There is one day a year—Halloween, natch—when they are seen as they looked when alive.
The stories are great and ironic and interesting. The series ended all too soon, as the good ones all do.
Friday, October 23, 2009
For Two Reasons
How about those love and angel and best friend forwards we seem to get every day via email?
Don’t they make you feel special—“You are an angel; to me you are one of the finest, warmest, sweetest people I know”—me and 500 others up in the Send-to section.
What the hell?
Stop filling up my inbox with that crap!
I no longer open them because 1) I don’t feel great because you sent it to me and 2) I sure am not forwarding it to everybody in my contact list to keep myself from having a plague of locusts descend or whatever else it is these emails sweetly threaten.
It’s crap and it’s not even fun crap. Doesn’t put a smile on my face. Doesn’t stretch my imagination or make me use my brain in any productive way. Probably puts malware and, at the very least, tracking cookies onto my computer.
Stop sending it to me.
If you can’t write a decent note once in a while, something a person can look forward to opening and actually respond to, take me off your list. Think of it this way, if you wouldn’t write it on paper, stick it in an envelope, put a stamp on it and send it to me via snail mail, don’t send it through cyberspace!
As if any of those people are going to read this.
The rest of you – thanks for reading this rant and, hopefully, adding a rant of your own below.
Don’t they make you feel special—“You are an angel; to me you are one of the finest, warmest, sweetest people I know”—me and 500 others up in the Send-to section.
What the hell?
Stop filling up my inbox with that crap!
I no longer open them because 1) I don’t feel great because you sent it to me and 2) I sure am not forwarding it to everybody in my contact list to keep myself from having a plague of locusts descend or whatever else it is these emails sweetly threaten.
It’s crap and it’s not even fun crap. Doesn’t put a smile on my face. Doesn’t stretch my imagination or make me use my brain in any productive way. Probably puts malware and, at the very least, tracking cookies onto my computer.
Stop sending it to me.
If you can’t write a decent note once in a while, something a person can look forward to opening and actually respond to, take me off your list. Think of it this way, if you wouldn’t write it on paper, stick it in an envelope, put a stamp on it and send it to me via snail mail, don’t send it through cyberspace!
As if any of those people are going to read this.
The rest of you – thanks for reading this rant and, hopefully, adding a rant of your own below.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)