Dear Thing 2, You are more self-centered than a gyroscope. Love, Velma

I am about tired of Thing 2 and his fucking attitude problem. He's driving long distance today. He calls me about an hour and a half ago...while I'm driving home from work...in the rain...and says, "I'm bored. Entertain me." I laugh. 'Cause I'm not a psycho.

However, I just called him to see how his drive is going. He answers the phone yelling at me that he's driving in the rain. Like I'm supposed to be psychic or something. And then hangs up on me before I can get through saying sorry.

Dear Thing 2,

You really are a selfish sonofabitch.

Love,
Velma

Some days I'm not sure why I don't dump them both and just start over again.

Dear Velma, You're being a psycho. Love, Velma

Ok, I’m a bad person. Thing 1 is taking some woman he met less than 3 months ago away for the weekend to some cabin in the woods. I’m a bad person because I’m glad it’s supposed to piss down rain all weekend. I hope the fucking roof leaks. I hope there’s mild flooding. I hope small, furry animals try to invade the cabin for shelter. I hope they spend the weekend wet and miserable and after 72 hours cooped up together she would chew her own leg off to get away from him.

It’s not that I don’t like her. I don’t know her. It’s not that I mind him going out with other people. I do it myself. It’s just that he’s being an asshole right now and doing things that seem designed specifically to hurt me and I want him to feel as bad as he makes me feel sometimes.

Dear Velma,

You’re being a psycho. Get over it.

Love,
Velma

Or not. I’m always a “nice” person. There’s something that feels so good about allowing myself to feel vindictive and petty and just plain evil.

Dear Thing 2, the world does not revolve around you. Love, Velma

Henceforth, the two most prominent “men” in my life will be referred to as Thing 1 (the local guy) and Thing 2 (the long-distance guy). I thought about going with Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber, but got stuck trying to decide which one didn’t deserve the “dumber” part. So Thing 1 and Thing 2 it is. I’m sure there will be plenty of rants about Thing 1 – he’s been breaking my heart on a daily basis for a while now. But today I am highly irritated at Thing 2.

Thing 2 lives about 520 miles away from me. It could be worse, but it’s still a long way.

Anyway, Thing 2 is currently unemployed and had to move back in with his parents a couple of months ago. Very stressful. I get that.

Thing 2 and his dad and some partners are trying to start a business. Also very stressful. I get that too. Thing 2 is spending a lot of time driving all over hell’s half acre looking at vans his dad is considering buying off ebay to use for the business. And Thing 2 – he has road rage. He shouldn’t be allowed to drive at all, much less drive several hours a day.

Thing 2 is also doing a lot of physical work around his parents’ place to “earn his keep”. Physically exhausting labor. Mostly chopping down trees and pulling stumps. Leaves him worn out all the time. I get that.

And Thing 2 is allergic to where he’s living. Constant sinus problems and migraines. Which he knew before he moved there…and went anyway. Because he’s an idiot.

Anyway, there’s your background. He’s being worked like a dog, his head hurts, and he’s one cranky motherfucker. Oh, and his love life down there sucks. So he’s extra special super cranky.

So, I mentioned the whole “Velma’s heart is getting broken over and over by Thing 1” thing. The last time Thing 2 got his heart shredded…I paid for plane tickets and brought him here as soon as we could manage it to provide him with some TLC and to make him feel wanted and loved and special. ‘Cause I’m a wonderful person. And I’m good to the people I care about.

Now it’s my turn. I’m hurting. Bad. I feel utterly unwanted and if my self-esteem was any higher you might trip over it. I need him to come up here and return the favor. Am I getting that?

Well…this is a rant, so I’m sure you can figure out the answer to that question without looking at the answer key in the back of the book.

No…he is not coming to see me. Because he’s “too busy”.

TOO FUCKING BUSY

Too fucking busy to spend 3 or 4 days with someone you say you love who really needs you. Some fucking friend.

Those trees…they aren’t going anywhere. The ebay vans…also, not really going anywhere. And even if one sells, there’s always another. Not to mention his dad is perfectly capable of driving to go see them without him. And it’s not like the new business can actually start doing work in the next few days. There's government bureaucracy involved – which is a long, drawn-out process that won’t be happening today, tomorrow, or next Tuesday.

Dear Thing 2,

Stop wallowing in your own misery for five fucking minutes.

Love,
Velma

I’m tired of feeling like almost everyone takes advantage of the fact that I’m a good friend. People suck.

Dear Cow-irkers, Buy Headphones! Love, Velma

What the fuck is wrong with people? Seriously? Does anyone understand the concept of professionalism any more?

It is an uncomplicated concept. When you are working in a cubicle environment and you want to listen to the radio or music on your computer or watch shit on YouTube or (and this still stuns me) watch your mini-TV at work…WEAR FUCKING HEADPHONES!

I work in the worst cubicle environment EVAH. The room has weird acoustics so you sometimes can’t hear your neighbor but you can hear conversations from across the room. There are no acoustical tiles. Just bare concrete walls that amplify the noise and bounce it all over the place in weird ways. (And we are the only section in the whole agency stuck in cubicles. That’s a rant for another day. Suffice it to say at this point that we are all quite bitter.)

And I will admit that I have ridiculously attuned hearing, especially when it comes to music. I blame it on all those years of music training.

But the simple fact of the matter is that grown-up human beings should have the good sense to wear a pair of freaking headphones so that they don’t bother other people.

Shit. I listen to the loudest, most obnoxious heavy metal you can imagine. But I wear headphones. Even when I’m at home, because I know my apartment has thin walls. I don’t roll down the car windows and share my music with the whole freakin’ world either. I certainly don’t torment my cow-irkers with it. But people just cannot bring themselves to do me that same courtesy.

Dear Annoying Cow-irkers,

Buy Headphones! (I know your paygrade, I know you make more than me, so I know you can afford $15 for cheapy headphones.)

Love,
Velma

And yes, one of my cow-irkers actually has a miniature television in their cubicle. What. The. Fuck!?!?

Dear dental insurance companies, You suck. Love, Velma.

It’s hard to know what to rant about first. Despite that fact that the “men” in my life are driving me spare, my job is hell, I’m stressed out waiting to hear from a better paying job (that I really don’t want but will take for the right money), and the world is in a wholesale state of higgledy-piggledy, my brain is currently occupied by my impending oral surgery. I am having all four wisdom teeth removed in one fell swoop next week. So looking forward to that…not. It’s a damn good thing I like soup, pudding, and mashed potatoes. ‘Cause apparently that’s all I’m eating for a while afterwards.

It’s not so much the pain I’m worried about. Though I really do appreciate every-fucking-body on earth telling me their wisdom-tooth-removal horror stories. And it’s not really going under anesthesia for the first time – though I am a little wary of that whole process. You hear about what dentists and doctors have gotten up to with unconscious patients. Not to mention the potential negative reactions some people have to anesthesia. I don’t want the last thing I see in this life to be a big, hairy hand coming at my face with a drill. But I know that’s unlikely.

No, I’m stressed out over how much the damn procedure is going to cost. I have dental insurance. Hell, most people would consider it pretty good dental insurance. (It even covers adult orthodontia, which my dentist is all over my ass about. No, I do not want braces at age 38.)

And yet I’m still going to be out several hundred dollars that I don’t have when this is all over. Better yet, the surgery will have used up every single dollar of dental coverage I have for the year. So anything else that happens between now and January 1, 2010 – it’s all out of my pocket. Bastards.

Dear dental insurance companies,

You are a total fucking scam.

Love,
Velma

Seriously, I need someone to explain to me why dental insurance is handled so differently from medical insurance. Why are they even separate in the first place? And why am I not hearing a word about dental coverage in the great health care debate?

Just the facts, ma'am

Ok, this would be post the first. I suppose a bit of introduction and explanation is in order. Blame Daphne. Seriously. I hate everyone and everything. But she’s under the delusion that I’m funny about it. Actually told me I should quit my job and make money writing poison pen letters for other people. Somehow I’m not seeing this as the HUGE money making venture that she’s envisioning. (Then again I thought the same thing about the gay porn and she was right about that one.) Whatever.

Anyway, this blog will mainly focus on two things – politics/sociology/human behavior, often focusing on feminism and the stupid sexist shit that pisses me off; and all the other stupid shit that pisses me off, with probably WAY too much info on my personal life and the way the “men” in it are driving me absolutely spare. This list is not exhaustive, so be prepared for the occasional rant on how the new scoring system has utterly destroyed figure skating or about why the BCS is crap or how television makes brain cells commit suicide.

Oh, and regarding comments. I have opinions other people don’t like and a lot of the time I don’t give a shit. If you decide to argue in my comments, I will moderate the hell out of trolls, but intend to give plenty of leeway to people who just want to duke it out. Just remember, there’s no crying in baseball. Be prepared. Wear protection. And if you want a “safe space”…this ain’t it.