I shoot the finger at asshole commuters

About three hours after posting my unemployment rant, I received a job offer. How’s that for good fucking karma?! The universe DOES love me after all. I don’t care what my horoscope says. Turns out, if you bitch and moan just enough, but not too excessively, the karma gods will look down on you with favor and bestow upon you great fortune.

But, don’t brag about that shit too much… because the universe hates a showoff. When you brag to other poor, unemployed losers too much about your sudden good fortune, you get flogged with experiences that will test your endurance for assholery.

And, I have a really short fuse. In case you didn’t know.

Turns out my new (old) job is only 17 miles from home… but with traffic and never-ending road construction, it takes at least 50 minutes to drive one way. FIFTY minutes. 5-0. You do the math. It's like I'm driving 25 hours a fucking day! Unless you are driving a 1983 Mini Winnebago uphill in high wind, it should NEVER take you more than 30 minutes to drive 17 miles anywhere.  Ever.

This is what shit looks like in Houston 24-7. No joke.

And, if re-joining the wonderful world of commuters at rush hour (which, let’s face it, is any fucking time of the day in Houston) wasn’t enough punishment, I also have to endure many, many, many asshole drivers. The worst of them is the one who follows two inches behind me. TWO inches. That’s the buffer between me and the asshole who thinks that riding my ass will move traffic along faster. I deal with at least three of these particular assholes daily.

“Look, Dick! We are all going no-fucking-where fast, yo! Kindly get off my ass and let me breathe! I’m already a loose cannon behind this fucking wheel. I don’t need you adding to my anxiety! Don't make me take out my gun!” That’s what I want to scream at them. But, because I don't really have a gun and because I fear road rage retaliation and think I’m still too young to die in a fiery car crash, I simply shoot the bird at them and smile...to be nice...so, they don't kill me.

Maybe I need this bumper sticker:

Since when is Women's Size XXL equivalent to a fucking US Size 10?

I never used to have a problem shopping for clothes online - that is until the sizing charts got all fucked up.  Take for instance this cute top from Rosegal.com:

...only size available is Large.  Darn.  Although I'm mostly wearing XL or XXL in regular size clothes... sometimes I can fit into a Large if it's made just right.  Sometimes.  So, I check out the sizing chart, and I find this:

First of all, let's dissect the "Product Info" size chart.  After getting pissed off that I had to do math to understand what the fuck any of it means, I finally succeeded in converting that shit into inches and measuring my "bust" to realize, that the the XL would probably fit if they had one in stock. Which they do not. Of course.

Then, I couldn't help but see they've provided their "Women's Wear" sizing chart for all their other products on this page.  I can only assume that they've put it here to confuse the shit out of shoppers who can't figure out what size they are and why this chart is different from the "Product Info" chart.  And, since when is an XXL equivalent to a fucking US Size 10?  Don't we have enough insecure women in the world already? Do we really need for size-10-women to start thinking they are extra EXTRA large?!  What the fuck is wrong with these retailers?!

Also, I normally buy XXL clothing... and if I hadn't carefully reviewed this totally asshole-y size chart prior to purchasing, I woulda flipped my shit when my XXL blouse came in and it didn't fucking fit!  I'd be all like: well, shit, I guess I'm really NOT extra EXTRA large... I guess I must be a fucking whale!

Bitches.

But, the fun doesn't stop there, y'all.  Oh, no.  There's much more assholery going on in the retail world.  Take, for instance, those condescending bitches at Chicos.com (where the old ladies shop).  I found this skirt that I thought I had to have:

It's got crocheted accents... it's cute, flowy, and best of all... has an elastic waist band!  So, I clicked around searching for the size chart because they like to confuse the old women who shop there with fancy low numbered sizes.  But, I will not be taken by this tom-foolery.

C'mon, now.  Did they really think that by calling a size 18 a "3.5" or "L" instead, it would really make me feel skinnier?  Do they really think it's helpful for old ladies' self esteem to only have size options between 000-4.5?  Or, maybe they think the older women get, the stupider they get and can't possibly remember what their REAL fucking size is?

That's probably it.

Anyway -- needless to say, I got myself all worked up in my quest for fair sizing charts that I didn't end up buying shit.

Aunt Flo, Cotton Picking, Flatulence, and Other Shit That Makes Long Road Trips Fun

When the Hancocks take a road trip, they go all out!  Rarely is there a dull moment in our lives, but when we hit the road, we really pull out all the stops.  this past trip was no exception.  For starters, I realized that the oldest spawn and I seem to have synced up our monthly cycles.  Two "women" with PMS in a confined space for 19 hours with a loud-mouthed 1st grader, a farting dog and a man with a stomach bug = a bloody good time, y'all.

Aside from dealing with the curse Mother Nature  has bestowed upon women, we always head north forgetting one simple fact: high altitude = gassy Hancocks.  Our dog, evidently, is no exception to the rule.  Even if she doesn't fart much.  She's just a great scapegoat for when you fart and want to blame someone else.  She can't speak...so she can't deny anything.  Some people, though, are too dumb let the dog take the blame...

Hubber: Please tell me that was the dog again.

Me: That was the dog again.  It's too foul to be human.  Wait.  Maybe it's a skunk.

Little Spawn:  You mean that fart?  That was me!  Hahahahaha! <fart, fart>

Big Spawn: Ewwww!  There's something rotting inside you!

But, if there was a bright side to the long road trip it would have to be the acres and acres of cotton fields.  That's right... people still grow cotton!  Who'da thunk it!?

Not only do they GROW the shit, they very rarely fence it in.  Huge mistake, cotton growers.  HUGE.  Because, if this heifer has a chance to pick some free cotton, you best believe she's gonna pull her large ass over to the side of the road and get to pickin'!  I love picking cotton!  I don't know what all those slaves complained about.   Cotton is soft and fluffy and fun to pick.

Me:  Hey, Hubber... look at all the cotton left on those crops.  Those cotton picking machines are slacking!  They need to get some slaves out there to finish picking that shit.  I wanna see those bushes picked dry!

Hubber: "Bushes picked dry"?  Really?

Me:  Perv.  But, seriously.  If we lived on a cotton farm, I'd make the girls go out every day to follow those machines around and pick all the cotton scraps.  They'd be my slaves.  I'd be all... "pick that cotton, slave child!"...  and, "spin that cotton into silk, slave girls!"...

Hubber: You can't even get them to put their dirty panties in the hamper.

Me: It'd be different on a cotton farm. That's what I'm saying.  Oh... and look at all those hay bales all rolled up everywhere!

Hubber: You are easily sidetracked.

Me:  Yeah, well, I think I could totally be a country girl.  I'd be picking cotton and rolling around on those hay bales.

Hubber: I'd like to see you try to roll on one of those bales.

Me: They're round.  They roll. How hard can it be?

Hubber:  Not hard at all, until it takes one turn and SQUASHES the shit out of you.  Those things weigh a ton.

Me:  They're made of HAY, Hub.  HAY don't weigh shit.  But, just to be sure, maybe I'll let the girls try to roll on one first.

Hubber:  Now you're talkin'!

But, he wouldn't pull over and let the girls try to roll on a hay bale for me.  Something about cow patties and barbed wire fences and ranchers with shot guns.  Party pooper.

But... at least I got this:

Malls Can Kiss My Fat Ass Twice a Day... and Three Times on Sundays

Please be warned: this has nothing to do with my trials and tribulations as a freelance writer.

I hate strolling through the fucking mall.  Nevermind the fact that I'm anxiety-ridden, impatient and slightly claustrophobic (there's medication for all that), my issues with malls go deeper.  Don't get me wrong, I love to shop.  But, I'd rather drive and park in front of each store I go into.  All this walking-through-the-mall crap is bullshit and highly over-rated.  And, the older I get, the more passionately I want to blow those bitches to smithereens.

First of all, there are those pesky kiosks situatued... well.... EVERYWHERE... and the people running them are annoying, pushy assholes.  The super fun thing about them is that I seem to be a magnet for them.  They seek me out and offer me ProActiv for my PMS breakout... or fat burning cream for my belly rolls.... or hair extension clips for my thinning and graying hair.... or my favorite, miracle hand cream that claims to be a manicure in a bottle. And, when I kindly decline their fucking offers to beautify myself, they get all pissy and holler after me. Next time I go to the mall, I'm going to wear a shirt that says, "FUCK OFF KIOSK FREAKS".

Then, there are the teeny-boppers.  I get enough dose of teenager in my regular, daily life.  I don't need to be exposed to that shit while I'm having my "me-time," too.  All the giggling and sashaying and trolling is ridiculous!  I don't remember ever behaving like these kids do.  And, taking my teen spawn to the mall only makes the experience worse because we have to go into all the "cool" stores.  And by "cool" I mean "stupid, shitty and over-priced".  You know... the ones that are overly crowded and reek of cheap perfume and loud music.  Hollister, American Eagle, Abercrombie and Fitch, etc... everyone working in these places is a teenager, too. They don't know shit, they can't find shit, and it takes every ounce of patience in me not to smack them upside their big, empty heads.

Ok, I'm done.

But I'll leave you with this brilliantly written song:

 Foghorn Leghorn = Fucking Awesome!

Don't get me started on the cut-off uniform shirts!