Tag Archives: ugh

I Won’t Bake Chocolate Chip Cookies

If you have to be good at something, be a big fish in a small pond. Instead of trying to create a large impact, make a unique impact.

What’s the best kind of beer?

Basic garbage humans will sing the praises of Bud Light, 30-somethings get nostalgic when they see a Corona, poor and/or ugly people claim to like Coors Light, Europhiles are into Guinness, and every man on the brink of a midlife crisis is in love with one craft beer or another. Oh, and my mother drinks O’Doul’s because she says she enjoys the taste.

The point here is that people have different preferences, whether they’re weird (Corona), gross (Bud Light), or wrong (O’Doul’s). The same holds true for chocolate chip cookies. People prefer different types of chocolate chip cookies:  weird (with pecans), gross (with dark chocolate chips), or wrong (crunchy cookies).

Trying to make a universally loved chocolate chip cookie is an exercise in futility. The mere fact that people have all of these silly preferences means that you can’t make everyone happy all the time.

You want a cookie? I’ll bake you a batch of soft, melt-in-your-mouth, sea salt caramel cookies. I’ll create some blueberry white chocolate oatmeal cookies. I’ll make some butterscotch cookies you’ll never forget.

I’m not saying that unique = awesome, but I will say that giving people something unexpected rather than just giving them your version of the “best” of something ordinary may just pay big dividends in the long run.

Highway to the Friendzone

If you have to talk about how you got “friendzoned” by a girl, realize that you’re speaking about something that doesn’t exist–and it makes you sound like a desperate, sad whiner who has probably never been with a girl anyway.

Gents, I hate to break it to you, but girls have made the irrevocable decision of whether or not they would EVER EVEN CONSIDER sleeping with you within approximately 32 seconds of meeting you for the first time. Literally. Introduce yourself, wait a minute, and then ask her if she’d ever even possibly think about sleeping with you.* She’ll either say “hell no” or she’ll blush. There’s your answer. You’re welcome.

If you claim there’s such a thing as the “friendzone,” then you’re assuming that thing is an aberration from the norm… namely, you are assuming that most girls want to sleep with you.

Allow me to offer the dissenting and most likely uncomfortable opinion: almost no girls want you. If you happen to find one who does, THAT’S the aberration. When this rare occurrence happens, say you’ve been “bangzoned.” Makes a lot more sense, and I bet you’ll find more people will want to celebrate with you about that compared with the low attendance you’ll find at your little friendzone pity party.

* Omg, please let me know if you try this. I want to know every detail about what happens, including how much you cried when she kicked you in the balls.

Too Hot for… You?

If you have to complain about your relationship, make sure you’re complaining about something that makes sense. (This is gonna get hella metaphorical, so strap in, kids.)

Imagine that you have fantasized for years about owning a Lamborghini (or a Lotus, or a Tesla, or a damned Prius–if that’s the type of thing that tickles your fancy). All of the sudden, you are given the car of your DREAMS.

However… now you are the owner of a Lamborghini. You have to step up your game. You can’t bum around in sweatpants anymore. You need to look and act the part of Lamborghini Owner. It’s a lot of work. In addition to making yourself a fitting owner for that fine automobile, you need to wash it, park it further out in the parking lot than you used to park your Taurus, and go to the luxury car dealership when it needs work.

Does that sound like too much work for you, Sweatpants Man?? Don’t be mad at the Lamborghini for being fabulous. THAT’S WHAT YOU WANTED, REMEMBER?!

Lost on that one? Try this:  If you buy a candle, you should light it and experience it with all your senses. Enjoy its heat, its glow, its scent, and its spark. (Maybe don’t lick it, but you know what I mean.) Don’t buy it and stick it in a cabinet just to be able to say that you have a candle. Who cares if you have a candle if it’s just shoved in the back of your sock drawer?

Still not with me? Okay. Don’t be mad at your hot significant other because they’re hot. You wanted a hot person, you somehow managed to score one, and now you’re all pissy because they haven’t fallen into the same pit of self-loathing and sloth that you swim in? Hmm… maybe lower your expectations… for next time. 🙂

Completely Justified -isms

If you have to hate someone, I’ve always said that you should do it for a legitimate (but completely arbitrary) reason. The following examples are groups of people who do not get enough seething rage, discrimination, and hatred from society, though they probably deserve it:

  • Stilettoism:  hatred for women who lack the necessary ankle strength and/or balancing ability, but insist on wearing high heels anyway.
  • Nicknameism:  discriminating against those people who make their nicknames hard to spell. (Like, I get that your parents named you Mikaylah–and I hate them for that, but I hate you because you nicknamed yourself “Mikkiyee.”)
  • Stretchism:  disgust for people who stretch any time and every time they’re standing still. (Get your leg off the back of the couch, Anna, and stop bending over.)
  • Unintentional BJ-ism:  hating on people who, during business meetings, drink water from bottles that are, like, big sippy cups with the fat straws that you have to compress to suck. (No one can concentrate on strategic planning while Tim is performing oral on his water bottle. Especially when he hasn’t broken eye contact with Ron for twenty seconds.)
  • Garbagehumanism:  discriminating against people who listen to country music.
  • Doggy bag at the table eater-ism:  anger toward people who, before the meal, ask for half their dinner to be boxed as leftovers, and then open the box and start picking at it while the rest of us eat from our plates like normal people, Janet.
  • Non sequiturism*:  hating those people who have to jump into EVERY SINGLE CONVERSATION with some off-the-wall, ridiculous bullshit. (“Did you know that the Brazil nut is not, in fact, a nut?” Shut the fuck up, Chad!)

*Fun fact:  my phone tried to autocorrect that to “non sequin urinalysis,” which obviously makes more sense. (I blame Chad.)

Waxing Political

If you have to talk about politics, do it in your car. When you’re by yourself. With the windows rolled up.

In general, I don’t talk about politics. In specific, I never fucking talk about politics. Trumpeting your political views is one of the quickest ways to make my eyes glaze over. Really, all you’re doing is telling me about your feelings. I don’t actually have feelings, so hearing about yours irritates me. The overarching problem is that people are too emotional to actually hold a conversation in which there is any discussion about politics.

Political discourse digs at the very core of human nature. To remove the passion and the emotion from the conversation is impossible, so it’s my position that discussing politics should be outlawed because the interpretation of facts is skewed by one’s political leanings.

So… shh.

Beach Couples

If you have to go to the beach with another person with whom you are involved (either romantically or somewhat less so), know that I’m watching. I’m watching and I’m judging and I’m sorting you into one of the following two groups…

Beach Couple A:  These people couldn’t be pried off each other with whatever tool you use to pry people off each other. They lay on a blanket, holding hands. They go out into the water together. They embrace when the water gets up to mid-chest level. They’re having conversations you’ll never hear. (Did I just see tongue? I definitely saw… Wow. I didn’t know people’s mouths could open that far. Damn, that’s pretty sexy. They’re really… I wonder if they’re going to… Huh.) They don’t even know you’re there. They walk along the shore, hand in hand, and are oblivious to you, the world, and THE BIG DEAD FISH THAT’S RIGHT BY THE DUDE’S FOOT OHMYGOODNESS WHY CAN’T HE SEE IT EWWWW…

Beach Couple #2:  You think they showed up in the same car because they have carried the collective equivalent of two people’s beach junk to the same spot. They walk along the shore, but he’s five steps ahead of her (note that if he was behind her, that’s a totes different story because he’s admiring her assssets). They may go into the water at the same time, but no physical contact takes place. They talk, but it’s pretty much only about the weather. Additionally (wtf), the dude is very aware of every woman within his field of vision. Maybe they’re brother and sister?

Discuss.

Yes, the couples are A and #2, but that’s largely because I had some beer. I’m not going to go back and fix it now because I honestly think it’s funny. That may also be due to the beer. Whatever.

So it’s completely reasonable to assume that Couple A has just gotten together, are on their honeymoon, or are out on a super-hot (and/or super-drunk) date. Also, Couple #2 is probably either out on the worst and/or most awkward first date ever or they’ve been married for a really long time and kinda sorta (okay, totally) hate each other.

A sub-par Couple A can become Couple #2 after a period of time (and believe me, the other meaning of the term “#2” is not lost here), but a couple that’s #2 ain’t gonna become A.

Okay, here comes a difficult admission for me (again, thanks, beer), but sometimes there are completely ugly couples who qualify for Couple A status. (NOTE:  That’s great and all, but don’t, like, reproduce or anything. That’s gross.) For some reason, ugly people pair up and, like, go outside. And they get on each other. And we all shudder and cry and hide the eyes of our children because holy hell, why did these people think that the rest of us should see them in the bright, unforgiving light of day?!

Attractive people (and attractive couples) vs. uggos (and pairs of uggos). More on this to come.

Idiot Husbands and Eggs

If you have to be around that one couple who truly has no business being together, consider that one or both of them might not know any better.

Do you have one of those friends who’s always with the wrong guy? You joke and say that Yolanda “really knows how to pick ’em” and wonder how she doesn’t see that her husband Jeff and her ex Mike are, like, totally the same person. How does she not realize it’s all going to end up the same way it did when she and Tom broke up? It’ll all be for the same reasons.

Learned helplessness is when a subject has stopped trying to escape an an adverse condition or stimulus because it has been forced to deal with it for so long.

Yolanda doesn’t want to be miserable in her relationships. She’s not seeking out guys who all have the same problem. That’s just all she knows. In her current relationship, she married her husband because she stopped trying to find something different. She thinks all guys are the same. It’s like she has found 309 different ways to cook an egg, but she won’t (or can’t) acknowledge that she could do something else entirely with the egg–like dye it, or bake a cake, or (even better) throw it at Jeff’s stupid, fat face.

It’s gonna be an interesting day when Yolanda figures out something else to do with her eggs.

This story was inspired by all the awkward couples I saw (and the omelet I ate) at breakfast this morning.

Sorry About My Face

If you have to comment on my facial expression when I’m not smiling, don’t make the mistake of assuming anything about my current mood/attitude/level of health.

It has come to my attention that when I’m working/thinking/busy, I don’t always have an ear-to-ear grin plastered on my face. When this occurs and you can’t keep from opening your damn mouth and offering commentary, do us both a favor by not saying any of the following:

  • “What’s wrong?”
  • “You look terrible.”
  • “Are you sick?”
  • “Uh oh… What happened?”
  • “Wake up!”

Hey Janice, I’m relatively certain that you can walk by my office without words dribbling out of your mouth, so why don’t you give it a shot? Thanks.

The Burden of Beauty

If you have to call yourself a diva, you’re not a diva. If you have to tell people how snobby you are, you’re not a snob. If you have to talk about how pretty you are, realize that you’re probably–well–not. The rest of what I write here is going to seem highly hypocritical, but please realize that I find myself to neither be an attractive nor an unattractive person.

I just read an article entitled “People Judge Me Because I’m Pretty.” The writer went on and on about how men catcall when she walks by, some make comments, some point her out to their friends. …The poor, stupid writer doesn’t realize that all of those things are part and parcel of being a FEMALE HUMAN BEING ON PLANET EARTH. Sorry, you conceited little snot, but you included a picture of yourself with that article, and you ain’t that cute. All the stuff you mention in your article happens to every woman sometimes. Some of that stuff happens to some women more often. That crap happens to me literally every single day. You’re not special or cute or sexy or hot or foxy. You’re a girl. You’re a girl walking down the street.

When I walk on the sidewalk by myself, I put in headphones so I don’t have to hear comments like:  “Damn, girl…” When I walk by the creepy little 5’5″ man at work, I make sure my skirt is hanging as long as possible and I slouch a little so he’ll have a little less real estate to take in while he looks me up and then down. When I walk into a meeting with coworkers, I pull the collar of my dress as high as possible because the two fugly ladies get all huffy at the mere suggestion that other women have breasts. I wear oversized cardigans so I can hide my figure from, well… everyone, actually.

So shut up, you conceited brat. You’re a woman. This is what happens to ALL women. Look around. See the ugly woman with the three kids? Assuming that she’s not the adoption-obsessed Brangelina type and she isn’t producing kids in Petri dishes, someone (or sometwo or somethree) had sex with her. Really. Some dude found her bangable enough to reproduce with her. Maybe–just maybe–this guy hit on her at one point. …But you’re right, snowflake. Your self-proclaimed attractiveness is an affliction. You are so put-upon by the whole world because you’re just. so. cute. Quit kidding yourself and just shut it. You’re a woman. This is what happens to all women.

I’m Not Racist, But…

If you have to make a racist comment because you’re racist, please preface your racist statement with “I’m racist, so…” The whole “I’m not racist, but” thing has been used so much, I just assume people mean it in front of EVERY SINGLE THING they say.

Examples:

I’m not racist, but… “Is it Wednesday?”

I’m not racist, but… “Can I borrow your scissors?”

I’m not racist, but… “Boy, this fried chicken is good!”

I’m not racist, but… “The Faraday constant is equal to approximately 96,500 coulombs.”

Seriously. Thought it was okay to laugh? Racist. …And I can say that because I’m not racist.