Wednesday, June 27, 2012

It's Wednesday...Rant Day

Today is Wednesday.  Do you know what this means, my dear friends and blog readers?  It's "Breezy Rant Day".

I have to admit, my daily blogs have been less than daily as of late.  Something is seriously amiss with my brain.  Whether it's the unusual Colorado temperatures reaching over the 100 degree mark again, I'm running out of interesting topics (no, impossible), or it's taking me far longer to compile my thoughts into a cognitive posting - I can't be sure.  Something is up with me.  Perhaps I just need more sex.

My first rant is about those silly little men who hold the "Slow Down" or "Stop" signs at street construction areas.  Hmm..maybe I shouldn't call these guys, "silly".  After all, they're making quite a bit of money wearing fluorescent orange vests, talking into walkie talkies, and holding power over annoyed commuters.  They're actually smart now that I think about it.  No college degree necessary; however, they're raking in some big bucks to wave a stupid sign in my face.

How do I know these guys are for real?  I mean, seriously?  Why do I get the "Stop" sign when I'm obviously the only car on both sides of the road?  Are they screwing with me?  Do they sense I'm in a bad mood?   Do they know I have coffee waiting for me at home?  Are they taunting me?  What would happen if I charged through?  Ha!  I'd love to see their faces.  One day I will and then I'll call them, "sillies".

This reminds me of a time I drove through a produce checkpoint in Southern California.  The checkpoint is on the freeway back to Los Angeles from Las Vegas.  I've been waved through dozens of times except for once and this one time I was involved in an extremely intense conversation with my husband, Eric (we were discussing the difference between Charmin and Quilted Northern toilet paper).  The ranger indicated that I was to stop.  Was pineapple dripping from my mouth?  Possibly.  One can never be too sure with me; however, due to the ensuing discussion I unknowingly drove right past him.


"What?  It's softer and it doesn't leave pieces..."


"What are you talking about?"

"He wanted you to stop!"

"Huh?"  Sure enough, I looked into my rear view mirror and saw the checkpoint ranger hopping up and down, pointing at my speeding car, and yelling to his comrades to chase the vigilantes down.  "Shit!  I'm a fruit felon!"

As it turned out, the ranger's supervisors must not have thought my Ford Taurus was enough of a threat to send the cavalry out for me.  Whew!  I dodged that bullet.  My fruit fly infested produce was safe for another day.

Final rant for this glorious, smoky Colorado morning...

Costco.  I love this place.  I do.  I actually consider it a little slice of Heaven.  For me, this middle aged, suburban housewife, I consider it an escape from my personal Hell which is home.  I leave my two teenage, autistic kiddos mesmerized in front of video games and I'm off to wander the wide aisles of Costco.   I'm free to peruse without my boys calling one another "jackasses" or asking for swirled yogurt cups, free samples, or $600 bicycles.  Ahh..such bliss.

Here it bitching.  Moms and dads - must you bring Blake, Blythe, Brittney, and Blaise with you?  They're all precious, precocious, and for the most part - serious pains in the ass.  If they were behaived and stood next to you or sat in the carts...terrific.  But, since they're like my boys, and under the tender age of ten, they're worse.  You let them run everywhere.  They stand like little open mouthed morons to get their free samples.  They don't MOOOOOVE.  Sadly, I know where they get this from...YOU!  That's right, because you're the people who stand blocking the aisles, chatting with your friends (whom you just saw yesterday), and forget that you have awful children named Blake, Blythe, Brittney, and Blaise.  I hate you.

I'm feeling better now.  Until next Wednesday.