Roving Lone Chicken

This isn’t a real post. I just had to share that there was a random chicken wandering around the neighborhood last night.

She looked like this, but the bitch would run every time I tried to get a photo.
Upon reflection, I probably looked like a crazy person chasing her around with my phone.
Thanks Chicken for letting the neighbors know I am crazy in addition to knowing I am weird.

Now we live in the wilds of New Hampshire, but we are pretty close to town and in a populated area, so a chicken was not something I expected to see.

All of it is "The Sticks", but it gets more Deliverance-y as you head north.

I immediately yelled for David and we both stood in the front window like, “Holy shit! That’s a chicken!”

Oooooooo...chicken...

After chasing the chicken in an attempt to get a photo and failing...

"Haha, fuck you lady." – Chicken
"I was defeated by a chicken. I am an idiot." – Me
"Yes you are." – David

I (of course) got on facebook and posted, “Holy shit! Roving lone chicken!” Then things got awesomely out of hand.

This is why I love you guys.

The Perils of Self-Checkout

Self-checkout lines are awesome for many reasons. Lines are usually shorter. I bag my own stuff, so I only have myself to blame if the bread gets squished, my apples get bruised, or whatever. I don’t have to make awkward chitchat with the cashier about the price of tampons and condoms going up (This. Fucking. Happened. And no, SHE initiated that bizarre topic of conversation, not me. And I wasn’t buying either of those items).

Cause of the recession?

Having said that, there are instances where the self-checkout turns into the ninth circle of hell. That’s right, THOSE people. The ones who apparently can’t slap their ass with both hands, and yet somehow think they are competent enough to use the self-checkout machine. And they are always right in front of you in line, just mocking you with their criminal levels of stupidity.



I have seen many examples of this since self-checkout first became a thing, and I understood at first. Everything was all new and weird, and the stupid scanner voice lady yelled at you to “place your item in the bag”, even though you totally fucking did it already and now she is just being an electronic, judgmental bitch. It was an adjustment period, and I get that.



Now, I have no mercy. My grandmother, the most technologically-challenged person of the face of the Earth (Sorry Grandma…someone will probably read this to you because you can’t work the interwebs), can run this thing like a fucking CHAMP, so there is no excuse for you. Here is a list of things you have to able to do in order to be deemed “ready” to use the self-checkout lane:

• Find a goddamn barcode in less than a minute.

• Realize that produce doesn’t always have barcodes. For this conundrum, there is a clearly marked “Look Up Item” button, or “Enter Item Number” field. Don’t look blankly at your bananas as if you expect them to tell you what to do, they don’t fucking know.

• There is a method to the madness. All of the self-checkout lanes I have ever been in work with the same basic process: Scan barcode/enter item number, enter quantity/weigh (if required), bag, and re-goddamn-peat. Don’t get all fancy and try to weigh you shit first or something. The system only works one way and it will reject your feeble attempts to rebel against the process. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.

• Don’t try to do multiple methods of payment. This makes everyone want to strangle you with your string cheese. Just use ONE of the payment methods available. Don’t try to pay for 1/8 in cash, 1/4 on your credit card and the rest with a gift card. If for some reason you have to make a complicated payment, go to a lane with a human cashier.

If you cannot meet these minimum requirements, please direct yourself to the regular checkout lanes. Don’t make that poor, underpaid kid supervising the self-checkout want to stab his eyes out with a potato peeler by making him run back to your machine every 5 seconds because you just can’t grasp how it works.

If you ask me about your bananas again, I'm going to claw my eyes out.

What. The. Fuck.

As the Bloggess would say: This isn’t a real post. I am being mildly irritated by everything today, and I need to get it out:

• Wireless mouse:  You use batteries like a junkie goes through heroin. Seriously, you are fucking battery eating machine. I turn you off when I go home every night and yet you still mock me. If you tell me you are low on batteries one more time, I am throwing you out the goddamn window.

"Batteries?! OM-NOM-NOM-NOM!" - Mouse

• Keyboard: Seriously, what the fuck? I plug in a USB drive and you randomly decide to eject it and then put an error message on the screen telling me that I improperly removed the drive. I plug it in the other USB port and the same thing happens. I hate you.

"I like fucking with people while they are working and telling them it is their fault.
Like your boss, but more vital to your work." - Keyboard

• Work coffee: You taste like liquid ass. You taste like that every day, but it is bothering me more than usual today. Also, grapes. I see you hiding back there. Don’t think Coffee is going to protect you. What the hell? I just bought you a couple of days ago and you have been in the fridge, so why are you all squishy? WHY?

Fact: Coffee still tastes like ass, even though it is in an awesome cup. Lipstick on a pig people.

• Air conditioner: While I really appreciate that you work now (really), especially given that it is 100 degrees outside today, you are kinda being an over-achiever. Just take it down a notch.

Deep freeze isn't necessary.

• Mother Nature: First you bring this god-awful heatwave, then you send Aunt Flow to visit so I have to go through the day with a diaper strapped to my ass? You are a bitch.

Bonus: It is humid too, so my hair looks like a poodle is camped out on my head. Awesome.

• Cabinet in the break room: Why won’t you close? There is nothing blocking your way, yet you insist on being slightly ajar. You’re messing with me, aren’t you?

Fucker.

Thanks for letting me vent. I’ll be back on Monday with a real post...

Domestically Challenged

I am going to take some time today to talk to you all about a serious problem plaguing households across the world.

Domestically Challengeditis is a procrastination related disorder where one puts off doing something one hates in relation to cleanliness of ones home. It is a very serious problem, one that you might not even know you have until you are attacked by a dust bunny the size of your head and you have to put a stake through it’s fucking heart to get it to leave you alone (aka - to make it stop sticking to your sock so you can further ignore the problem in peace). 

DAMMIT.

To add insult to injury, people afflicted with this disorder are generally bad at the actual act of cleaning. Whether it is due to disuse of the cleaning skill set or just some cruel fucking joke from some higher deity is unclear. Either way, it sucks.

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" - God

This disorder is made worse by the soul-sucking futility of home cleanliness. Take for example the toilet. You scrub the shit out of it (oh hell YES that pun is intended) until she shines like a goddamn beacon of AWESOME. It is a monument to your cleaning effort and inevitably the moment that you finish, someone will need to drop a deuce all over that shininess. FACT.

This makes people want to poop.

The usual symptoms of Domestically Challengeditis usually are general clutter and a build up of dishes and laundry, but symptoms may worsen when house guests are introduced to the environment. For those afflicted with Domestically Challengeditis, the prospect of visitors induces a panicked and furious cleaning session known as The Frenzy. The Frenzy is a horrible time for other members of the household. The afflicted, struggling with the massive project laid before them and terrified of the visiting outside party finding out what a fucking procrastinating slob they are, turns into the Super Bitch Tornado. Dusting furniture, picking up scattered shoes and discarded coats at an alarming rate, god help you if you are in the way of this storm of house-cleaning assbeat. You will be opening a whole can of Bitchiness that will not close until the house is deemed “presentable”, and even then there may be residual animosity. Get in the way enough times and you may be barred from the cleaning area, but most likely you will be press-ganged into service for The Frenzy aboard the USS Where-The-Fuck-Do-You-Think-You’re-Going. Good luck escaping.

She's a proud ship with a long and bitchy heritage...

As you can see, this is a serious issue for the afflicted party and the other members of the household. To help raise awareness for this horrible disorder, I’m going to come right out and say it:


Hello, my name is Melissa and I am Domestically Challenged.

Welcome

Hi. Um...well, this is awkward.

You know when someone asks you to tell them more about you and you just freeze up and are like “Oh God...WHO AM I?!” and then it becomes an existential debate in your head and then they think you might be special because it really isn’t that hard of a question? That is similar to how I am feeling about writing this initial blog post.

A bit about myself for those of you who may not know me that well:

• I am a 26-year-old female.
• I am married. As of this post, David and I have been together for nine years (married for two of them).
• My husband is quite possibly more disturbed than I am. Our conversations are often bizarre as hell.
• I have one sibling, a sister whom I call Stephis. She is a fashionista and good at all that female crap. Doing her hair, painting her nails, dressing all pretty...you really want to hate her, but she is so awesome that you just can’t.
• I have two guinea pigs that are like my children. Their names are Fig and Fizz and they will make you squee so hard with their adorableness.

I guess I should warn you, in no particular order:

• Mostly, I intend to write about stuff that happens in my life. That being said, I will write about anything that strikes my fancy. Anything. Even topics I probably have no business writing about.
• I will use swear words because they make talking (and writing) fun.
• I will frequently be crude, crass and on occasion, downright bitchy.
• Sometimes I will be serious. No really. This is my serious face.



Serious face.

• I like lists.

• I am odd.

Other than that, I don’t really know what to say...thanks for stopping by?