Things Not to Do in an Elevator

The building where I work is 7 stories tall.  My office is on the 7th floor.  Though I’ve done it before, I’m not climbing the stairs every day to get to my office.  That’s why some brilliant man invented the elevator.

The elevators in our office building are weird.  They do a number of uncanny things; things that often result in me praying every time I step in one of them, things like:

  • The doors often open before the elevator has reached the floor it’s going to.  Like seriously, the door will open, and the darn car is still moving
  • The doors refuse to open on certain floors, especially the 5th floor.  I cringe when people get in and press the “5” button because I know that the car is going to go to the 5th floor, stop, ding, and the doors will never open
  • It shakes every time it gets to a floor, like the cables are ready to let loose

Because the elevators are possessed, the office management has finally decided to fix them.  Now, there are only two elevators that service the entire office building.  Which means, when they shut one down to repair it, there is only one left.  So it takes forever to get where you’re going because you usually have to stop at every single floor to pick up/drop someone off.

Why, knowing that there is only one elevator going, and the likelihood that it will have people in it is pretty high, do people insist on rushing in the moment it opens?

Ok, ok, I get it on the higher floors, but seriously, if you are on the ground level, waiting for the elevator to come down, and you’ve already been waiting ten minutes, how much common sense does it take to figure out that the reason you are waiting so long is probably because people are getting on to come down, and once the doors open, they’re going to want out?  It gets crowded in there…people be claustrophobic and stuff!  (Dear 1st grade grammar teacher, I know, I know, this paragraph is loaded with run ons, wrong comma usage, and slang.  No, I’m not changing it)

95% of the time, when I go down to the ground floor, as soon as the doors open, I nearly get knocked to the ground by people rushing in.  I’m sorry you’ve had to wait, but seriously people, common courtesy, let the people OUT before you fight your way in!  It’s much easier that way.

Anyways, because of my elevator rantings, I thought I’d put together an etiquette list of things one should never do in an elevator:

  1. Pick at your scabs…seriously…that’s gross
  2. Carry on conversations in a non native language….that’s just rude
  3. Sing at the top of your lungs…no one wants to hear it
  4. Sell candy bars for your kids fundraiser….It’s awkward enough to tell you no when I CAN get away
  5. Propose…I get it, some of us lack in romanticism, so just heed my warning now, don’t do it in an elevator
  6. Hold the door open to continue a conversation with someone not getting on the elevator
  7. Hit your floor button repeatedly thinking there is a secret turbo button installed
  8. Practice your interpretive dance routine
Don't...just don't Source:
Don’t…just don’t

A Little Bitter, Are We?

It’s no secret that social media is full of drama.  A lot of people use it specifically for that reason.  I think that’s why I avoided it for a long time, I think I always knew what to expect.

I’m the type of person who TRIES to be positive about most things.  I understand, we all have bad days, I get it, I really do.  Today has honestly been one of those days for me.  But I’m sorry, if every day is a bad day, you need to rethink your life.  I hate to tell you this but, it’s not the people in your life making you miserable…it’s you.

Anyways, with the high abundance of negative posts I see constantly on social media, I’ve decided that I’m proposing a new website.

The site will be called “Bitter”.  It’s a place for all of the miserable people in the world to congregate and try to out do each other.  Instead of “tweeting” they can send out “beatings”.  Instead of “blogging” there will be “flogging”.  And everyone’s profile picture will be one of those mean spirited e-cards that you constantly see posted…you know what I’m talking about.


There will be a special portion of the page called “Troll Polls”.  This will be a spot where everyone can congregate to weigh in on important issues that the rest of the world could care less about.  Things like:

-Which is the best screen name?  Yousuck4062 or Ihateyourguts1023_9901?

-What’s your favorite food?  Anger or Misery?

-Who’s life is worse? Mine or Yours?  (the obvious answer to this one is “mine”)

-OMG, my friends haven’t responded to any of my suicidal Facebook posts, what do I do?

-Which one do you hate the most?  Work, Home, School, Car, Family, Spouse, Money(lack thereof), Clothes, Sports, TV, Shoes, Shopping, Food, Pets, People, The World, Politicians, Computers, Technology, Music, Tables, Refrigerators, Monkeys, or All of the the Above and then some?

And finally, instead of built in “apps” they will play “craps” such as:

-Sadville – Where they will be responsible for trying to kill out a thriving farm environment by neglecting it.  This is harder than you may think, neglect is NOT something these people are adapt to.

-Misery Birds – The point is to fling a sad little bird looking creature into a brick wall and see how many attempts it takes before he becomes suicidal.

-Words with Fiends – Kinda like scrabble, but only words like “sadness”, “sorrow”, and “contempt” are allowed. Bonus points are awarded if you can spell out “I hate life”

Based on the amount of people I’ve had to delete or hide from my Facebook in the past few years, I can’t see this site being anything BUT a hit!

Thieving Mongrels!

Apparently, it’s a rule in society to shower on a regular basis.  Considering my mild, let’s go unnoticed, don’t draw attention to yourself, stay away from drama, personality, I choose to try my best to conform to society and shower, at least once a month or so (that was a joke for those of you who haven’t figured me out yet)  However, lately, I’ve been having trouble with showers.  Well, not the actual shower itself, my issue occurs after the shower.

My bathroom is rather small, so when I shower, I place the clothes I plan to change into, whether it be pajamas, or just a fresh shirt and jeans, on the floor next to the bathroom door.  There’s really no place to hang them, and I’ve found that placing them on the toilet, next to the shower only yields in them getting sprayed by the water. (I’m a messy shower-er..what can I say?)  The bathroom floor is clean, it’s no big deal really and its not like they are clean clothes…I have SOME decency ya know.

The last few showers I’ve taken though, when I get out to put on the new clothes, it always seems that half of them have mysteriously disappeared.  I usually go to grab the clothes and all that exists is a pair of jeans, no shirt, no underwear, just jeans.  I was perplexed by this, where the heck are my clothes going?  Do I smell THAT bad?

So, last night, as I was getting ready for my shower, I decided to do a little experiment.  I turned the shower on, took my clothes off, and placed them in the floor, just like I do every night.  Only this time, I didn’t get in the shower right away.  It didn’t take long to figure out what was happening to my clothes.

First off, let me introduce you all to my moms dog, Rowdy.


Sweet innocent little face huh?  Don’t let it fool you, this dog is the DEVIL!  Which is why I wasn’t shocked when, sitting on the toilet, I witnessed a tiny little brown paw reaching under the bathroom door.  The paw continued to stretch, and shortly behind it, peeking out from under the crack in the door I saw a long brown snout with a wiggling, sniffing, nose.

He persisted until finally, he had managed to grab my clothes, squeeze them under the door, and scatter them all over the house.


What the heck does a wiener dog need with clothes anyways?


I used to live really, really close to a train track.  So close that, on occassion, the walls would shake when the train went by.  My proximity to the tracks wasn’t what bothered me though, it was the frequency of the trains, and the fact that I had to cross the tracks to get anywhere.  On top of that, the trains that went over those tracks were the longest trains in the world, it’s a fact, I looked it up on the internet, and we all know the internet never lies.

Anyways, I was happy when I moved, ironically, I was still fairly close to a set of tracks, but not nearly as close, and it didn’t really matter because I found a road that went under the tracks.  What a concept!  So my long, painful, rocky relationship with trains was over.  Or so I thought.

So I’m staying with my parents for awhile, they don’t live near any train tracks, but in order to get to where the horses are, I have to cross some.  Yesterday, I got stuck at the crossing while the train STOPPED, then proceeded to back up a few feet, and pull forward a little, then back up some more.

How is this legal?  Seriously.  What if you are having a heart attack and the ambulance is not able to get to you because the freaking train is stopped on the tracks, and you die!

I get it, trains have to stop occasionally and switch tracks, or whatever it is that they are doing while they are doing the bunny hop on the tracks, but isn’t there some better way to handle this?  And honestly, that’s not what my beef is.

What I’m complaining about is, the fact that trains seem to be chasing me down.  It’s like the train mafia godfather has a hit out on me, and he’s just biding his time until he finally pops me.  Until then, he’s just having a bit of fun.

Ugh, I guess I just have to live with the fact that trains are far more attracted to me, than I to them.  Anyways, while this blog was bouncing around in my head, a friend posted this video on her Facebook, and I found it rather relevant.

I have to say, though the message may be slightly morbid, as far as deaths go, these have to be the cutest, most amusing portrayals I’ve seen yet!

Side note…sorry for not blogging much lately, it’s been a freakishly crazy last couple of weeks.  Maybe things will straighten out…eventually.

Poodle-Hoppers, Anyone?

A few years ago, people thought it would be a cute idea to start mixing different breeds of dogs and labeling them designer dogs.  You know the ones I’m talking about, you’ve got your malti-poos, yorki-poos, labradoodles…apparently mixing anything with a poodle makes for an amusing combination.

I’ve never been a big fan of the idea, in my mind, these mixed breeds have existed by themselves without human influence.  They live on the streets and in shelters, just waiting to die.

Well that sounded a little morbid now didn’t it?

Honestly though, I’ve always been a strong advocate for adopting rescue dogs.  Two of mine are rescues, and the only reason I have Winston, a pure breed, is because he was a Christmas present from my parents.  I don’t know for sure what Piper and Mama Sue are, but I can make an educated guess.

So, following in the form of the designer “breeds”, I have Piper, a schipperke/dachshund mix, otherwise known to no one but me as a “skipping weenie” and Mama Sue, a corgi/basset hound, or “bassorgi” or maybe a “corget”?

Anyways, I was bored last night (which usually means trouble) and I was perusing ads on Craigslist.  One ad, in particular, caught my eye.

“I am looking for a miniature teacup chihuahua.  Not just a miniature chihuahua, and not just a teacup chihuahua, these are smaller.  A friend of mine has one but the breeder she got hers from no longer breeds.  Does anyone know where I can find one of these cute little dogs?”

Yes, I admit it, it's cute...but still.... Source:
Yes, I admit it, it’s cute…but still….

A miniature teacup chihuahua?  Umm, hello!  We already have those, they’re called rats!

Hey!  I'm cute too! Source:
Hey! I’m cute too!

Seriously though, how small do we have to breed these things before you accidentally inhale one while eating your breakfast cereal?  Is there any reason that a regular sized chihuahua isn’t already small enough?  I used to see those things at the dog park and would have to consciously tell myself they weren’t ants, and I shouldn’t stomp on them.

There’s an over abundance of grasshoppers running around my house, maybe I should catch them and market them as micro mini teeny tiny itty bitty teacup hairless chihuahuas.

Oh wait…I forgot to add the poodle in there, it’s nothing without the poodle.

A Fool Proof Way to End Bad Habits…Or Start New Ones

Hi.  My name is Sam, and I have a bad habit.

I don’t know when this problem started but I often find myself rudely awaken in the middle of the night by an insatiating thirst.  When this evil beast attacks, I tend to crawl out of bed and stumble towards the kitchen, merely hoping my foot won’t find a stray dog snoring peacefully.

Now, let me quickly add that I’m pretty darn blind.  Without my contacts, I can only see about 3 inches in front of my nose, but since I know my way around the house, I don’t really see it necessary to put them back in, or even grab for my glasses at 3 am because it just would take more time that I’m willing to allot.

Once I blindly, and quite clumsily, find my way to the kitchen, I usually fish a can of coke out of the ice box (I told you it was a bad habit) and take a couple sips and put the can back and worry about it in the morning.

So, last night, as I lazily plodded my way from the bedroom to the kitchen, I had the same intentions.  I opened the fridge door, grabbed a can, popped the top open, and took a big swig.

MEE MAW MEE MAW MEE MAW MEE MAW (That’s the sound of an alarm for those of you who haven’t seen Despicable Me 2)

Something’s not right!  The coke tasted HORRIBLE!  And when I say horrible, I mean, straight up spit it back out, who cares if it goes all over the floor because if you swallow it, you’re going to throw up, horrible.

I stumbled around for a few minutes, trying to figure out what the heck just happened.  I’m sure I don’t have to explain the grogginess one feels after just waking up, nor the fact that your brain isn’t really functioning properly yet and it takes some time to work your way through such horrid events.

Once I regained composure, I dashed to turn on the lights.

And everything became so very clear.

It seems that what I had drank was, in fact, not coke, but I nice, cold, can of beer.

Now, I’m really not a huge beer drinker in the first place.  In fact, before meeting the boy three years ago, I wouldn’t even touch the stuff.  But he managed to convince me that some of the “better” (that loosely translates to expensive) beers actually aren’t half bad.  A few weeks ago he sent a couple cans of some new stuff home with me and since it takes me awhile to actually want to drink one, I still had one can left.

Have you ever taken a sip of something, thinking it was something else?  I do this occassionally, maybe I’m going somewhere with my mom and we both have drinks and I accidentally grab her coke thinking it is tea.  While I generally like the taste of coke, if you are not expecting it, it can be quite surprising, and even unpleasant.

Now, think of that feeling, and multiply it by about 33.  I’m glad my dogs can’t talk because I know they got a show last night.  After I spit it out all over the place, I felt it necessary to dance around the kitchen, jumping up and down with my mouth open, as if I thought this would shake all memories of the event out of my head.

Blind, sleepy, and beer sick.  There’s three words that should NEVER be used in the same sentence.

Perhaps I should secretly fill my fridge with beer in an attempt to break this habit.  It could be a goofy form of Russian Roulette, mix the beer and the coke cans together and when I get up in the middle of the night for a quick sip of coke, I’m taking a huge risk that I might not grab a coke can.

Surely that would assist in breaking bad habits right?  Meh, I’ll just remember to grab my glasses next time.

I Just Want My Change

Note from Sam:  The following post might be rough grammatically.  I read through it just now and saw several mistakes but, to be honest, I’m tired, I have a head ache, and I want to go to bed…so deal with it!


Excerpt from McDonald’s job application*

Please choose the best answer for the following question:

Sam orders two breakfast burritos and one large drink.  Her order comes to $3.25.  She hands you a $20 bill and a quarter ($20.25 for my friends in other countries that use currency other than the mighty USD)  How much change should you give her?

A. $16.75

B. $17.00

C. $17.25

D. $16.25

My answer: B

Computed Response:  We are sorry to inform you that your selection is incorrect and therefore are not qualified for the position in which you have applied.  While we understand that $3.25 deducted from $20.25 is, in fact $17.00 however; we do not expect our employees to be able to perform simple math functions and anyone who is able to do so is obviously a Communist. Please re-apply in three months after you have de-commified yourself and gone through proper “dumbing down” procedures.

Three times now, I have tried the above scenario of adding a quarter to my twenty to pay for my meal.  I do this to make things simpler.  Obviously this plan has backfired because each of the three times, I’ve received everything BUT $17.00 back as change.

Now, don’t misunderstand, I’m not saying that all people who work at McDonald’s or fast food places are stupid.  And I’m not saying that if you work at one of these places you are below me.  In fact, I thank you for not being one of the people standing in the Welfare line expecting everyone else to give you free hand outs. I also thank you for making me breakfast burritos every once in a while.

What I am getting at is, how hard is it to do simple math?  Furthermore, they don’t even have to DO the math, the register does it for them.  They punch in my order, it tells them how much I owe, I give them money, they punch in how much I gave and the super smart, magical register announces to the world exactly how much change to give me.  So that obviously can’t be the problem now can it?

Maybe people just don’t know how to count money?  I know our American money can be tricky with the faces of all those old dudes on them.  I get nervous sometimes when I count money too.  I feel like George Washington is watching me, judging every move I make.  Contrary to everything you’ve ever read in history books, Georgey poo was a judgmental old guy.

Perhaps smelling french fries all day has something to do with it.  I’m sure if you were to research the life cycle of a fry, from potato seed to deep fryer, you would find some anomaly in its making that would provide ample explanation as to why it is difficult to give people the correct change.

Maybe they meant to give me the correct change but they lost it in the ball pit while chasing down some snotty nosed pygmy teenager that is harassing all the four-year olds in the playground.

Maybe it was the aliens.  Yes!  It was the aliens!  It all makes sense now.  Why else would super intelligent beings from a planet far, far away come down to our measly little hole-in-the-wall rock if there wasn’t some sort of hilarious entertainment involved.

Think about it – how much fun is it to mess with an ant hill?  Don’t turn your head and raise your eyebrow at me, I know that at least once in your lifetime you have stepped on an ant hill merely for the pleasure of making the little drones scramble to the surface as fast as they possibly can and run around like a battle scene from Braveheart….No?  Really?  Just me?  Oh well then.

Back to aliens.

Just an alien abducting a horse...nothing to see here
Just an alien abducting a horse…nothing to see here

They are the only reasonable explanation, because I fail to believe that our education system has failed us so far to the point that we can no longer read $17.00 and interpret how to transform that into cold hard cash.

*Not really an excerpt from a McDonald’s application but seriously, if you thought it was before reading this disclaimer, send me a message, I need to examine your brain for proof of alien dust.

Boy Words: Volume 1

I’ve really been having a lot of trouble finding inspiration for my blog lately, yet at the same time I WANT to write something.  So this evening I had this brilliant idea.  Why not start a “segment” of some kind that requires I post, at the very least, weekly?

So here we have it, a brand new segment called (for now) Boy Words.

The Boy and I pretty much have nothing in common….NOTHING.  Don’t believe me?  Here’s a few examples:

  • I love to go horseback riding
    • The Boy likes to drive fast cars on the race track
    • I like documentaries about sharks and giant squid
      • The Boy likes documentaries about aliens and Honey Boo Boo…yes, I just outed him
      • I have dogs
        • The Boy has expensive Japanese toys

So since we pretty much have no common ground and don’t really share interests in many things, there’s not much that I can include him in.  Therefore, when I came up with the idea tonight of doing a segment, I thought it was an excellent opportunity to include him in something that I enjoy doing.

Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you “Boy Words”.  Not a very creative title, I know, but it’s a work in progress, I’m open to suggestions by the way.  The main premise of Boy Words is, I will harass the boy on a regular basis, I haven’t decided how often yet, to give me just one word and I will write an entire blog based on that word.  One word, it’s a simple task…let’s see how long before he screws it up…errr…I mean…ummm….hmmm…not really a way to back pedal out of that one huh?

Okay, without further ado, let us begin.  I promise, if I continue to do this segment, it won’t be as long as this one, I just felt I needed to let you all fully understand the reason for the birth of this segment.

Today’s Boy Word:  Minions

Seeing as Despicable Me 2 just hit theaters a couple weeks ago, and it is one of the greatest movies ever, I really don’t have to wonder too long where this word came from.  I have to admit, I was expecting something more like Storm Trooper or wookie, but I know in time, I will be forced to come up with some form of intelligent ramblings about those words, I wait with baited breath.

According to our friend Webster, a minion is someone who follows their master’s orders to the very strictest (is that really a word?  My spell check isn’t doing the squiggly line thing…hmmm, must be!) of regimes.  They are usually favored by their master because of their obsequious behavior.

In other words, a minion is a “kiss ass”.

We all know someone who fits in this category, don’t try to tell me that you’ve never worked with someone who had their nose so far up the boss’ butt their head actually protruded from his belly button.

The problem, however, with minions is that they usually are not as subservient as the boss believes them to be.  For those of us sitting on the outside, we see someone who regularly comes to work 30 minutes late, but makes up for it by bringing donuts.  Someone who takes 3,000 cigarette breaks a day, but always has the juicy gossip (because you know smokers are the world’s biggest gossipers) about the boss’ boss that gives him blackmail ammunition.  These are the people who basically do nothing all day, milking off the company’s dime, only to take all the credit once the grunt workers have slaved away in their quaint 6 x 6 cubicles.

And how the hell do minions manage to get so many vacation days?  Seriously, when I was working in Corporate America,  the only way I knew that the minions still worked at the company, was that every time the boss would get flowers or candy, it wasn’t from their significant other, it was from the minion.

In addition to vacation days, minions also have the sickest kids/parents/spouses on the face of the planet.  It’s like little Johnny has an internal time clock and as soon as mommy makes it to work, the clock goes off and BLEHHHH little Johnny throws up and has to be picked up from school.

Minions also apparently like to eat.  They love eating so much that one of the requirements in their contract states that they are allowed, at any time, without notice, to take a minimum three and half hour lunch break.  The longevity of this lunch break allows them an hour to eat, an hour to digest their food, an hour to take a nap, and thirty minutes to slowly amble back to the office for four more hours of ass kissing.

Now, thanks to Illumination Entertainment, we have a way to identify the minions in our workplaces, and tag them so that others will immediately know just what a foul beast they are dealing with.  I’ve included a picture that I drew of a Despicable Me minion, I encourage each of you to print several copies of this picture and place them on the desks, chairs, or foreheads of the known minions in your organization.

This is actually the picture that comes up on the boy's phone when I call him...awww...that's sweet.
This is actually the picture that comes up on the boy’s phone when I call him…awww…that’s sweet.

Let’s Just Grow Some Weed…errr…Weeds

I have a confession to make.  

I am a murderer.

If it has leaves and flowers and lives in soil, I will kill it.  I’m pretty sure I get this trait from my mother.  She has long stood by the creed that the only thing she can keep alive is an ivy, and that’s pretty much true.  I don’t know how many poor innocent house plants I have seen meet an early demise in my life, but you better believe my mom can grow the biggest, prettiest, greenest ivies this side of the Rio Grande.  

I, on the other hand, apparently can not manage to keep even ivy alive.  Despite knowing this fact about myself, a few months ago, I was at the grocery store and I saw these cute little pots that came with different vegetable seeds.  They were cheap and cute, so I bought two of them, tomato and peppers, on a whim.  I took them home, opened up the package, followed the directions, and set them out in the sunlight.

I watered those suckers faithfully and after about a week, cute little sprigs began popping up.  It was definitely a testament to the determination I had set forth to ensure that I would keep these two little plants alive.  Twice a day, I continued to peek in on the plants until they outgrew their cute little clay pots and I was forced to find alternate homes for them.  

A pickle jar will work!!! RIP Rodney!
A pickle jar will work!!! RIP Rodney!

Now, anyone that knows me knows that I have this fascination with naming things.  I even name things that belong to different people, ask “the boy”, he refused to name his cars, so I named them for him.  If you don’t want me to name your possessions, name them yourself, plain and simple.  Anyways, back to the point, for two whole months I refused to name these plants for fear that it would just jinx them and then I would have more reason to be genuinely sad when the inevitable happened.  It’s far easier to mourn the loss of your tomato plant than it is your “dear tomato plant, Ishmael.”

Two days ago, I finally broke down and gave them names, the tomato plant I named Rodney, and the pepper plant I named Carlos.  Rodney and Carlos, good, strong, masculine names that can withstand any disaster. 

Two days ago, Rodney had one tiny little bloom that would soon become a full grown tomato.

Two days ago, Rodney and Carlos basked in the sun and slurped up the water I poured upon their roots.

Two days ago, Rodney and Carlos were the happiest plants on the face of the planet.

This morning, Rodney and Carlos were dead.

And I don’t just mean dead, I mean they had turned so brown and dry that their leaves were crumbling and flying off in the breeze DEAD.

I sighed when I saw the devastation, I have no idea how they died that quickly and drastically, I did nothing different…yes, it’s been ridiculously hot and sunny, but it’s been that way for awhile now, why did they choose last night to die?  Were they waiting for me to name them before they could die in peace?  Had Rodney and Carlos been struggling to stay alive all this time and I had been so blissful I had failed to see it? 

It took some time, but I finally got over the death of my dear friends.  Until I stepped out my back door this evening to see a giant 6 foot tall weed staring back at me.  A plant (if you can call it that) that received no attention from me whatsoever, the only reason I hadn’t knocked it down was purely based on my curiosity to see just how tall it would grow.  

I couldn’t take it, that weed never stood a chance.  I kicked and pulled at it for ten minutes until it finally gave up and let go.  I ripped it up by the roots screaming “This is for Rodney and Carlos!”

And I wonder why my friends never invite me to go places with them anymore….