Get Off My Lawn

by midnightferret

Creepy, ain't she?

I’m not talking about true Pollyannas. Some people just can’t help being positive all the time. It’s a sickness, and I pity them. I’m talking about the smug people who always go on about their positive outlooks on life, the universe, and everything, and then promptly turn around and whine. Usually right on the tail of saying, in a false self-deprecating manner, “You know, I try to stay positive about everything. It’s healthier/better/ eatitmylifestyle’sbetterthanyours!” The next thing you know, they’re whining about some insignificant BS.

The first problem is the whole smug thing. Smug people suck. Smugness is only allowed when someone increases his/her efficiency or otherwise accomplishes something which makes his/her life more awesome. And if you find yourself feeling smug, try to keep it to yourself, like a fart. If a little bit leaks out, and it only lingers for a short time, fine, that’s allowed — if it’s only a little. Otherwise, I don’t want to be around you.

The second problem is yammering to the whole world about how positive they are, and then the first time they break a toenail or something the whole “positive attitude” goes out the window. To clarify, I don’t mean that people aren’t allowed to complain about real problems. I also understand that we all have subjective ideas about pain and problems. I understand that one person’s broken toenail is another person’s broken arm (because some people are whiners). What I do not understand is how someone can tell the entire universe (usually via social media) about how positive he/she is and then spend two or three days whining about how horrible everything is for him/her.  If we are close, and you have any problems (big or small) you are always welcome to tell me about them. If you are broadcasting to the entire universe via social media, I really do not care about your little inconveniences.  Still, that’s because I’m a cranky mofo, and that’s also an entirely different post. The larger issue here is that you are supposed to be little miss/mister fucking sunshine, aren’t you? If the former is true, then you shouldn’t be whining every ten fucking minutes about how miserable you are. I hate to abuse italics even more than is my habit, but really, what else must I do to convince you people to do some serious self-examination?

Either stop being hypocrites or stop being whiners: I really don’t care as long as you get off my lawn.

by MyPeeve

This may not be for you, but you simply MUST tell your parents or grandparents to stop this shit right now! This is not 1998. We did not all just jump on the “interwebs” yesterday and start forwarding stupid emails from other stupid people. I say ‘other’ because we ALL did it at least once before we clued in.

Whether you would ever admit it to your friends or not, you, at some point in your early web-aware days forwarded some urban legend email crap like the one I received this morning and had to debunk via:

http://www.snopes.com/medical/disease/cancerupdate.asp

Whether it was (my personal favorite) a “don’t click on a link about happy kittens or it will delete your hard drive” email, the imminent Facebook Shutdown in March of this year (on no!), or the plethora of post September 11th fear-mongering stupidity, we’ve all seen it/done it.

What I don’t understand is why it continues to happen today. If I get an email with some form of copied text (usually with cutesy background colors and an other-than-black text color) or a million and a half forwards about Foo Research Company findings, I’m immediately suspicious. If Foo Research Company has indeed done valid research, then send me the link to their fricking web page.

And for crying out loud, if you receive one of these damn things, YOU HAVE A RESPONSIBILITY to Google whether it’s an urban legend or not before forwarding it on. What’s more, you should know this by now.

But we all have to hand-hold the old folks. Granny and Grandpa don’t know that Crazy Cousin Clare sends this shit out to everyone on her email list because if it’s on the web, it must be true! We have to explain to them that this stuff is unwelcome spam. Think of it as doing your civic duty. It takes a village to educate the elderly about the pit falls of the internet.

So lets all get out there and save someone from themselves. Then tell them to GET OFF MY LAWN!

by midnightferret

So it’s Valentine’s Day. I’m sure you’re full of info about Prix Fixe dinners, and roses, and jewelry. Well, you should be, if you’re single and want to get laid, so stop here and Google that stuff right now. Getting laid in the single world seems rather expensive lately. You’re probably too late, though.

Oh, but guess what? You’re doing it wrong. Why? Let me count the ways:

1. Valentine’s Day, although named after various (no, not just one) Christian dudes named (supposedly – no proof) St. Valentine, emerged from a “dirty” pagan fest called Lupercalia. It was probably Roman, because the Romans dug that kind of thing. It purified the city and probably increased fertility — most pagan fests increase fertility. I shit you not: look it up, if you don’t believe me. In any case, the Christians, who were in the know about ads, marketing, and social media, took the 3 day Lupercalia (from Feb 13 – 15) and stuffed it into the 1 day (Feb 14) of St. Valentine’s Day. They were efficient like that.
2. The big hype about our American VD, namely cards, began in the 19th century, when Great Britain established uniform postage rates. Ooooh, that’s romantic, ain’t it? After that, you could send an awesome, possibly ankle-referencing (the Victorians were kind of stuffy that way) card on a special occasion for a bargain price! To top it off, an awesome American chick, whose dad was a stationer, decided to mimic our neighbors over in Britain, with great success. She sold decorated scraps of paper and people bought them.
3. It just got worse from there. Especially commercially. Now you can’t just send a card. It’s gotta be out of season flowers, or jewelry or Austin cake balls. (E-mail me for where to send cake balls. Alright, that defeats the purpose of this post. I can buy my own damn cake balls. Spoilsports.)

Here’s the gist: VD is mostly a way to get you to buy things. Even singles and even us “Valentine’s Day haters.” Yes! Even we can be counted on to have parties or go to dinner in groups! Yes, even VD haters can be counted on to buy crap on VD! We’re hypocrites! Damn us to hell! A tradition in our house, dating back to the ancient times (2004), is to  buy two slices of Whole Foods forno pizza and watch some crappy movie on network television. See? We buy. Since when is love about buying things?

If you truly hate Valentine’s Day, and I mean truly, then fuck the cards. Fuck the jewelry. Fuck the flowers. How about fuck your partner on Valentine’s Day? Make some cards for each other out of construction paper? You can always buy stuff and go for fondue later. Even roses are cheaper after VD has passed. But do you really need roses?

Look, I may just be snarking to the snarky, but we can buy things and go for fondue after VD. We can go to horror movies instead of romantic comedies. (Don’t you prefer those anyway?)  We could have a fondue snarkfest significantly later than VD — I hear fondue takes a couple hours: that’s a lotta snark. AND we could even snark about the fondue while having it. It would be efficient and postmodern.

If nothing else, think of the children. They’re gonna come home full of chocolate and cookies and wipe their sticky hands on your sofa. Yeah. If we don’t do something now, we’re perpetuating that. If we don’t help the children transcend future commercialized Valentine’s Days, well, there’s another widening dead spot on my lawn.

by MeanRachel

Dear “Austinite,”

No way! I had no idea that I-35 traffic was, like, the worst ever. I also really had no idea that the Salt Lick BBQ has the best ribs. Oh, and don’t forget to BYOB? Right! I’ll write that down! Thanks!

Yeah, I get it. You moved here after ACL — no, not the dust year…or the mud year…but that nice year! yeah! — and now you think this town is the sh*t. You know what, I don’t mind people moving here and I don’t mind you thinking my native city is amazing. But do you have to like it so damn much? So much that you’re going around reviewing cozy, off-the-beaten-path finds like Spider House and Guero’s on Yelp, as if you’re the first person to discover a Trudy’s Mexican martini served in a shaker?

What really scuffs my cowboy boots is that you call yourself an Austinite. Sorry, y’all, but in my book, to be an Austinite you need to have had your diaper changed on the lawn at Barton Springs Pool.

Signed,
A Native Austinite

by OldAtHeart

On Friday, I went to the BedSex office in South Austin, before the stated 6 p.m. pickup time to send a package to a location across town by Monday.

The workers behind the counter told me that pickup was not happening that night because of “ice in the area” – which had actually melted by that time of day – the ice was a problem in the morning, but there was no ice by night. Anyway, I asked them what my options were to get an important package delivered by Monday. They assured me I could ship it “Priority overnight” to get there on time. It would cost $24.18 (for an envelope with four sheets of paper in it). I figured it would be worth it to guarantee that it got there on time. It was that important.

Monday has come and gone, and the package has not arrived at its destination. The recipient has been waiting for it, and it has not arrived.

I called 1800 number for BedSex and was put through an annoying maze of automated responses until I finally got a human being (and after getting disconnected for no reason once). The human was unsympathetic and just gave me the other 1800 number. No apology, no care.

I called the other number, hit zero right away to avoid the automated tree, and talked to a human. He put me on hold, and then I heard a busy signal. I called back. It happened again. I called again, I got Alisha Call, a representative with the company who tried to help me. She was the ONLY bright spot in using your whole damn system, and she should be commended for putting up with one seriously angry and annoyed customer with grace.

I am asking for a refund, but I have to wait until the package is delivered (hopefully someday), before I can be refunded. Oh, and I have to call that annoying, non-responsive customer service again if I want to get that refund. I just hope I get Alisha on the phone (and that I don’t get disconnected before I get that far).

This package was to be delivered a grand total of 18 miles. I paid $24 for that service. I could have started walking the 18 miles (right through that non-existent ice storm) to get my package to its destination, and I could have used the U.S. Postal service to mail myself back – and I would have arrived home before you could get your act together on my package.

Meanwhile, I vow to not only never use BedSex again, but to tell everyone I know about this horrible experience.

Feel free to call me (you have my digits) if you want to discuss this. FYI, I’ll actually answer the phone right away, I will not randomly hang up on you and I will try to be helpful. Take notes.

by Senorita Crankypants

I live in a suburban cul-de-sac built in the late ‘70s. Once it was shiny and new, full of upwardly-mobile families. Now it’s populated by those of us hanging on to the middle class by our fingernails. Several of the homes on our street are rentals (our house was one for 25 years) and there is one foreclosure, which nicely killed property values for the rest of us.

I’m not here to complain about my neighborhood; I just wanted to describe it because too many people think Desperate Housewives when they hear “suburbs.” Bah. I’m here to complain about my dumb-ass neighbors.

Most of the neighbors my husband and I know are stupid and irritating as hell. They have stupid children, too, and their stupid children play with our smart, sweet children and pick on them in the way that dolts have been picking on brainiacs for years.

Asshat kids. I have a theory that the “glasses=brains” stereotype exists not because there is any correlation between poor eyesight and high intelligence, but because intelligent parents are more likely to take their children to the eye doctor. There aren’t many intelligent parents on our block; thus, our oldest child is the only glasses-wearer among the kids.

The mean, doltish children are a bad influence on our sons, but talking to their parents about it doesn’t help because the parents are either idiots (as previously mentioned) or completely ineffective. The one neighbor I actually enjoy talking to has a 4-year-old who says “fuck” all of the time. She is apparently aware of this, but unable to stop it. Excuse me?

As much as I would love to blame all this on the quality of our neighborhood (i.e. as a white-collar worker I am really too good for our blue-collar street), the fact is that I hate our neighbors because I did not get to select them. If we lived in the city, I’d be bitching about my pseudo-intellectual neighbors who brag about not having a TV and force their children to hand-make all of the birthday presents they give. Asshat urbanites. If we lived in a McMansion surrounded by doctors and lawyers, I’d be bitching about my neighbors’ conspicuous consumption and their overscheduled children in foreign-language-immersion preschools. Asshat snobs.

This is why people build walled compounds in the wilderness: I only want to be surrounded by like-minded adults I hand-select. I don’t want to be the snob on the blue-collar block, the crass suburban transplant in the buy-local, bike-to-work district, or the embarrassment on Housewives Blvd with a ’95 Chevy Blazer rusting in the grass. I want to fit in. I want to respect my neighbors and enjoy their children.

Barring that, I want those snot-nosed, apple-stealing, Kindergarten-repeating bullies and their asshat parents to GET OFF MY LAWN!

by MyPeeve

This is not brain surgery, people. It’s not even remotely taxing. If someone sends you an invitation, you DO NOT DO ANY OF THE FOLLOWING:

1) ignore it
2) reply yes, then not bother to show up
3) reply no, then DO show up (with or without gift)
4) bring several people you thought might enjoy it if they were not invited
5) post it to social media so the whole damn planet shows up at someone’s small house

I could go on and on, but these 5 should help you to NOT be a complete num-nutz douche bag to your next unfortunate host.

You see, RSVP from the original French is répondez s’il vous plaît and means roughly “please respond.” Let me emphasize here that it is NOT A FUCKING OPTION. You must reply. Period. If you don’t reply, you are a rude jerk wad who should be shot at sunrise so that you no longer breath my air.

Think about it. Someone has taken the time to invite your stupid ass to their lovely event, opened their home, asked you to join in their celebration, whatever. They must do menu and drink planning, ensure there are enough chairs and tables or other gathering places to sit and chat comfortably. They have to make sure there are a variety of menu options for people with specific dietary needs. They don’t mind doing this as you are their friend or acquaintance. They are happy to accommodate your needs with advanced notice.

I cannot tell you how many times, from my wedding onward where a bunch of people RSVP that they will attend and then on the day itself they just don’t bother to show up. If this is you I’m talking about, you should be ashamed of yourself. The only legitimate excuse is if you died in a car crash while attempting to reach the event on time. Then, I might forgive you. Maybe. And only if you weren’t speeding and only if you didn’t hurt anyone else on the way.

The next worst (or perhaps this is far worse) are those who RSVP no or do not bother to RSVP at all and then show up. The penultimate offense in this category is the douche bag who shows up WITH EXTRA FUCKING PEOPLE WHO WERE NEVER INVITED IN THE FIRST PLACE. What, are you a mountain gorilla? Oh wait, they aren’t even that rude. Even animals know never to invade someone else’s territory uninvited.

And, of course, the ultimate creme de la creme of RSVP bad etiquette (in my humble, yet well reasoned opinion) is the person who posts an invitation on social media without first asking the host.

Now, if you are a complete idiot and incapable of understanding why this is wrong and offensive, please go to http://emilypost.com/ and learn to be a decent human being probably for the first time in your life. The whole world will benefit. Now, get off my lawn!

by noahvail

Virginia Woolf wrote that “a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” I’m pretty sure if Virginia Woolf were alive today she’d sit in her room checking Twitter and Facebook all day long, and trying to get to the supposed Shangri La of “zero inbox” instead of writing great books. She was a genius, but still only human.

I am seriously mourning my attention span these days, and I blame its decimation on our multitasking culture. In fact, every time I see a job description asking for someone “multitask-oriented” my rotten husk of a heart wizens a tiny bit more. And yet as I write this I have 16 tabs open in two different web browsers.

How much scientific evidence do we need to convince us that humans are not wired for multitasking, and that trying to do many things at once usually results in things not getting done, or at least done more slowly?

Hang on while I check Facebook.

Back.

As I was saying, we’re really bad at doing many things at once. It’s amazing how much more gets completed when we slow down and focus on one thing at a time. Try checking your email four times a day, instead of having it open all day long. If you can do this, you are a better human being than me. I tried it for awhile, then quickly lapsed into old bad habits.

There’s a quick, simple solution to all this, which…

Wait, hang on. Twitter.

by Nathan Haley

As a general rule I accept and genuinely appreciate the proposition that we as caring, considerate humans should not judge a person by his or her (insert physical trait here).

I accept this rule generally, not unconditionally. One such exception to this rule is the men’s (boy’s) hair style phenomenon characterized by long(ish) hair combed oddly forward from the back / top / side of the head in defiance of any natural part in the hair in such a manner as to cover up the eyes, i.e., the BieberBang (see example below).

Don’t get me wrong – I have no bias between long hair vs. short hair. Military buzz cut, 50’s side part, 90’s chili bowl, the timeless mullet, hell I don’t care if you have a pony tail down to your ass, just so long as maintenance of said “style” does not require an epileptic neck seizure every 10-15 seconds in order to perfectly twitch your bangs back in place in front of your eyes. Seriously, this is completely unacceptable.

I can’t quite put my finger on what it is about the BieberBang that gets me going, but I do know that the second I see it I want to kick some ass.

Not in the casual sense like, I’m irritated and this is my ass kicking cliché figure of speech, but in the literal sense; i.e., the instant I see the BieberBang I have an uncontrollable urge to run up behind the guy and trip him, hold him down & cut off the bangs, then pour a bottle of Old Spice body wash down his throat in the hopes that he starts acting like a man, man.

Maybe teach him to ride a horse backwards? Besides, it’s not like he’s going to see me coming – he’ll be way too distracted texting while his iPod shuffle blares the latest emo ballad which, of course, never fails to bring a tear to his mascara tinged eye. Alas, I digress…

All that said, the point is that the douchebaggery that is the BieberBang has reached epic proportions and it must stop, at once. I’m not kidding. You look like an asshole, and you deserve no mercy. Now get that shit out of your eyes and stop staring at your shoes, you aren’t that tortured and your hair is not epic.

Ed. Note: I couldn’t believe that grown men would actually get a haircut like this, so a-googling I went, and found an image of Tom Brady with the Bieber cut.

by noahvail

If you have small children, or frequent small children’s birthday parties (wtf?), you know the drill: At the end of the party everyone gets a goody bag. The goody bag is traditionally filled with stickers, cheap plastic toys, and if the kids are lucky, candy. Surely this custom began when a parent observed Little Sally crying about not getting a present at Little Timmy’s party. Forget that it was Little Timmy’s birthday, and not Little Sally’s—it was an injustice that needed correction!

While I’m too lazy to conduct actual research I’m pretty sure goody bags really took off in the 1980s and 1990s—which helps explain why young people act so entitled nowadays. They have been taught that every day is their special day, and that everyone gets presents always.

I have two small kids and lots of firsthand experience in this department. I have personally observed a much-older, probably uninvited sibling of a party guest break into tears over not getting a goody bag, and (semi-related) a new-to-me practice of busting open a piñata only to give the candy back to the host to have it redistributed in equal proportions.

But more importantly, I have had a hand (albeit a small one compared to my wife’s) in planning seven or eight birthday parties, and I can tell you this: party planning is hard, and often expensive, and goody bags are just one more goddamn thing that makes the endeavor stressful and not much fun for the hosts.

So let’s stop it with the goody bags. Please. Your kids can handle it, I promise.