Irrational Hatred #2 - Devil Spawn Thread

Some of you may be aware that I, sometimes, hold completely insane/maniacal/intense hatreds for relatively inane, everyday things. (Although, in fairness, Michael Bublé is f*cking annoying as f*ck! Inane nothing! GAH!).

These things typically result in an overwhelming and inexplicable outpouring of rage.

This little jean-label-thread-thing here is a hatred I have held for a loooooong time.

RAAAAAAAAAAAAAWR!

Those little threads? Devil spawn, I tell you. Some jeans have them on the back waistband, the pockets, the zipper, up the legs... (okay, not really, but whatever. I hate them).

Some people think that as long as the label is removed, all is well. Those people are WRONG.

Annoys the absolute FUCK dickens out of me.

If I am standing behind you in a line up somewhere and see those little buggers, I am SO tempted to try to rip them out by hand (in vain) to get them to disappear.

They.Drive.Me.Batshit.Crazy.Er.

I bought two new pairs of jeans the other night and the FIRST this I did was get the sharp-pointy scissors to disembowel the threads.

THREADS BE DAMNED!

It's amazing the emotion I hold for these things.
Sometimes my own weirdness even freaks ME out~!


So keep an eye on your waistbands and asses, folks. If I see them, YOUR ASS IS MINE. I can be anywhere and everywhere. And if there are threads, you are NOT safe.

Fair warning.

VICTORY IS MINE!! And yes, I got the jeans on sale. You guys know me BY NOW!

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When Paying For Bottle Service....

Make sure you get the last drop.

May or may not be me. Also? The button designated says "FLIRT".

WHAT?!?!

Like you haven't all done this at LEAST once before.

Oh... you haven't? Oh. Erm... okay.


Please disregard.






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Old Men & Socks

I know what you're thinking.

That title sounds mysteriously close to "old men and sex"... but you should get your bloody mind out of the gutter, sicko.

Wait, what? You weren't thinking that?

Okay, sorry.

I have made mention many a time within the last week or two to Feyoncé™ that old men have this need to pull their socks up to their armpits when wearing socks and running shoes (tennis shoes, sneakers, gym shoes, whatever the masses call them).

I absolutely do not understand this phenomenon, and trust me, it's EVERYWHERE.

Older men have a fear of shin exposure.

My thoughts?


If you wanted to wear pants, you should have worn pants, buddy.

The only other conclusion? Perhaps they think they look sexy in them, like this:

SPOILER ALERT: You do NOT look sexy like this in long socks.

I think I finally convinced my own (very youthful!) father that he should at least push them down a little... you know, schuschz them down a bit, so they don't look like lederhosen-gone-wild.


He also blew my mind by adopting "Jesus sandals" and possibly CROCS to take the garbage out, motherfuckers! CROCS! That is when I KNEW those things must be comfortable. I was happy to see him establish independence from his tube sock dependency.

It CAN be done, people of the blogosphere. He is walking proof. Walking proof without a sock tan up to his kneecaps. Thanks Dad!




I know you would never go the route of ankle socks, but I swear they are awesome with running shoes. 

You can't even see these mysterious socks with runners, but they prevent blisterage. LISTEN OLD MEN!

I think older men of the world should, nay, MUST free themselves of the chains that bind them - you know, the white tube socks that force their calves and ankles to sweat in this heat. 

Let your legs be free my friends! Embrace the sandal! There are so many months for you to be hunkered down in pants and socks and closed-in shoes!


Be FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

[EDIT: Compression stocking-wearers excluded!!]

But then again, don't bear too much toe cleavage. That's just gross.

Why I would never work with people's feet. *shudder*

Just find the balance, okay?






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Just Call Me Cruella...

So, for the betterment of our dog Schultz, and our fur-parenting abilities, we started  dog  human training AGAIN today with a new trainer.

In the past we had tried someone who worked for Petsmart.... let's just say that when you have a 150 lb. raging beast before you, clicking a little clicker and offering up a smidgeon of beef bratwurst-like-substance will NOT refocus the dog on walking nicely and NOT eating your arm/the arms of those around you/anything smaller than him (within range).

We tried McCann's dog training. They claim to be the best. They are very confident in what they do. In an indoor, controlled environment... With a Halti or Gentle Leader... That he learned to outsmart/outwit/outplay/outlast in three days, with the quick snap of his face back and forth.

They refused to do training at our house. They said it's the same either way (trust me, if you have ever been on either side of our front door, you will know that this is NOT the case... "Indoor McCann Schultz" is a calm, tired dog. Beastly McBark-erson at the door is a whole different ball game).

When I called to say everything we were told to do was failing, that despite our efforts, we were failing and he was about to vote us off the island, I was kindly told that we should take pride in the fact that we "gave him a second chance on life".

WTF? Really?

If we had been on Survivor, we'd have been SCREWED, I tell you! Screwed!

They then suggested trying a prong collar on him.

This is a prong collar:

I have two words for you: OUCH.

That looks fucking awfully painful to me. Plus? Yeah, he was totally starved and abused by his former owners, and his neck is a trigger for him. He has an intense and awful fear response to being restrained by his neck (like, say, by his collar... or a PRONG collar... jaysus).

Thank goodness the vet said that was a ridiculous idea, to avoid triggering his neck area, and to try a Brad Pattinson-method trainer to see if that could help. So that's what we did.

This is the collar he has:

I haz feet.

Much kinder. Much friendlier. And damn effective, too!

Our trainer? Totally no nonsense. No treats. No garbage, but effective as hell. You can tell she loves dogs, and takes no guff.

Worst part? My injuries from the day:

The most hideous, hard to look at part? The vinyl kitchen floor.

And who were they from?

It's really hard to say who is more adorable. Or more furry.

Yeah, this adorable little thing. Not the Dane. I thought she'd be crated while we focussed on the big boy. Turns out I was oh-so-very-wrong. She needs the training just as badly as him, because I am a softy non-alpha dog.


Anyway, the reason I am cruel? We can't talk to the dogs for TWO WHOLE WEEKS! That's an eternity to a crazy person like me who talks to them all day long. You know.... about the stock market, how bloated my stomach is, how cheesy the pre-written vows are from the reverend-lady, how bad my feet smell.

You know. IMPORTANT things like that. THINGS THAT MUST BE SAID.

I have a feeling I am going to be blogging every goddamned day next week to   save my sanity   save what's left of my sanity   force SOMEONE to listen to me   feel like I am talking to someone. The penalty for talking to them is 7 push-ups. I totally want to stick with it, because I know it is training ME and helping THEM, but damn is it hard.

But I am gonna be RIPPED for the wedding. HA!

HOTTTT.

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What The F*ck, Exercise? Seriously?

I figured now that I've  put weight back on  getting married in the fall  decided to get healthier, I'd bust out the ole sports bra and start moving and shakin' again.

I find, most often, the hardest part is   getting out of bed   putting down the bag of Doritos   brushing my teeth and leaving the house   actually putting on the workout gear, and running shoes. Once that's done  and the Dorito crumb have been brushed off somewhat   it's easy-peasy-lemon-squeez-y to get to the workout facility/gym/bed.

So... uh... yeah, anyway... I actually GET my ass to the gym. I forget my own yoga mat (ALWAYS) and have the guts to put my bare feet on a potentially-fungus-covered public-use yoga mat. Socks are off. Sitting on my arse bones waiting for class to start.

Sitting.

Waiting.

Wishing.

Not to be confused with a Jack Johnson song. Much less trippy-esque, much more potential foot fungus. Maybe even butt fungus. Yoga pants are only so thick, people.

Your ass could be next.

Then, after some more waiting, the instructor doesn't show up. W.T.F. Seriously?? ....REALLY?? Seriously? I put in all this effort to   cease consuming Doritos  get my ass down here and you can't be bothered to show up to your teaching post? Not even call? Just let the room full of us sit there like assholes, waiting, wishing?

Puts the "LAY" in Frito-Lay?

See, the Doritos appear to be the better choice. Or, at the very least, the most INTERESTING choice.

So, fine. Not to be discouraged,   though all it takes is one instance of bullshit to make me want to throw my hands in the air, sulk like a victim and never return   I head back to yoga. To find out that it has been indefinitely cancelled. SERIOUSLY?? (See people, this is why this blog is named the way it is).

Fine, f*ck you skinny yoga beeyotch.

I'll try Zumba. I tried a fitness studio elsewhere, in another town, with KICKASS Zumba results.

Back in my hometown, after eating a few bags of Twizzlers, I decided to brush the cobwebs off my gym membership card. And try Zumba once more.

Oh lordy.

My assumption was that you had to have rhythm to instruct these classes. You know, at least keep to the beat. I know, I am so fucking demanding, aren't I?

The instructor couldn't even dance. Hear that? COULDN'T.EVEN.DANCE.  Everyone around me was named Mae, and Ethel, and Myrtle. (No, not the turtle). Fuck. Really? Seriously?



Thought I would give another instructor a chance. Got on my gear. Went to the gym. Waited for Zumba class to start. No instructor showed. No call. Nothing. Front desk staff said they had no idea what was going on.

DAMMIT.

Seriously?

I'm  expanding because of it  lovin' it. Goddamn dollar drink days.

I'm going to McDonald's to get a large Coke. I'm pretty sure the 82 grams of sugar will make me feel better. And help wash down these Doritos.

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