Don’t let the door hit you

Well, the whole writing-pink-and-flowery thing sure worked, now didn’t it? (Reference last blog post, ya douche.)

I guess it’s my fault. I didn’t really commit to it, and I’ve been busy.

My sincerest apologies.

Ha.

FEAR NOT! I’M BACK AND READY TO RUMBLE.

Do you ever open your eyes, and take notice to doors when you walk into a building?

Is the door blue? Do you push, or pull? Is there an automatic/magnetic lock? And the biggest question of all: is there more than one?

For large buildings, there are usually four to six doors leading you inside, yet for some reason, people all file through one measly little mouse-hole of a door. It’s like – is it really that hard to just go to another door and, oh, I don’t know – OPEN IT instead of following whatever stream of heads is in front of you?

I hate when it’s just you and another person approaching a door, but they’re a few steps behind you, and it’s that awkward, “Okay, I need to either walk faster and out-run this bitch, or slow down, and casually grab the door for the both of us.” What’s even more uncomfortable is being the person in which the door is being held for – the ‘holdee,’ I guess. It’s like, “FUCK! I’m an ass hole! Just go! Leave without me!”

When I’m the holder, I stand there and wait for the slow-poke to just get to the door. It won’t kill me. But when I’m the holdee – I run like an asshole. Who runs to a door? Seriously – holding it open isn’t killing them.

Know what really stinks though? (Yes, besides my attitude.) The double door! It’s like, “Gah! Do I thank them after the holding of the first door and the second door, or just after the first and the second is implied? Or what about just after the second, as one, big, umbrella-of-a thank you?”

Life sure is stressful.

People’s manners really are the worst part of this whole “door holding etiquette” for me. I really don’t have to hold the door for you – you do know that, don’t you? It’s a social norm thing; it’s expected, like all of the other bizarre things in our society, such as offering the whole freaking elevator a piece of gum just because you take one out of your pocket.

Just trying to have minty breath people. Relax.

Allie’s point? There’s always one. I’m like a freaking endless pencil. SAY THANK YOU. It doesn’t matter if you say it twice, three times, or ask for their social security number and address and send them a thank you in the mail – if someone holds the door for you, make them feel like it made your freaking day.

HonestallieSpeaking #19: YA RUDE.

Honestly, I should be honest

Honestly?

I’m not as negative and cynical as I portray myself to be.

Honestly?

It’s just easier to be funny and write about things that are dumb, and stupid, and annoying!

But, honestly?

As much as I know people like to read my rants (oh, Allie – the arrogance!) I’m going to try something new.

How’s about a happy blog every now and then, eh? Believe it or not, I really do notice the “do gooders,” “door holders,” and random “hello-ers” day in and day out. I’m thinking of still continuing to be honest – just maybe, kind of… not always a “YOU’RE WRONG” sort of honest, and rather a, “Wow – you’re fabulous” strain of honesty.

If it doesn’t work, eh – it doesn’t work; we’ll pretend it never happened.

Let’s just do it together.

Hold my hand though, okay? I’m about to take a leap of ——-

HonestallieSpeaking #18: There are two sides of honesty, and it’s time for a field trip.

Go eat a dum-dum

The thing I hate about taking general education classes is that I’m constantly bombarded with the sprinkling of incompetent, persistent little FRESHMAN. They deserve everything they get.

I have found that the worst category of Freshman, however, is the student athlete.

These kids don’t even realize how stupid they sound when they talk. Granted, class participation isn’t based on being right or wrong, but it should be. Right or wrong is much different from being a smarty pants or an idiot.

Today, in class, the word of the day was shafted. Yes, that’s right – we shafted the Indians in the midwest in the long pursuit of conquering their land.

Do you know what the common use of the word shafted is?

Though there are many meanings to this word, most know it as it pertains to sexual innuendoes, or phallic representations. We didn’t shaft the Indians, okay?

Also – a brief lesson.

Do you remember what the Louisiana Purchase was? Neither did this guy. Apparently, it was when we BOUGHT LOUISIANA. You’re kidding, right? Louisiana wasn’t even a STATE at the time of the Louisiana purchase you Louisi-loser.

In the words of Napoleon Dynamite:

Now listen. It’s not that I have anything against student athletes, nor am I jealous of them. COOL you get free sneaks and awesome Under Armor and Lacoste-sponsored warm-up suits. I know how it is. I played 8th, and 9th grade lacrosse. Get at me.

But when everybody ALREADY thinks your dumb, and then you open your fat mouth to say something only re-instating the fact, you look like nothing more than a dumb jock. Don’t pleasure me.

HonestallieSpeaking #17: You’re actually a moron.

Oh hey, hi

Our generation is so against public communication it just sickens me.

How many times have you been on a bus or in an elevator with only a handful of people, and instead of making small talk you mindlessly pretend to check something on your phone? Or, avoid all contact whatsoever except for staring/glaring at people and “plug in” to whatever you use to listen to music, thus completely “un-plugging” from the world around you?

Think about it in the reverse situation – do you ever see someone attractive, or upset when you’re out somewhere, but you’re doubly intimidated to talk to them not only because they are a stranger but because of their headphones?

Why are people so afraid of small talk? Why is it SO wrong to talk to a stranger?

Sure, there’s “stranger danger,” but come on, cut me a break – just use your judgement. Obviously if the dudes in a white van offering you lollies and candy bars, you don’t engage; but that’s obvious.

What’s even better – to me – is when I see someone I do know and they don’t say hi.

Listen, I’m probably the least-awkward, friendliest person half of you know. The other half of you just don’t know me.

JUST WAVE.

But, if you pretend you don’t know me at CVS or at Applebee’s for goodness’ sake, WHY am I going to go out of my way to say hi? Actually, scratch that.

But, if you pretend you don’t know me at CVS or at Applebee’s for goodness’ sake, WHY am I going to go out of my way to say hi? why wouldn’t I take full advantage of this opportunity to make you feel like the horrible person you’ve just deemed yourself to be? I’ll go OUT of my way to be SUPER nice (hah) and SUPER friendly, making you feel like a total ass for not saying hi in the first place.

Do you think these people cared what people thought of them?

Do me a favor, and say hi to a stranger today, or hey – how about this? Say hi to someone you ALREADY know.

HonestallieSpeaking #16: You’re a coward.

Some mute is suffering somewhere because of you.

Go, Car. Go!

My parents say I drive too fast, and sometimes I do.

But most of the time, I’m just in a rush. I always have been, and always will be – for no particular reason at all. I just like to “Get Stuff Done.” The faster I get to the store, the faster I can get home. The faster I get home, the faster I can feed my cat. The faster I can feed the cat I don’t have — you get the picture?

LIFE IS FAST-PACED PEOPLE.

Until your slowed. Halted. Aggravated. Frustrated. HONKING.

I usually yell. “Really dude?” is a common phrase my sister would say she hears in my car. I never really call people “dude” in real life though.

And sometimes, it’s not necessarily an elderly person. Sometimes it’s just your average Joe, caught in front of the wrong Me at the wrong time.

But you know, I have a theory for why older folk drive so slow. Maybe they were like me as a youngin’, always rushing from here to there, and now they’ve realized the only place they were rushing to was their oldness, and slowing down while operating their vehicle may help them to slow down their fast-approaching end to life.

Or maybe that’s not why.

OR MAYBE IT IS. One day in 40-50 years, I promise I’ll write a blog post cursing my younger self for yelling at slow drivers.

Or maybe I won’t.

Oh, and Dude? Flip me the bird all you want. 9 times out of 10 my car is nicer than yours anyway. Make something of it. Touch me.

HonestallieSpeaking #15: Speed up buddy; got places to be.

I said that pretty nicely compared to him (below) now, didn’t I? Wow Allie – who are you?

A shopping bag of typical

I’ve worked in retail for the past 4 years, making it 4 joyous holiday breaks that I’ve shared with the wonderful holiday shoppers of my town.

It’s like the unleashing of the Incredible Hulk only green doesn’t look good on everybody.

I just sit and wonder to myself  what it is that truly drives the average consumer to their ever-obvious insanity during the end of November/mid-December. Is it that you’re spending money you don’t have? Or are you aggravated that you have to buy those undeserving brats in your life gifts in order to fit the social norms and expectations of our materialistic, made-up society?

Think about it.

Anyway, as most of you who know me personally know: I work at a popular teen clothing store, whose name shall remain anonymous to save my 6-figure salary position. It’s part-time, but to be honest with you – I love it. I love the world of retail. Call me crazy, and I’ll call you unexperienced. The world of retail is ever-changing, bringing in new customers with new hopes, needs, and wants of purchase, which is what makes going to work so much fun – you never know what the cat is going to drag in.

Until December.

SO AS TO CUT TO THE CHASE: Our store always has boxes during the holiday season – and even tissue paper – and we had a steady supply of such said materials since Friday the Black.

Let me set the scene:

3 days before Christmas. 3 days. December 22^nd. I rang up a woman who was spending around the average for this time of year…about $150-200 dollars. As I was tearing off her receipt, she proceeded to ask me, commonly, “Do you have any boxes?”

Me: “No, mam. Unfortunately we’re all out.”

Her: “What about if I come back tomorrow? Will you have more then?” (She said this ‘then’ with an italiced attitude)

Me: “Unfortunately we aren’t getting any more boxes in.”

Now, her response was the part that got me. I almost punched her in the throat.

Her: “Evurrr?”

Like, no Miss Priss. This store will NEVER EVER HAVE BOXES EVER AGAIN.

Me: “I mean… we’ll probably have some next Christmas.”

Her: “Okay…… What about if I go to another store? Can I get some there?”

Seeing as we are the LEAST busy of the busy stores in the area, I shot back, “Sure. [hah] You can try.”

BYE, HAVE A FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC DAY.

JESUS.

Literally.

Go watch Elf and learn how you’re supposed to be during the Christmas season. Go ask someone what their favorite color is, and shove noodles doused with syrup in your fake-tanned face so I don’t have to hear you.

Happy Holidays!

HonestallieSpeaking #14: You should probably shop online. ( see http://www.amazon.com )

Mirror, mirror

I never said I was the most fashionable person in the world. Never did I once make that claim. The only thing that changes for me every day is the shirt I choose to go with one of my fifteen pairs of black leggings, and boots to wear. My Marc Jacobs watch helps.

I guess.

In any case – as usual – this is not about me, but about the skanks I am so very privileged to see every day.

I’m really sorry. Skanks is probably too harsh a word. BUT GUESS WHAT? IT’S A HARSH WORLD.

Coming back.

The guts some people have when they leave the house just baffles me.

You don’t look classy – I KNOW that bothers Ron Burgundy, but who it should really bother is you.

What makes you think people want to see all your junk at all hours of the day? Time and place, babe. Best bet? Nighttime, in a grimy bar swarming with sexual predators.

But honestly, do people have eyes? Like, do ya LOOK in the mirror before you leave?

The Mirror and the Queen are disgusted, and your mother would be too.

You’re “skankalicious” as I like to say. (It’s the more fabulous version of TRASHY, LIKE THE BAG.)

How in G-d’s name do you not feel embarrassed at what you’re choosing to put on your body? Pull up your shirt, saw-down your shoes, Windex off some of that eyeliner, and dress how society expects you to. You’d be better off as a Hipster. Atleast they have class, and bikes.

While you’re at it, do me a personal favor and go home and count how many pairs of $6 silver hoops from Claire’s you have floating around your room – the ones you’ve craftily managed to keep rust off of since the 7th grade. I’m curious.

I feel bad for most of these people because you know what? Their friends suck. Don’t you think somebody, somewhere would tell them, “Ehhhhhh, you know, you might not wanna wear that”?

Apparently not.

HonestallieSpeaking #13: You should NOT be wearing that.

You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog

Press Play

People these days are just too proud of looking like their dogs. That statement in itself is one big misconception – you don’t LOOK like your dog. (And your dog doesn’t look like you, either.)

According to Dr. Allie (that’s my scientist name) people buy dogs that have similar qualities to them, THUS, shorter people (like me) like tinier dogs. But isn’t that obvious people? I mean think about it: why would someone who is 5″3 like me want to be knocked over in my own home by a seemingly monstrous black lab?

Uh, I wouldn’t.

Well forget almost everything I just said and make fun of these people with me, because they look like IDIOTS FOR LOOKING LIKE THEIR DOGS.

*Clears throat*

Proceed.

You’re not laughing yet though?

“I have a big head, and little arms.”

I make a mean parmesan sauce. Rawr

Poor kid.

Why is that dog wearing a sweater? and why is that
guy’s left eye half closed? (Rhetorical, he’s really trying.)

Are you supposed to be a little boy? In other news, your dog
is missing eyes.

This woman is really pushing it.

Do people think it’s cool? rad? hip to look like their dogs? Do you think you’re making some sort of fashion statement? It’s not like a new bag. Your dog is not an accessory. Well, unless your Paris Hilton.

But even then, just stop.

Think about all that dogs do, and see if your lifestyle is really up for it. If you’re like most Americans, you’re fat and could probably afford a few more walks then you currently get, but still. Do you have a particular fondness for the mailman? peeing on fire hydrants? chasing ice cream trucks? barking, crying, whining at all hours of the day?

I know, that last one sold me too.

The answer is no. You don’t want to be compared to a dog, ever. Nevah, evah.

When people come up to you on the street and, rather then saying, “Ohhhh wook at da widdle puppy!” say, “Oh mah Gawd, you totally look like your dog!” SHOULDN’T IT SOUND WEIRD TO YOU? YES ALLIE, IT SHOULD. IT SHOULD SOUND WEIRD, DOGNABBIT.

REALITY CHECK: A dog is an animal, and you look like it. You look like an animal. It’s weird and everyone thinks so.

HonestallieSpeaking #12: You look like a dog, dawg.

Flaunt that.

Sheket bevakasha

NEWS FLASH TO EVERY IGNORAMUS WHOM I HAVE NOT ALREADY PERSONALLY SLANDERED: TALKING IN CLASS IS ONLY OKAY UNTIL THE 8TH GRADE.

(see how young those girls are?)

HOW many times do I need to give you the death-stare-turnaround before you get my SUPER OBVIOUS DRIFT that I can’t process anything the professor is saying because of your incessant yapping about sheer nothingness throughout the ENTIRE duration of the class?

HELLO! WE CAN HEAR YOU, TOO.

I don’t pay ~$5,000 a CLASS to hear you talk in your trashy, Urban-Asian accent about “shit you gon’ do to that girl if she be doin’ that’ f*cKked up shiiT again.”

No. One. Cares, ESPECIALLY not this guy.

Go on Facebook. Go Stumble. Or Google. Or Tweet. Hell, try reading the news. (Go figure, that’s online now, too!)

As soon as you start to infringe on my education, I will make sure you ARE the child left behind.

HonestallieSpeaking #11: Lock your lips, throw away the key, and shut your trap.

Don’t make me shush you.

So you’re a male nurse, eh?

There was once a Good Charlotte song called “Riot Girl.”

Its lyrics contained something along the lines of:

“Emergency call 9-1-1
She’s pissed off at everyone.
Police, rescue, F-B-I,
She wants a riot, she wants a riot”

While I’ve successfully taken this song out of context, it was the first thing that came to mind, as I am currently sitting in the emergency room of a Syracuse Hospital.

You must be wondering why I’m on the computer… well, I’m waiting for the radioactive drank to kick in in preparation for my cat scan, and my handy, dandy iPhone reached the 20% battery mark. THUS, I’m de-joicing my laptop, and revitalizing my phone.

Don’t worry – I’m not fatally ill. Today.

Aright. So, like many young adults, and hell, even OLD adults, I’m quite squeamish when it comes to giving blood. Like, who isn’t? (Besides Edward Cullen, that is.) And without my Mommy and Daddy especially, I get EXTRA scared.

The male nurse (comments to myself … GAYLORD FOCKER?) calls me back.

Well, he called my last name. Like, seriously dude? Call me Allison, at best.

I look at him, in question, and say, “Should I come there?”

Like, obviously I knew I should. I wasn’t asking him to serve me a freaking hor d’oeuvre, but couldn’t he have been a little more inviting?

Once in the hostage room, I sat down, squeezing one of my closest girlfriend’s hands (trying to help HER not pass out) and started to cry. Per usual, I warned him to get it RIGHT the first time. “Or what?” he replied.

Dude. Do NOT even go there.

Once the tourniquet was in pace, and the needle was in self-produced red Gatorade started to fill up vile after vile. As nicely as I could, I told him I was starting to get lightheaded and break out in a sweat..

“Why?” he said. “Honey, there’s no reason you should be feeling lightheaded. You’re just giving some blood, and your breathing is fine.”

I think I’m going to just end the blog post right here. There’s no rant necessary, is there?

HonestallieSpeaking #10: You’re a douche bag.