Don't Stand So Close to Me | Shopping Etiquette Referendum

Does "shopping etiquette" exist? I think it should. I would suggest a few basic guidelines that people should abide by when shopping:

1. A shopping cart is an extension of the shopper.
2. Do not invade one's personal bubble, including their shopping cart.
3. In the checkout line, the shopper whose items are currently being rung up is King. Act accordingly.

Yeah, that's pretty much all I've got right now, but I think it's adequate and all-encompassing. Why am I suddenly so fussy and concerned with shopping etiquette? I was appalled at a recent trip to Wal-Mart.

I am purchasing groceries, along with items for Robinson's birthday party. I am paying with cash and want to be sure I have not gotten carried away or overspent. I'm trying to be responsible, y'all. The lady behind me in line is very typical of shoppers waiting in a checkout line. She would like to jump up my butt, and somehow have all her groceries scanned and paid for while I'm still in line. Pay attention: I am in front of you in line. No matter how close you stand to me, or how many of your groceries are placed on the conveyor belt behind that handy divider bar, you're not getting out of here before me. Slow your roll.

This time, I am standing in front of my cart, because I'm still unloading items and at the same time monitoring the cashier scanning the items to be sure everything is ringing up at the correct price. I would submit that this is my right and responsibility as a consumer. Woman behind me steps forward and pushes my shopping cart forward about three feet. My child is in the cart. So, by my reasoning, she touched my child. I shoot eye daggers at the woman. I feel like the chick in the Axe body spray commercial.

I know you're not touching my mannequin!

Yeah, except instead of a mannequin, it's a baby. Never touch my shopping cart (which I commonly refer to as a "buggy", much to Steve's annoyance). Never touch my baby. Never touch my shopping cart while it contains my baby. Are we clear?

I didn't say anything to the woman, because I wondered if I was alone in my shopping etiquette beliefs. Steve says, "Oh hell no, she did not touch your cart with Rob in it." Haha, I'm paraphrasing of course, but I just made it seem like Steve talks like a sassy girl. I'm amusing myself, but I digress. Anyway, Woman had two children with her. Also, she was of a different nationality. Maybe in Mumbai, people push each other's shopping carts. I don't know. I've never been there. I decided to let it slide this once. 

I'm not the only person whose personal space is invaded. Recently, my mom was on the phone with me while she was shopping, when she abruptly ended our conversation. I later learned what transpired that afternoon in the Hobby Lobby. Mom says she was being followed aisle-to-aisle by a woman who was crowding her so closely that she kept hitting my Mom with her shopping cart. Mom finally decided that enough was enough. Mom hangs up the phone, turns to the woman behind her and says:

Mom: I don't know you, and you are standing in my personal space.

Creepy Lady: [in a low, breathy voice] Yes you do.

Mom: Uhh, no. I don't.

Creepy Lady: [still in the breathy voice] Yes you do.

Mom: Who are you?

Creepy Lady: Who do you think I am?

Mom: I think you're a stranger and you're standing too close to me and you need to back off.

Ok, so I have to applaud my mom on her directness, but it was ineffective nonetheless. Creepy Woman continued to follow my mom through the store, eventually purchasing $300 worth of feathers, or "plumage" as my mom would say. 

Shopping is a universal, public, yet personal experience. When I need to buy my toilet paper or pregnancy tests or [insert name of item you're embarrassed to purchase in front of strangers], I don't want to do this while a stranger stands over me, close enough to braid my hair. At the cash register, I'm handling my cash, or presenting a debit card, or entering a PIN number. This is also a private matter. Back the hell off. Don't touch my stuff. You'll get your turn. 

Am I asking too much?

Bitchface Goes to the Mall

Warning: This post contains stereotypes, digressions, and movie spoilers.

Ok, so you know how most some home schooled kids are socially awkward (stereotype #1) because they don't have the opportunity for social interaction in their everyday lives? Well, I've been a stay-at-home mom/shut-in since June, so my social skills have atrophied to the level of a Duggar kid. Not Josh Duggar. Isn't that the charismatic, sexy one?

Now that I've got a good case of cabin fever, and have achieved a level of isolation and awkwardness rivaled only by Tom Hanks' character in Castaway after they've rescued him (Spoiler!) along with a few other reasons I will expand on later, I chose to venture out into the world, to a place I loathe...the mall.

I know, the thought of me hating the mall seems like a contradiction in terms, doesn't it? Like Charlie Sheen hating hookers. There was a time, back when I had more money than responsibilities, when I could see no better way to celebrate, reward myself, or renew my broken spirit than to take a trip to the mall. Where else on earth can you purchase a pair of $150 faux zebra platform pumps while eating a giant pretzel? Seriously, is there another place? I want to go there.

Why do I hate despise the mall? Let me count the ways:

I hate despise the parking
I hate despise the crowds
I hate despise the moms who carelessly ram their strollers into my Achilles heel and don't even apologize
I hate despise that the mall compels me to buy things I don't need with money I don't have
I hate despise the guy at the kiosk who lunges at me and insists I allow him to:
   A) buff my fingernails
   B) flat-iron my hair
   C) thread my eyebrows
   D) introduce to me a revolutionary line of skincare products made from ingredients found in the Dead Sea

I just really hate when strangers invade my personal space.

Midway through this rant, I remembered just how much I hate the word "hate" so I'm going to replace it with a watered-down, less aggressive word.

When Kiosk Guy violates my personal bubble, I have fantasies of retaliating in a totally obnoxious way, so he'll think twice next time. But instead of blowing my rape whistle in his face or flipping him off, I go with the old passive-aggressive standby: pretending to talk on my cell phone. Sometimes, during my fake phone conversation, our eyes lock, and I know what he's thinking: "I know you're not really on the phone", and I look at him like, "I dare you to interrupt my fake phone conversation, sucka!" The closest I came to tangling with Kiosk Guy was when I was (extremely) pregnant, and he jumped in front of me and blurted, "Miss, would you like to--" and I shouted, "NOOOOOO I WOULDDDDDN'T!!!!!"

For somebody who clearly despises the mall as much as I do, one might conclude that online shopping is my ideal solution. There's just one problem: I'm married to a retail professional who is of the belief that online shopping will be the demise of retail, which will lead to the demise of our economy, which will lead to the demise of democracy. Or something like that. So, even though there's this hot new pair of Steve Madden platform pumps I just have to have, and I could have purchased them online, three days ago, in about five minutes time, I am schlepping through my third least favorite place on earth (#1 is the airport, #2 is the DMV), pushing a stroller through the frozen tundra, wearing platform clogs. Welcome to my nightmare.

Unfortunately, strollers require the use of an elevator. As the doors finally open on the world's slowest elevator, I stand aside to allow a mom with three kids and a jogging stroller to get off. And boy, do they take their sweet ass time. They come to a dead stop--right between me and the elevator, barring my entry. Everybody knows this particular elevator's doors only stay open for a nanosecond. After that, it's five whole minutes for it to come back. We're inches apart, yet Stroller Mom has no idea I exist. If she would just scoot, I can push my Go-Go Gadget arm out and hold the elevator. Once she finally begins to move, Stroller Mom notices me and says, "Oh!" and attempts to "help" me in the way your three year old "helps" you frost a cake. Sweet gesture in theory, hot mess in reality. Stroller Mom lunges between me and the elevator, much to my bewilderment, and instead of stopping the elevator, she mashes all the buttons, causing the elevator door to slam shut in my face and take off for the third floor where presumably nobody is waiting.

Realizing what she'd done, she says "Oops!" I let out a sigh and give her a withering look. Ok, "withering look" is just a euphemism for "bitchface". This bitchface was so blatant, Shannen Doherty got a royalty check for it. Shannen owns the rights to "bitchface"!

Stroller Mom freezes, apologizes, and her eyes twitch. That's when I realize that she sees my bitchface. Dammit. Ever since my Botox wore off last year, everybody knows what I'm thinking. That's the glorious thing about Botox (besides not aging). No matter what I'm feeling on the inside, my forehead is as smooth and placid as the ocean on a peaceful day. Without it, my angry forehead is as choppy as the ocean in The Perfect Storm, and that didn't end well. (Spoiler: Everybody dies!)

After much delay, I arrive at the Steve Madden store, where I learn that none of the seven area locations carry this particular shoe.

Disappointed but not defeated, I roll into Nordstrom. No blue suede shoes here, either. I inquire with the sales associate, explaining, "Well, I know which shoe I need, and it's available for purchase at SteveMadden.com, but I figured I'd try to support my local economy and purchase the shoe from a brick-and-mortar store..." "Yeah..." he sighed. And no luck buying the picture frame I wanted from Pottery Barn, which was also available for online purchase. This is just a big shopping FAIL. There's only one thing left to do...go to Williams-Sonoma, where I can indulge my love of overpriced spatulas.

As I'm exiting Nordstrom, I pass A Pea in the Pod. "Mama doesn't shop there anymore!" I say to Robinson, who smiles. Next door is Bebe. "Mama doesn't shop there anymore, either!" [Sigh]. Robinson laughs, as I gaze longingly at all the slutty halter tops I'll never wear.

Kris Kardashian and I have one thing in common: bitch loves her some colored spatulas. I thought I was the only one.

Did you see the episode where Khloe tries to help Kris organize her kitchen and discovers that Kris hoards red spatulas? No? Just me? Damn. Williams-Sonoma carries different colored spatulas throughout the year. After some careless cake frosting last fall, Libby ate my last red spatula, and I knew that I had to replace them quickly before the pastel spatulas arrived and ushered in springtime (yeah, you thought it was the Groundhog. You're wrong, it's the Williams-Sonoma pastel spatulas that signal the end of winter.) So, I left the mall with one orange spatula and one yellow spatula. Not exactly a pair of blue suede platform pumps, but I'll take what I can get.

No Child of Mine Will Get Away With This

Amy Robach, Today Show host for this Christmas Eve, brought a young YouTube sensation to my attention, and I wish she hadn't. It really started my Christmas Eve all kinds of wrong. This must be how Lewis Black feels all the time.

Here's the scene: Christmas morning 2009. A three-year-old boy, after opening many presents (including a Wii) opens yet another: children's books. Cue the screaming violins from Psycho. Little Angel in monster footie pajamas (how appropriate) begins shouting at his parents about how books are not toys and you don't give books for Christmas. He actually said "What the heck is that?!" "No, I hate it!" "Yeah, poo! I said poo!" Little Angel quickly changes gears and begins sizing up his next wrapped gift, indicating that it better not be books.

I'm not amused. I'm horrified. Maybe books are a little unexpected at Christmas. Hell, I know that. I've unwrapped quite a few books and encyclopedias on Christmas morning, in addition to other non-toy gift items such as socks and pajamas...do you think a four year old is as excited to receive a pair of socks as she is to receive She-Ra's Crystal Castle?

Would you rather...

No, she isn't, but she smiles and says "thank you" with enthusiasm, because her parents raised her to be appreciative and express gratitude for the gifts she is given, and shes doesn't expect each gift to be as magnificent as She-Ra's Crystal Castle. I think if you're old enough to develop an expectation that you are entitled to a mountain of toys, then you are old enough to understand the importance of the phrase "thank you". But I digress.

I asked Steve if he thought that was acceptable behavior. He said, "I would have been disappointed about getting books when I was three...then again, when I was a kid, I used to roll a bunch of socks together, call it a "ball" and play catch with myself in the yard. I was poor, remember?"

Mommy Dearest, who instead of seeing her child's Christmas tantrum as a sign of the apocalypse, or feeling ashamed that she forgot to teach manners to her son, just laughed and laughed...then posted the video on YouTube to share with friends and family...because when your child acts like a spoiled, ungrateful brat, well, that's a special moment you want to share.

The video went viral, reaching a million hits since Christmas Day last year. To date, this video has 1,945 "likes" and 836 "dislikes" wait, make that 837, and apparently the comments became so harsh and critical that Mommy Dearest disabled commenting on the video and posted this in defense of her spoiled, ungrateful child:

"After opening a whole bunch of toys, my son 3 year old came across a present with books....keep in mind that this was kinda like his first "real" Christmas....and again he's was only three years old!....let me repeat. ONLY THREE YEARS OLD... And that he could just about understand and get the concept of the whole gift getting thing. I guess much to the blame of me, the media, and every commercial out there on TV he was more under the perception that you only get "toys" for christmas. To him Books are the fun time we spend reading (no less than three) every night before he goes to bed. Let me make something clear again. HE REALLY DOES LOVE BOOKS! But I'm guessing he was "overwhelmed" after opening way too many gifts (my fault I went overboard that year) and I think he felt "tricked upon" when he opened the books.....plus the fact that we were laughing at his reaction kinda egged him on to say the Poo statement..... He really is one of the sweetest kids I know and to see this reaction (if you know him yourself) IS cute."

She goes on to assure us that she has taught him better since then. Taught him what? That Christmas is in fact not all about presents, but about the birth of Jesus? That it's more important to give than to receive? That we must remember those who are less fortunate than we are? That when given a gift, the only acceptable response is a smile and a "thank you"? No, you silly poo face! She taught him that at Christmas, in addition to lots and lots of toys, you also receive other non-toy items as gifts! That's the lesson Mommy Dearest taught Little Angel! Hey, Mommy Dearest: don't feel like it's your responsibility to teach your child about manners, gratitude, or selflessness. They'll teach it to him in public school!

Fast forward one year later. Mommy Dearest and Little Angel are on the Today Show, where Little Angel's behavior is nothing short of obnoxious. After listening to Mommy Dearest (whose fabulous parenting skills won her a trip to New York to the Today Show) bitch about how others don't find Little Angel delightful, and she doesn't understand, and he really does love books! We have a moment of truth: Amy Robach presents Little Angel with a present. Spoiler: It isn't books. Little Angel unwraps what looks to be Woody from Toy Story. Little Angel's reaction: "Oh, I already have this". Ahh, yes, Mommy Dearest, you've done a glorious job. Your work is done. After some prompting, he eventually said "Thank you". Jeez, what do you expect? I mean, he already has it!



Oh, and just to reiterate: Mommy Dearest wants you to know that he really does love books! Because, ya know, that's the only thing wrong with this video.

What Do Mona Lisa Vito and I Have in Common?

What do Lisa Vito and I have in common? We both lament living in a place without access to good Chinese food. I've been thinking about it more recently because I've been really craving it. My cravings have gone unsatisfied, as I text Steve "Too bad the Chinese food is terr-uh-bull!" It's worth noting that I live in Dallas, a city with a rather high Asian population (as opposed to my previous home of Birmingham, Alabama). I believe these Dallas Asians are predominately Vietnamese and Korean. They're good people, but their bread-and-butter seems to be dry cleaners and nail salons, so I look great but I'm hungry.

Back to the Chinese food. I waved the white flag and surrendered my pursuit of good Chinese food in this town after a series of disastrous experiences with local restaurants who have at various times shoved delivery menus into my front door. I use the word "disastrous" because I'm a huge drama queen:

1. I called one delivery place where the woman who answered the phone must have been their grandma from the old country. When I say she spoke zero English, I mean it. I thought we could muddle through, since the menu items are in Chinese, but between her Chinese accent and my southern accent, we couldn't get it together. I finally gave up.
2. I tried a different Chinese delivery place. This one had the wherewithal to have the Chinese-American teenagers answer the phone. But instead of pulling up my billing information using the phone number I gave her at the beginning of the phone call, she used my number she lifted off caller ID. So, I went through the unnecessarily lengthy process of placing the order, only have her tell me she doesn't have my debit card on file. I'm driving, so I can't read my card to her. In frustration, I cancelled the order. Then I cried angry, hungry tears. I was PMS-ing real bad.
3. I've waited over 90 minutes for a delivery I was told would arrive in 30 minutes.
4. When the tardy order finally arrived, we discovered that instead of the two entrees I ordered, we received only one entree. Steve and I had to share (what a frickin' nightmare!) When I called the restaurant in a huff to inform them, I was not given a refund but instead promised a free entree next time I call. Pfft, like there'll be a next time!
5. I've received Mongolian Beef with no beef. Seriously, it was just sauce and peppers and one morsel of meat.
6. I've received Cashew Chicken with no cashews.
7. Not their fault, but in that same meal I received a fortune cookie with no fortune. *headdesk*
8. I've received Sweet and Sour Chicken with no sweet and sour sauce. Now it's just chicken nuggets. Seriously, I would have rather soaked Chick-fil-A nuggets in Polynesian Sauce.

Can I stop now? Have I sufficiently made my case? So...once a year, I get my Chinese fix at P.F. Chang's, and about once a year, I dip into a food court at my neighborhood mall (I loathe the mall) and indulge in some Manchu Wok.

It Gets Better

All the recent news stories about teen suicides and school bullying are really upsetting. Celebrities and public figures have been reaching out by posting their own videos on the internet where they share their own bullying experiences and send the message to kids that "It gets better." It's fair to say that at one time or another, we were all either victims of bullying, or were bullies ourselves. If you're reading this and thinking that you can't relate to what I'm saying, you must have had a cop for a dad or a big brother to protect you. You're lucky.

In high school, I spent two years being intimidated, mocked, glared at and threatened by an upperclassman. At times I was in fear of bodily harm. The reason? Her best friend liked a boy who dated my best friend, and my locker was beside the boy's. Six degrees of separation = six degrees of hell. I didn't even know this girl. I had to actually look her up in the yearbook so I would know the name of the girl who made my palms sweat and my stomach churn everyday.

When I was twelve, my mom took me to the mall and told me I could get whatever I wanted for my birthday. I chose a black cord necklace that had beads of every color: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. I thought it was the perfect necklace. Since it included every color, it meant it would go with every outfit I owned and that I could wear it everyday. Twelve-year-old Samantha was practical like that. I've always been the kind of girl who finds something that I like fashion-wise (v-neck tees, maxi dresses) and I buy five of them and wear them all the time. That's what I did in sixth grade with this necklace and Gap pocket tees. I was a happy, yet socially awkward twelve year old...until somebody decided to make my life hell.

similar necklace

This classmate informed me that my necklace was a "gay pride" necklace. I don't know that she went so far as to call me gay, but it was implied. She basically let me know that by wearing the necklace I was sending a message that I was at the very least gay-friendly. This was apparently a bad thing, as indicated by the endless mocking from her and her friends. This went on for months. Unwilling to concede that she was humiliating me, I became indignant--I went from wearing the necklace just a few times a week to wearing it every. single. day. I wasn't going to let this bitch get the best of me. Why would I subject myself to further ridicule?

1. I was sheltered and innocent, and therefore unfamiliar with rainbows being a symbol of "gay pride." I thought they were a symbol of "God's Promise". Or they were just colorful beads. It's like comedian Demetri Martin says in his stand-up routine: "How can one group own refracted light?" Basically, I thought this girl made it all up to hurt my feelings. I reasoned that, if I gave in and stopped wearing the necklace, where would the torment end? Would she then tell me that blue t-shirts, or green dresses symbolized a social taboo or cause that I supposedly should distance myself from? It's a slippery slope my friends, and I was not giving this girl the power to take my wardrobe and style hostage. 
2. If I'm playing devil's advocate, so what if she's right? What if rainbows do symbolize "gay pride"? I'm twelve. I'm not gay. At this time, I don't know anybody who is gay. The necklace doesn't symbolize gay pride to me, but I'm not some homophobe who isn't going to wear my necklace for fear of what people might think of me. 
3. Eventually my mom caught wind of what was happening. My mom is one of those crazy lioness moms: if she catches you messing with one of her cubs, she will maul your face off. Here's the deal: kids are bullied when they are perceived as weak. Nothing says "I'm weak and defenseless" like having your mommy fight your battles for you. My mom's threats and intimidation tactics were effective in this case, but it was a risky move that I would not recommend.
4. I eventually did put the necklace in my jewelry box, never to wear it again. I told myself it wasn't because of her. I reasoned that enough time had passed, I had worn the necklace for two seasons, and it was time to update my wardrobe. I do the same thing with handbags.

Not long ago, I was shopping for a wedding present at Williams Sonoma. Near the register, a whisk caught my eye:

I was in a hurry, so I resisted to temptation to buy this whisk. I still love colorful things. But here I am, fifteen years after being bullied for wearing a rainbow necklace, and the first thought that crosses my mind as I hold this rainbow whisk in my hand is: "I wonder if what's-her-face would make fun of me today for buying this 'gay pride' whisk?"

People come and go from our lives, and we won't always remember the things they said or did, but we'll never forget the way they made us feel. I hope that school administrators work to put an end to the tolerance of bullying in our schools, and that the school bullies would have the foresight to realize that if they don't want their legacy to be that of an asshole, they need to stop making sport out of making other people's lives hell.

It gets better.

An Open Letter to the Guy who called me a "Fucking Idiot"

In response to my post, The Tool Awards: Rickie Fowler, rawrshaq had this to say to me:

"you sound like a fucking idiot. im sorry, i got this page from a google search, but seriously this is one of the dumbest, most ill-thought opinions i have ever seen"

Well...allow me to retort:

Thank you so much for visiting my blog today! While I find your use of the phrase "fucking idiot" when referring to me both unnecessary and abusive, this housewife is humbled that my writing evoked such strong feelings in one of my readers.

I will agree with you on one thing: my opinion is considerably less researched and thought-out than a college thesis, but that's the dangerous beautiful thing about blogging. Any jackass can type their stupid opinion and publish it as fact, so that it can in turn be read and scrutinized by total strangers.

Rickie Fowler is the Justin Bieber of golf, so I knew that when I chose to take on such a polarizing public figure that I would be met with mixed reactions. I receive a lot of traffic on my blog thanks to this post and people who Google "Rickie Fowler tool" and "Rickie Fowler hair", so I know I am not alone in my opinions regarding this short, flamboyantly dressed boy with the pretty hair. I also get a lot of traffic from Google Image searches, presumably from admirers such as yourself who are perhaps dazzled by his style and charisma, or wish to run their fingers through his long, luxurious hair.

The time stamp on your comment tells me that you were Googling Rickie Fowler at 3:00 in the morning, so I will trust that you are an authority on "fucking idiots". As a new mom who is frequently awake at that hour, I know all to well that 3:00am is the fucking idiot's time to shine.

My husband is a golf pro in Dallas, and my Rickie post was actually written at his request. He and his other golf friends will be so amused when they find out I pissed off, or at the very least annoyed, one of Rickie's devotees. In his opinion, the only person who is a bigger tool than Rickie Fowler is somebody who is a fan of Rickie Fowler.

That said, we welcome all opinions here at Three Mutts and a Baby, and if you happen to read this and still feel strongly in defense of Rickie Fowler, I invite you to write a guest post at any time rebutting my opinion.

Cheers!

Samantha

'Electronic Bitch Slaps'. Or, 'Sassiness Via Email'.

I've already told you all about my evil ex-boss, Ursula, whose evil ways caused me to say "peace out" to my job two weeks ahead of schedule. Well, my last paycheck was issued two weeks ago, and I emailed Fairy Godmother asking to have the check mailed to my house so I can avoid driving the 60 miles round trip while nine months pregnant to retrieve my check. Seems like a reasonable request, right? Well, I still don't have my check. How am I handling this?

Not well.

After a string of "Where is my paycheck?" emails over the past week between Fairy Godmother and me that are filled with reassurances that "the check is in the mail", and still no paycheck in my mailbox, this the email I received today from Ursula:

Smantha,

So sorry I assumed you would be in to pick up your check last week since I did not recieve a call from you. I had to look for it and only just sent it out yesterday. You should recieve it this week.

Hope you had a great Holiday week end!

Ursula
 
I kept her typos so you could get the full effect. You see what Ursula did there, the way she made excuses and turned it around and made it my fault? Yeah, I picked up on that too. Mommy no likey. I fired back and made sure to copy Fairy Godmother. I am substituting Fairy Godmother's real name with "F.G." Get it?
 
Ursula,
 
I see, so it's my fault I haven't received my paycheck. I'm not at all surprised you'd take the time to point that out to me. As for your assumption that I would call you, I didn't call you because I went straight to F.G., and on July 1, I received an email from F.G. stating that she spoke to you and you told her you would mail my check that same day. I trusted that you did exactly that. I thought at the very least, you'd delegate the responsibility of mailing my check. You're so good at delegating.
 
I will once again trust that you've done as you were told and that this matter will soon be resolved.
 
Samantha 
 
Do you see what I did there? I basically called her a lazy, incompetent, lying bitch without using the words "lazy", "incompetent", "lying", or "bitch". Don't underestimate how immensely gratifying this was for me. I designed the email so as not to illicit a response. I mean, what can she say? Imagine my (somewhat) surprise when I received a reply from Ursula several hours later:
 
It is great hearing from from you. I am certain your anxiously awaiting your bundle of joy and are a bit stressed. I won't take your e-mail personally.

I seriously hope your doing well.

Take care,

Ursula
 
Once again, I kept the typos for your pleasure. This was actually her second attempt to send this email. In the first attempt, she had even more spelling errors and omitted words, and she forgot to copy Fairy Godmother. Now I can add "insincere", "weak" and "ineffective" to her growing list of negative qualities. Ursula can "take" my email any way she chooses, but any interpretation other than: "I think you're awful and look forward to the day you are unceremoniously fired" is incorrect. It's just like I've been saying for months: pregnant women are like Sophia from The Golden Girls. We are free to be as bold and outspoken as we want and everyone will excuse it because we're pregnant, whether we like it or not.

And I'm still waiting on my damn paycheck.

If I've Heard it Once...

...I've heard it a hundred times:

"Ugh, I just hate going to funerals."

Umm...news flash, Trixie:  everybody hates going to funerals. A coworker made this comment to me today, and since I'm in a bad mood, that was the reply I shot back. Then I vented to my brother via Google Chat. He offered that a person could be psyched to go to a funeral if they love to wear black and snack on finger foods and enjoy organ music. True...but that isn't why we attend funerals. A funeral is one of the few occasions that it isn't all about me, it's about paying respects to someone who passed on. I'm not supposed to be comfortable, or happy, or entertained. I'm just supposed to honor and respect. And dress and behave appropriately.

I was so distraught after the last funeral I attended, I bought a bottle of wine...after spending $1000 in Saks Fifth Avenue in less than an hour. This is why I can't have credit cards. After showing my purchases to my mom, she was like, "You're taking all this back, right? Right?" Of course I was taking it back after I calmed down and came to my senses...except for the big, dramatic Jackie O sunglasses, which I was already wearing. Indoors. And the eyeshadow I had bought for Mom. She didn't object to keeping that purchase. But I went to the funeral.

Anyway, that's my public service announcement. Stop declaring that you don't "like" funerals. Nobody does, and that's the point. Go or don't go. Don't expect to enjoy yourself. Class dismissed.

Guest Post: BP Rant

This message comes to you, courtesy of my brother, Jarred:

I am starting to notice commercials for BP and Marathon gas trying to rebuild their image. In them, they have lots of kids playing soccer and American flags being waved by happy old people. BP is like the kid who pee'd his pants on the 1st day of school. Their best bet is to move and change the kid's name, because we will always remember that little spaz peeing his pants. Overall, I think it's a waste of time and money because no ad campaign will ever get the oil off of my pelican!

Thanks, Jarred. Couldn't have said it better myself.

I'd Rather Not Deliver Verbal Bitch Slaps Before My Coffee

My Libra ways make confrontation difficult, but there's a certain mall security guard who has been tap dancing on my nerves for a couple months. The spa I work for is in a mall, in an upscale department store, and I keep early hours of 8:00-4:00, arriving two hours prior to the mall opening. And because I underwent painful abdominal surgery during my second trimester and am now late into my third trimester, I have been parking at the nearest entrance, regardless of whether it's a mall-sanctioned "employee parking lot". Remember, pregnant women and old ladies, like Sophia from The Golden Girls, don't have to answer to the rules of conventional society. We're special. Write that down.

So anyway, if I arrive on time, that entrance is locked. However, the security guard often will have unlocked one of the 8 doors early. Otherwise, I rely on the kindness of mall walkers (old folks in their Easy Spirits working on their fitness), or a kind mall security guard, who doesn't mind walking the 100 feet to open a door for an early arrival. The mall cops rotate, so I don't see the same ones every day. There's this one guy who I've only seen a handful of times, and he won't unlock a door early. He will however, begrudgingly open a door for me and notify me and the old lady mall walkers that the doors open at 8:30. I usually smile and thank him through gritted teeth and briskly walk past. Not today, friends. Not today.

I didn't expect to be so punctual, or to see him two days in the same week, but when he met me and my venti latte at the door and delivered the same "Doors open at 8:30" message through his own set of gritted teeth, I decided enough was enough:

"Listen, I know the doors open at 8:30. You tell me that every time you see me. I'm eight months pregnant [pointing to stomach]. I work right here [pointing to store that is right in front of us]. I cannot park in the Nordstrom parking deck and walk all the way down here. Now--the other people who do...what you do [gesturing to his uniform, and resisting the urge to call him "Paul Blart"] typically leave one door unlocked, or they simply open the door without comment. I have six more weeks until I leave to deliver this baby, and I am going to continue to park here and use this entrance. If you don't want to open the door for me, then don't. But don't tell me again that these doors unlock at 8:30."

Paul Blart stared at his feet and sheepishly nodded in agreement, "Ok."

"Good," I replied tersely, before pivoting on my heel and sashaying away, tossing my hair over my shoulder. That is a move with a little dust on it. Waddling in flip flops instead of strutting in stilettos, that maneuver is considerably less impactful. As I walk away, Paul calls out, "But I'll continue to open the door. Because I have compassion."

"How nice," I retorted, not even stopping or bothering to look over my shoulder. Now that that's out of the way, I can go about my day. [Sigh.]

Pole Dancing with the Stars

I've been pulling for Erin Andrews all season on Dancing with the Stars. She is the single reason Steve agrees to watch it with me. I love her. Clearly, Steve loves her. My chunky butt isn't at all threatened. She's the all-American girl, and she's the only finalist who isn't a professional dancer. Yeah, I said it. Nicole Scherzinger and Evan Lysacek have unfair advantages and I'm so irritated that it's been downplayed and dismissed all season. That's not what the spirit of this show was about. No, they don't professionally ballroom dance, but anyone who has ever studied dance (15 years of classical ballet right here) knows that if you are trained in one discipline of dance, you are more easily adaptable when it comes to learning other forms of dance. And, ballroom or not, a dancer is a dancer is a dancer. Additionally, I'm willing to bet my tap shoes that, if prior to their appearances on this amateur dancing competition, had you approached Nicole on the set of her "Buttons" music video, or Evan at Smuckers Stars on Ice and said, "You are not a dancer!" they would have taken their stilettos and skates respectively, and told you to stick them where the sun doesn't shine. But now, they're on national television, blushing and stammering "Oh, I'm so out of my comfort zone here!" and being gushed over by Carrie Ann Inaba because they're so "naturally talented" when in fact they are trained professionals who earn their living in part based on their dance skills. So there.

I've felt this entire time that Erin is in it to win it. She's sort of the underdog, but she's also the darling of the competition. Then, there was last night's Freestyle round of competition. I was blowing up Amy's cell phone with my text messages of criticism and disapproval:

"Erin wanted her freestyle dance to tell the story of her and Maks, and that dance takes place on a mattress. How subtle, Erin."

"Erin is gonna lose DWTS because instead of doing a fun freestyle she decided to have simulated sex onscreen. FAIL."

Yes, I text in complete sentences with minimal abbreviations.

Erin claims that the decision to perform a lyrical dance was to "take a risk." Never kid a kidder, Erin. The decision to perform a lyrical dance was a self-indulgent one. It's like when I entered the Jefferson County Junior Miss Pageant Scholarship Program, and the judges asked me about my choice of talent, a ballet en pointe to The Wizard of Oz. I answered honestly that as a little girl I made a promise to myself that I would one day perform on stage while wearing a pair of red glittered pointe shoes, and I was here to make good on that promise. I think the judges appreciated my candor.

Then they asked me if I knew who Tony Blair was. I didn't.
Then they asked me if I knew who Alan Greenspan was. I didn't.

Caitlin Upton, Miss Teen South Carolina, isn't the only one whose ignorance cost her the crown...

Enough about my glory days, let's get back to Erin. We're close in age, both raised in the south, and both took dance lessons as children. I have no doubt that, like me, she has many happy memories doing pique turns and slowly sliding into the splits to a Celine Dion song. So she likes lyrical dance. So she had the opportunity to perform a lyrical dance by a renowned choreographer on a national stage and she took it. So she couldn't pass up the chance to roll around on a mattress with a hot Russian so that everyone and my Nana could see what Maks taught her. Own it, but know that unless her fan base is randy fellas who love to vote the maximum number of times, she probably lost the disco ball trophy to my arch rival, Nicole "I'm not a professional dancer" Scherzinger.

I DO Want to Express Myself, and I Don't Need 37 Pieces of Flair to Do It.

The further I get into this pregnancy, the more laser-focused I become on the business of pregnancy and motherhood and the more I perceive anything else as an unwelcome distraction. Namely, anything work-related. I realize my inability to multi-task or be a complex human being makes me super lame, but my cankles also make me super lame, and they aren't going anywhere. The one thing working in my favor is that being (very) visibly pregnant makes me "cute" (that's debatable), vulnerable, and harmless-looking, which allows me to basically say or do anything I want. It was these same qualities that made Sophia from The Golden Girls great. Now if only I could harness that new found, temporary power and leverage it towards a greater goal...

I'm trying to get through my remaining weeks of pregnancy and working with some grace and dignity, but this surge of crazy pregnancy hormones has other plans in store for me. I'm extremely cranky. My co-workers aren't helping matters. I avoid the break room at all costs, because if I set one foot in there, I will face such questions as, "Are you going to breastfeed?", "Will you be delivering vaginally?", "Do you plan to have a natural childbirth?" Having a baby bump is like wearing a t-shirt that says "Ask Me About My Vagina". Is it too much to ask that I be allowed to heat up my chicken noodle soup without having to discuss my lady parts with people who, up until a few months ago, were complete strangers?

Today I am irritated (the reason isn't important) with a co-worker who Steve has only heard me refer to as "Persian Dwight Schrute." She's a tall, very thin, attractive part-time front desk employee, and her attendance record would be grounds for termination by most reputable employers. She routinely calls in sick for days at a time, only to come to the spa to hang out because she's "bored." If she isn't enjoying a free massage, pedicure, or blowdry, she likes to sit in a chair at the front desk or by the pedicure stations, her long legs folded up like origami, obsessively trimming the split ends of her long black hair with a pair of scissors for hours. I would love to tell you that this is the behavior of an 18-year-old cosmetology school dropout, but we're talking about a college-educated woman who's on the wrong side of 25. Possibly 30.

Despite the her part-time employment status, she has this maniacal desire for authority. She regularly hijacks management responsibilities that have not been delegated to her. She has demanded to fire insubordinate coworkers, and has been desperately seeking a "title" so that she can rule the spa with an iron fist. For fifteen hours a week, tops. One other tidbit: I heard that she is shunning one or more members of her family indefinitely. That, combined with her hunger for power makes her one beet farm removed from The Office's Dwight Schrute. 

I promised myself I would work up until my due date. I really want to stick it out as long as I can. Money makes the world go 'round, people. I'd love to have some extra cash stashed away before I go into early retirement. But if these knuckleheads at work don't ease up, I just might not make it...

Generation Gap

I'm pretty sure that every generation since The Greatest Generation has felt that the generation immediately following theirs is disgraceful. I am grateful not be a part of this newer generation, purely from a pop culture standpoint. I realize I am looking at this through the eyes of a 28-year-old, but I'm pretty sure I'd feel this way at any age. I feel completely out of touch with what's cool today, yet I'm ok with it. Here's why:

1. Justin Bieber

I need somebody who works with tweens to please explain why girls love this guy. I don't mean they just love this guy, from what Ryan Seacrest tells me, he's like the second coming of Elvis, Paul McCartney, David Cassidy, Donnie Wahlberg (watch your mouth, he's my favorite New Kid) and Justin Timberlake rolled into one pre-pubescent overly-coiffed boy. Girls actually get trampled and crushed attending his concerts. Like Michael Jackson did at the height of his fame. The Gloved One was once worth being hospitalized over (not really), but Justin Bieber? Every time I hear Seacrest use the term "Bieber Fever" I want to throw a Yosemite Sam temper tantrum. Have you no dignity,man? Is this kid a musical prodigy? Is he loaded with charisma? I. Don't. Understand. I used to have trouble understanding the appeal of Zac Efron because I don't trust a guy who spends more time primping than I do. For the record, I spend a lot of time primping. I will take Zac any day over this Bieber kid. Zac and I wouldn't last long. Punk would use all my hair product and hog the mirror, leaving me no choice but to throw him out on the street. I don't like to share. Back to Bieber. How do I put this delicately? He is devoid of masculinity. Masculinity is sort of a prerequisite for me to find a guy attractive. Maybe if I didn't think about Dani from A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila every time I see him I wouldn't struggle to recognize his appeal. Maybe 28-year-old pregnant married women are not Justin Bieber's target audience?

My Generation's Superior Counterpart: Nobody. My generation didn't idolize boys who still take afternoon naps and eat PB&J with the crust cut off .

2. Ke$ha

Ok, confession time. I don't listen to the radio. Haven't for years. I don't like the commercials, or listening to songs I don't like, or constantly changing stations to find the songs I do like. I just listen to my iPod. I'm a simple girl. The last time I listened to a radio was during the Christmas holidays, driving my mom's car with my brother in the passenger seat. During the hour or so spent in the car, we heard this god-awful song at least three times, and it made my ears bleed:

I'm talking about everybody getting crunk, crunk

Boys tryin' to touch my junk, junk

Gonna smack him if he getting too drunk, drunk

What in auto-tune hell is this? It must be popular if it's getting so much air play. "Jarred, what is wrong with the kids today? This music is garbage!" Jarred shakes his head woefully. I have no idea who sings this song, which I now know is entitled "Tik Tok". Meanwhile, I'm seeing pictures on the internet and in magazines and on television of this girl named Ke$ha. The "$" replacing the "S" tells me right away that she's cla$$y. It took me literally months to make the connection between this glitter-sprayed gutter troll and this song that I deem an assault on humanity. It took an additional month after that to learn the pronunciation of her name. This is when I begin praying that my unborn baby is a boy, because if this is what girls today are saying and singing and looking like, I just don't think I can handle it. If she represents the future of our nation, I might have to start brushing my teeth with a bottle of Jack.

My Generation's Superior Counterpart: Pink
 






3. Spencer and  Heidi

Somewhere, high in the mountains of Crested Butte, Colorado, Heidi's mom is crying. I'd like to send Darlene Egelhoff a big bouquet of flowers and a card that says, "It's not your fault." I once met a woman from Crested Butte, and so naturally the first thing I said to her, is "Oh, you must know Heidi and Darlene!" And guess what? She did. Her son dated Heidi in high school. Something like that. The woman's only comment was "She was such a nice girl. We just don't know what happened." You said a mouthful, lady.

Our Generation's Superior Counterpart: Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown





4. Miley Cyrus

If you had told me in 1992, when I was doing the "Achy Breaky" line dance during gym class, that this mullet-headed crooner's spawn would one day be at the center of the American consciousness, I would have told you to stop jerkin' my chain. Honestly, I thought that once the Hannah Montana craze ended (i.e. when she and her fan base outgrow the TV show) that Miley would fade into obscurity. When will I learn? They never exit gracefully, these tween and teen idols. Except for Debbie Deborah Gibson. Girlfriend did it right. Miley needs to stop. The more I see and hear from her, the less I like her. Viewing her performance on the Teen Choice Awards, where she infamously pole danced atop an ice cream truck while singing "Party in the USA" (and seeing the thunderous applause from her parents) was like witnessing armageddon. Ok, I'm being a shade dramatic, but seriously, I can't stand that song. At least Miley has admitted in interviews that she does not write, select, or personally care for her own song. This explains how a 16-year-old could sing lyrics like:

and the Jay-Z song was on

So I put my hands up

They're playing my song

Really, Miley? Which Jay-Z song is your song? You were eight when "Big Pimpin" was released. You're killing me, smalls.

My Generation's Superior Counterpart: Hilary Duff

5. The Jonas Brothers

I have almost as much trouble understanding the appeal of these clowns as I do understanding Bieber. At least these guys appear to have achieved puberty. I'm not completely sure which one is which, but the one on the left is throwing me Edward Scissorhands vibes. I'd like him to stop right now. I heard the one on the right sing once with Stevie Wonder. It sounded like he didn't know the words to "Superstitious". It sounded like he was gargling fruit snacks. Once again, we have a situation where boys are using more hair product than me (an offense punishable by lifelong exile) and they're overdoing it with the layered look.

My Generation's Superior Counterpart: Hanson

6. Pretty Wild

I am unclear as to how these girls got a reality show, but I just can't stand them. Every time I stop on an episode or promo while flipping through the channels, one of these girls is screeching and crying. They sound like tea kettles. I want to jump into the TV and shake them by the shoulders and say, "Use your words!" Friday, I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of these girls shrieking and wailing (I had fallen asleep watching Chelsea Lately), and Steve had just returned home from a party. He asked if he could change the channel. "Absolutely," I replied groggily. "These girls are awful, just awful." Then, with the utmost sincerity, Steve responded, "You have no idea." I hate the way this show glamorizes being shallow and out of control (because I'm an old fart), but maybe the "no contest" plea from Alexis Neiers, sentencing her to six months in jail for ["allegedly"--do I still have to say that?] burglarizing Orlando Bloom's house will send a message that these girls are losers.

My Generation's Superior Counterpart: The Real World: Las Vegas











7. Lady Gaga

As if this post up to this point, along with every previous post hasn't demonstrated how un-hip I am, I'm gonna make myself sound very uncool now. Lady Gaga gives me the creepy-creeps. I actually like her music, and I'll bet she's a lovely person, but the way she goes to such great lengths to be so...strange...is off-putting to me. She's like some long-lost love child of Liberace and Marilyn Manson. I spend my life trying to look "effortlessly striking" and here this chick, who has better legs than me, is going out of her way to be weird looking. Why does she want to scare me so?

My Generation's Superior Counterpart: Britney Spears (I'm reaching here, but let's be real: we all remember where we were when we saw her dance on stage with that snake. Girlfriend was groundbreaking)

Ok, I've said my piece. If you guys can let me know if I'm not the only one who feels this way, or if you can explain the appeal of these people in a way I'll understand, that would be appreciated. Good day to you.

An Open Letter To Jessica Simpson

Dear Jessica,

I have found your recent interviews, revelations, and comments so troubling, I feel the need to say something. I don't want to talk about your weight. Or your music career. Or your movie career. Or your love life. Or the way your sister emerged from your "Shadow" and stole your dreams. We at Three Mutts are a benevolent people. We don't rejoice in other people's heartache, and the truth is, we like you. And you're in need of some tough love. To understand where you are now, we need to take a look at where you've been.

More than ten years ago, you broke onto the scene at the height of the bubblegum pop bonanza that was Britney-Christina-Jessica-Mandy and you took the world by storm. Look how young and fresh-faced you were:

Since you were one of four hot young blondes on the 90's music scene, you had to find away to stand out from the rest. Britney was the Lolita, Christina was the voice, and Mandy was no competition for you, so how did you set yourself apart?

1. Sexy virgin: appearing in endless interviews and photo shoots, always oozing sex and talking about sex, but making it very clear that you do not have sex. Also, having really big boobs that everyone and your dad liked to talk about. Not creepy at all.
2. Ken and Barbie-like relationship with a boy band member: making every aspect of your lives together available for public consumption - for a price.

So, you had two things going for you: sexy virgin, boy band boyfriend. Then you married that boy band boyfriend, and therefore lost the "sexy virgin" status. So then you had only one thing going for you...

How could you possibly make a career out of simply being married?

1. Marketing your wedding ad nauseum: shameless self-promotion through interviews, TV specials, magazines, a book.
2. MTV Newlyweds: Millions tuned in to hear what ditzy thing you'd say next ("Is this chicken or is this fish that I'm eating?")
3. Singing songs about being married: Your most commercially successful album, In This Skin, was all about your love life. "With You" was a catchy little ditty with a cute video.
4. Being a dumb blonde: You helped to launch the "it's cute to be stupid" trend in Hollywood, which made it possible for the likes of Paris Hilton to achieve fame, and setting the women's movement back 50 years. (Thanks for that)
5. Merchandise: Now that everybody knows you're having sex (and that it's cool with The Man Upstairs) you roll out a line of "kissable" bath and body products at Sephora. You know, so that you can have something tasty to lick off of Mr. Lachey during Jesus sanctioned sexy times. I found that they left a sticky residue, and I guess everyone else did too, because Dessert is over. Good thing you've also got shoes and clothes bearing your name.

6. Acting: You signed on for a series of vanity projects, more style than substance, all with the goal of catapulting you to higher stardom. Dukes of Hazard, Employee of the Month, Blonde Ambition, and Major Movie Star err, Private Valentine: Blonde and Dangerous I mean. (Much better title.)
7. Being hot: With the release of Dukes of Hazard, you leveraged that hot body you developed during filming. There was a period of about a year where I couldn't fling a cupcake without hitting an article, photo spread, or music video featuring you and your hot new body. I will admit, you worked it out, girlfriend! And you maintained that weight for...about a month.

8. Being a girlfriend: If you could spin your marriage into gold, why couldn't you do the same for dating? A string of interviews and magazine covers declaring that the guy you've been dating for a few months is "The One" shouldn't scare him off at all...

So, to recap - what exactly puts money in your pocket? Being beautiful and desirable. This is why there is such a thing as Jessica Simpson clothing and accessories. This is why high-profile men date you (allowing you the opportunity for all those "exclusive" interviews you love so much.) This is why you are paid the big bucks to endorse products like Proactiv. Are we all on the same page here? Pretty pays the bills. So why on earth are you going out in public looking like hell, and why do I keep reading tidbits from recent interviews where you say things to make yourself sound as gross as possible?

1. You only brush your teeth three times a week.

2. You recently farted in a business meeting. Intentional, no, but why do you openly discuss that you fart in bed? If you're sharing that fun fact with all of the world (including would-be boyfriends) we don't want to know what your really embarrassing quirks are.

3. You belch. A lot. On Newlyweds, and (according to you) you used to belch the ABC's for Tony Romo. And then you cried when he dumped you on your birthday.

4. You reportedly wash your hair less than once a week on average.

5. You chew nicotine gum because you like it. What's more, you reportedly don't throw your used gum away, you just stick it on your water bottle to chew on later. [shudder]

I'm all for being truthful and unpretentious. It's endearing, normally. I blame the year 2003 for your current behavior. Back then, everything you said was a soundbite, the more outrageous the better. With your current tenuous grasp on fame, I can see your logic: "If they liked it when I told them I thought Buffalo wings were made of buffalo, they're gonna love it when I tell them that I brush my teeth with my shirt!" You really miscalculated, Jess. That being said, I beg you, stop saying things that make the world go, "Eww!" and that are in direct conflict with how you earn your livelihood. Practice good hygiene, fire your stylist (she must hate you, based on how she's dressing you) and tell your BFF/hairstylist Ken Paves he needs to do a little better job being your friend and stylist and stop letting you appear in public with hair that's not cute.

I don't mean to be harsh, Jess. I shouldn't be the one to have to tell you this, but us girls gotta stick together.

Cordially,

Samantha

So? You're Jennifer Freakin' Lopez!

I just need a minute, y'all:

It's no secret that I love my Us Weekly. The only day I check the mail is Thursday, so I can retrieve the newest issue as early as possible. Much to my chagrin, I was kept waiting an extra day this week (unacceptable!), so I was super excited to check the mail on Friday (don't judge me.) My excitement quickly turned to annoyance when Jennifer Lopez and her barely dressed, perma-glow body grinned at me from the cover. You're so smug, Jennifer.

Please, describe for me how you lost the baby weight with the help of personal chefs, home delivery meal services, a personal trainer, and a staff of nannies to watch your children while you exercise and primp. I'd also like to hear how you keep the sizzle in your marriage to that stud Marc Anthony. He is muy caliente! The way you continue to bring the sexy with the help of your glam squad--stylists, makeup artists, hairdressers, airbrush tanner, nail technician--I find you both accessible and inspirational. You always look so Photoshopped flawless in all your pictures.

I realize I totally sound like a Bitter Betty, and maybe it's just the third trimester talking, but allow me to clarify before I go: I [heart] pre-Bennifer Jennifer Lopez. I have no qualms about the fact that she's prettier and has more money than me, and has built an empire on what can best be described as marginal talent. But I roll my eyes when magazines like Us Weekly award her a meaningless title like "Style Icon of the Decade" and then ask her to share the secret of her success. I realize this is Us Weekly and that if substance is what I'm searching for I would be more satisfied reading a different periodical, but please stick to covering baby pictures, celebrity break-ups, and plastic surgery before-and-after stories. Don't parade a woman who has all the resources money can buy at her fingertips and try to tell me that she's extraordinary. Lucky, yes. But I expect her to look every bit this good. She's freakin' Jennifer Lopez!

Ok, I'm done.