A Random Rant (because I can, damnit)

5 Jul

I woke up in a weird mood today. I woke up early, after a restless night’s sleep chock-full of weird ass dreams (though how bad ass would it be if Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were real and they really WERE my friends – totally bad ass, that’s how bad ass), and just cannot seem to pull my shit together today. I’m not in a bad mood, and I’m certainly not cranky. Maybe it’s the Monster I drank, or the fact that my Greek yogurt tasted weird this morning, but I am in RARE form… one of those moments where I think most of what comes out of my own mouth is pure comedic gold and feel anyone I come in contact with is my audience. So, for the narcissistic sake of “hearing myself talk” – here goes:


Sure, he’s a cute little scamp. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t need a little discipline

I know, I know. Those of us who are childless (also known as AWESOME) think we know what it takes to keep a difficult child at bay when out in public – I’m sure there is a small discrepency in how easy we think it is and what it really takes. We are all very quick to pontificate that if that were our child, little Johnny and little Suzy wouldn’t be tearing shit off the walls and running screaming around retail stores, dangling from displays that, if they were to break or be knocked off balance, would probably put little Johnny and little Suzy in the hospital. Having cared for my younger brothers in the past, I have at least a vague idea of how to get children to behave in public… so all of you parents out there shaking your heads at me thinking I have no clue, quit judging.

The first step in making sure your kid isn’t running amuck is to PAY ATTENTION TO YOUR GODDAMN KIDS. Day in and day out, I witness parents that come into my store, and allow their kids to simply do as they please. They break things, they kick and scream, they act as though our store is their playground. Their parents, however, don’t get involved until either they are crying because something fell on them, or until one of us politely warns them “don’t hang on that, little one, it may fall on you and I don’t want you to get hurt.” The result is almost always the parent pandering to their child, and yelling at we, the employees (note I didn’t say babysitters), who typically want nothing more than to punt their child into next week. “Don’t tell my child what to do. They’re fine.” No, ma’am, little Johnny and little Suzy have left a path of destruction in their wake, not unlike a tornado, and you would probably sue us if that 60lb top-heavy display sign crushed their tiny, still-developing skull. Either leave the kids at home, or train them to behave.

Additionally, curb your know-it-all, disrespectful as fuck, “I’m too cool for this”, buy me what I want or I immediately become insolent teenagers. My ass would’ve had my cell phone, TV, computer, etc taken away from me for behaving the way these little douchebags do.


I really feel as though I shouldn’t have to explain this one, however… I do. Questions such as “Oh, you mean I have to pay for that?” and “I haven’t charged my phone in four days, why won’t it turn on?” are likely to get you an answer so laden with thinly-veiled contempt that you might even pick up on my total disdain for you. “Could this plastic piece of film that came on the phone out of the box that is completely obscuring the earpiece of the device be the reason my sound is totally muffled?” is a question that should really only be answered “Maybe you should take it off and find out.” Because I work for a company that frowns on such disregard for your feelings, you’ll get a cheerful “It’s entirely possible. How about I take a look for you and see if we can’t get that fixed today?” – please ignore the fact that the smile plastered on my face is closer to a wince and that in my head, I’m screaming obscenities. “Where is the power button?” – Well ma’am, it’s the one that is clearly labeled POWER. I can’t even.

…and I’ve run out of still. Til next time.



That Time the Universe Didn’t Want Me to Go to Baltimore

1 Jul

As I sit here, staring at a blank text box… I have no idea where this post is going to go, so I hope y’all aren’t looking for Pulitzer material out of me today. I’m on my lunch break at work and avoiding my accounting homework like the plague, so the way I see it… you’re all helping me procrastinate. Thanks for that, assholes.

Ohh!  I got it. I’ll regale you all with the tale of one of my more recent (and by recent, I mean January or February) trips to Baltimore and how the universe plotted against me the whole way there.

I had off on a rare Sunday, so I figured why the hell shouldn’t I head down to Charm City to see some friends and drink some beers and have a Sunday Funday like everyone else in the world (you know, the ones that don’t work retail and have their lives run by shitty hours)?  Baltimore is roughly a 1.5-2hr drive from the burbs of Philly where I reside, so this trip should’ve been a piece of cake, right? Wrong.

I woke up late, having snoozed through my alarm roughly 137 times (hyperbole is my favorite) and rushed to get showered and dressed and ready. I called Lauren, my BFF that I rarely ever get to see (miss you, smooches!) and let her know I was off to a slow start. After getting perfectly coiffed and made up and ready to roll, I headed out the front door, excited to begin the day’s adventure. Caffeine addict that I am, I decided to stop for coffee on the way. I hit I-95 south, and was on my merry way. As I drove along, I went to grab my coffee and take a sip. Like a dumb ass, I grabbed it from the top, and the next thing you know, I had hot coffee all over my lap. Fucking awesome. In pain and soaking wet, I pulled off the closest exit, which happened to dump me in the lovely city of Chester (note my sarcasm when I say lovely). I hit the nearest surface street, pull over, and jump out of my car, flailing around because I’m covered in coffee and that shit was HOT. What I did not notice was the group of guys sitting out on the front stoop across the street from where I was doing my third-degree burn dance.

“Hey white girl… you ok?” is the phrase that pulled me out of my flailing, and I sheepishly told the very large man looking at me like I’d lost my mind what had happened. Turns out, his name was Jamal, and he was sympathetic to my plight. He offered me a towel, which I graciously accepted, and a shower, which I politely declined. Showering in the homes of strangers isn’t something I make a habit of – that’s how bitches end up as a plot on Criminal Minds. Once I was sufficiently dried off, I  had a decision to make. Drive to Baltimore covered in coffee and buy pants once I got to town, or take the 20min trip back home and change. Erring on the side of frugality, I headed home. I got back to my house in record time, a woman on a mission. I parked my car out front, and went to run inside to change. I didn’t make it halfway up the front walk when I felt something hit my head. SPLAT! A bird took the nastiest shit ever, and it landed directly in my hair. That’s right, after spilling coffee all over myself, I got shit on by a bird whose diet must consist only of purple, sticky berries.

I went inside, determined to make it to Baltimore by the end of the day, and showered, having to wash my hair THREE times to get the bird crap out of it. THREE TIMES. Ridiculous. I headed out the door and hit the road once again, this time opting to stop at 7-11 for a Rockstar, since coffee clearly wasn’t in the cards anymore. I made it down 95 and 495 without incident, and was content to rock out on my way down, keeping my speed probably somewhere around 80-85mph (don’t judge me). I was hell bent on making it to Baltimore before noon. Anyone that is familiar with where route 495 dumps back onto 95 in Christiana can vouch for me that this piece of road is terrible. People forget how to merge, and it’s basically just a huge clusterfuck. Changing lanes is like playing Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun sometimes, and I have literally never experienced this stretch of highway without uttering something along the lines of “goddamnfuckingDelawaredriverswhatthefuckareyoudoingIhateyougetthefuckoutofmywaybeforeIrunyouoffthegoddamnroad” (road rage may or may not be an issue for me). Anyway, I guess I had forgotten to mention that it had recently snowed. Right.

As I navigated amongst the Delwarians trying to figure out what MERGE means, I got stuck behind a tractor trailer, which large trucks on either side of me. Fantastic. I quickly realized the truck in front of me hadn’t bothered to clear the top of his trailer before getting on the road, and there was a rather large amount of snow hanging on precariously to the top of the trailer. It took me all of three seconds to realize this shit was about to shake loose and head my way, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it. Sure enough, AVALANCHE!! The windshield of my car was assaulted by what I figure was 2 tons of snow, and lost visibility for a minute. All I could do was white-knuckle the steering wheel, keep it steady, turn my wipers on, and pray. I narrowly avoided disaster.

I ended up making it to Balitmore just shy of my 12pm goal, and was met at the bar by friends and beer… all’s well that ends well, I guess. I figure I’m a trooper for continuing on when all signs pointed to keeping my ass in Philadelphia for the day. Dedication, friends, that’s what that is. The end.

I warned you all that this wouldn’t be my best material, so… yeah. Just another day in the life, right?


That One Time We Got Locked Out (Or, Thanks Officer Friendly, I didn’t need my security deposit back anyway)

17 Jun

The above video has nothing to do with this story other than the fact that the police are involved, but it still makes me giggle. You’re welcome.

Back in college, I lived in a studio apartment above a bowling alley. The entrance I used to get upstairs was a security door on the side of the building. I lived on the third floor, so I’m sure you can imagine what a trek those stairs were, especially when drunk. At the time, I was working part time for T-Mobile, going to class, and was in a relationship with Baltimore (we’ll call him Baltimore since that’s where he lives and I don’t like naming names). We had been together for a few months by then, and since we were long distance we’d split time on weekends between Baltimore and Philly. Because I was working retail, Baltimore would hang out at my apartment while I worked. Because there was only one key to the security door of my building and it couldn’t be copied, I would leave my house keys when I went to work so he wasn’t doomed to stay in the house all day.

One particular Saturday night, I worked a closing shift. I remember getting home tired and mildly cranky, but excited I’d get to see the boy and relax. I called him from the car, letting him know I was home since he had to come downstairs to let me in – the bowling alley wasn’t high tech enough for an intercom system. He greeted me at the door with a smile, and we started up the steps. Up three flights of wooden stairs was a long hallway, and at the end of it was my apartment door. No sooner did we hit the beginning of that hallway did I hear “FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER.” See, the door to apartment number 8 was a little tricky. Because the door was so goddamn old, it had kind of a strange lock on it – in order for it to stay unlocked, you push a little button next to the knob on the inside. If you didn’t push the button, the door would need to be opened from the outside with the key. That night, Baltimore had forgotten this minor detail (as I had once or twice in the past on my own) and gone downstairs behind me to let me in, and didn’t think to leave the door open or push the button on the knob. We were locked out.

My first thought was to go downstairs to call my rental office. When no one answered the emergency line there, Baltimore suggested I go down to the bowling alley to see if they had the landlord’s direct number. As it turned out, they did. I called him, and he was fairly rude in telling me he was an hour away and if the rental office didn’t call me up, I could simply wait until the next morning to be let back into my place. By rude, I mean he was a raging dickhole. Fed up with the lack of action, Baltimore offered to attempt to kick the door in. Tired and hungry, I relented, figuring it was worth a shot. After a few solid kicks, we decided to call the police to see if they could help. He was barefoot and avoiding injury was key.

Two officers showed up and the four of us brainstormed. The police said they could call the fire department to have them put a ladder up to the building so I could climb over the rail of my deck and climb through the window, which we were almost certain was open. After much debate, I decided I would rather try to find another way, mainly because I felt really dumb having to call the fire department to my home, lights and sirens, simply because my boyfriend accidentally locked us out. One of the nice policemen said “Well, I could kick it in if you want. Should swing right open.” Since he was wearing heavy boots and a badge, I figured why not?

Officer Friendly prepared himself with a couple of light bounces on the balls of his feet and kicked HARD… however, instead of aiming for the spot right above the lock, which would have hopefully forced the latch open, he went for the center of the door. Now, if this door had been up to code and had been solid wood, he would have most likely broken his foot. Instead, he put his foot DIRECTLY THROUGH THE TOP PANEL OF MY DOOR. His foot got stuck, and we all stood there for a second staring at one another before completely cracking up. After a solid two minutes of laughing our asses off, the officer reached through the hole in the door and unlocked it for me. I made mention of losing my security deposit, and the officer who hadn’t kicked a whole in my door looked at me and said “Well… here’s my card, but good luck getting the department to cover that. You gave permission for use to forcefully enter the apartment.” He wasn’t wrong… I HAD said they could kick it in. We thanked them and went inside, where I called my dad and asked him if he could come over and fix the door.

After explaining to my dad what happened when he arrived, he simply shook his head and said, “Only you.” He patched the hole with a sheet of plywood, a 2″x4″, and some screws. The rental office called me two days later, and I told them what happened. They told me I had to replace the door or I would lost my deposit. My dad came over and hung a new door a couple days later and hung a new door. The landlord stopped over a week later, and told me the door we hung wasn’t a fire door, and we had to buy a new one. I refused, calling L&I within the township to run the situation by them. They agreed the original door on the building couldn’t have been a fire door if the police had been able to destroy it with one single kick. I refused to replace it, and ended up losing my deposit. Thanks, UDPD.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is my life.


I’m Back, Bitches (yes, again)

16 Jun

Hey dudes and dudettes…

I know it’s been a while. I’m sorry. Life gets in the way and I get unmotivated and then shit just goes all willy-nilly and I forget I even know I have this site until I get the email for renewing my domain name and I think “Well, shit. I should probably go ahead and get back on the proverbial horse” and then I start three different drafts of different stories and get frustrated because I’m convinced it’s drivel and don’t actually get anything posted. We writers are a temperamental, hyper-critical bunch. With that, I beg your forgiveness once again for my laziness and overall apathy about actually pursuing this whole writing thing and make yet another promise to be far more consistent with my updates. 

2013 got off to a bit of a rocky start for me. My grandmother passed away and I had to make the hardest decision of my life in putting my tiny little baby angel, Dexter, to sleep. If any of you has ever had to decide to end a pet’s suffering, you know just how heart breaking such an event can be. In dealing with all of that, I kind of lost sight of who I was and what I want from life and all the big questions grief and loss bring about. Also, I realize how big of an asshole I look like for sounding like I miss my dog more than I do my grandmother, but I can assure you I miss her too – it was a long time coming, and to be honest, we all knew it was absolutely her time. It still hasn’t quite hit me yet that she is gone forever, and Dexter’s absence is glaring every time I walk in the house and he’s not here. 

Anyway, enough with the depressing stuff. What 2013 has also brought me thus far is a second chance at getting to know and building a relationship with my biological father. It has reconnected me with some friends I haven’t talked to in quite some time. It has taught me to forgive grudges I didn’t even realize I was holding, and it has given me the opportunity to focus on who and what’s important in my life. It’s made me understand that I am a very different person than I was ten years ago, and a very different person than I was five years ago. I’ve grown and changed and improved. I still have work to do, but I’m okay with that.

I think one of my favorite things about logging into WordPress after a long absence is the crazy ridiculous amount of comments I have awaiting approval. Roughly 95% of them are spam, and the other 5% either love my stuff or hate it. My favorite comment this time around was posted on my Planet Fitness post. It stated, “This reads like it was written by a 14 year old. Very immature and ignorant.” To that guy, I simply have to say fuck you very much. That post was satirical in nature and it’s one of my highest-viewed posts of all time. Additionally, the word ignorant doesn’t mean rude or immature. Let me Google the definition for you: ignorant (even if you know the definition, click the link because it’s fun). Also, you’re probably bitter that you fall into one or more of the categories of Planet Fitness members I mentioned. I’d like to point out that there certainly are normal people that go there to work out and fall into none of the categories I wrote about – I’m friends with many of them. Whatever, dude. It’s called the internet… shut that computer down if you’re going to be all butt-hurt about things.

Expect things to get pretty random around here… I’m working on a couple other writing projects (while also working, taking grad classes, and studying for the state insurance licensing test) so I’m a little all over the place (nothing new, right?). 



See ya, 2012.

1 Jan

I can’t thank any of you who bother to read my random ramblings enough…  Here’s a summary of my 2012 stats.


The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 4,200 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 7 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

Sandy Hook Elementary.

14 Dec

April 20, 1999.

April 16, 2007.

July 20, 2012.

December 14, 2012.

The above dates should stand out to all of us. Columbine. Virginia Tech. Aurora, CO. And now, Sandy Hook Elementary School. All of these places that many of us have never heard of became national news when people took it upon themselves to walk into these places, these schools, and that movie theater, and open fire. Not even six months ago, I sat in shock, trying to find the words to describe my thoughts on what happened in Aurora, at a midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises. For Aurora – my post from that day – still seems inadequate in actually putting my thoughts together on that tragedy.

Today, our country witnessed more evil. Twenty children and six adults in the town of Newtown, Connecticut were murdered. Their lives were ended violently and senselessly. They were killed for no fathomable reason other than someone felt the need to take a loaded gun into a school and go on a killing spree. In my post about Aurora, I mentioned that such tragedy could have struck in Anytown, USA. I am reminded again that I could have been on the receiving end of a phone call, telling me that one of my little brothers was a victim of such despicable violence. My brothers, ages seven and ten, go to elementary school, just like every single child who lost their life today did. It is a place to learn and make friends, a place to begin to build the foundation of who they will become as they grow up. It should never be a place of fear or trauma or violence. It should not be a place of lock-down and gunshots and death.

In watching the news today and in reading my Twitter feed, I couldn’t help but cry. The overwhelming grief I feel for victims I have never met brings tears to my eyes now, as I try to collect my thoughts to get them out in print. From reports that I read, the shooter targeted his mother and her kindergarten class. Let me say it again, so that it truly sinks in. He targeted his mother, a kindergarten teacher, and her class. Kindergarten. Children that are five and six years old, who have barely even learned to read or tie their shoes. They were massacred in the one place that is supposed to be a safe haven, even if their home is not. Twenty sets of parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends had to be informed a child they loved would never come out of that school again alive. Children. Kids whose lives had just begun. Kids who will never have a first kiss, who will never learn to drive a car, or go on a first date. Kids who won’t get married or go to college or go on to be President of the United States. Kids who won’t become scientists or ballerinas or doctors or lawyers.

My heart aches for everyone affected by this tragedy. It aches for the families of the victims, it aches for the survivors, whose lives will never be the same again. It aches for a community that has been completely torn apart by such a heinous act, that now has to learn to heal in the face of such atrocity. My heart aches for our country, as we all hold our breath and wonder when the next asshole with a gun is going to decide to open fire in a public place or in a school or a mall or a movie theater. It aches to know that such events polarize us as a nation when it should really be bringing us closer together. My heart aches wondering if this could have been prevented, if there were signs the shooter was going to do this. It aches that, in the aftermath of such events, people begin to forget, only to be reminded when the next tragedy occurs.

I am disgusted. I am disgusted with the shooter, and I am disgusted with the media, who reported who the shooter was before having all the facts. I am disgusted that the media is interviewing parents of surviving children, and most of all, I am disgusted the media interviewed and televised children that were present at the time of the shooting today. I am disgusted that someone would commit such an act of violence, and that someone could have so much evil inside them that they could kill any human being, let alone a child. I am disgusted that the shooter is dead, and will not have to be held accountable for his own actions.

In reading my Twitter feed, I was pleased to see most of the accounts I follow take the day to drop what they normally talk about and share their condolences, to question why this happened, to express their shock and despair and disgust. It reminded me that not all of humanity sucks.

I do not know any of the victims of today’s tragic event, but still, I mourn them. I think all of us, as a country, do. We all caught a glimpse of the worst kind of evil today, and no amount of arguing about gun control or mental health treatment is going to change that. These are absolutely issues that need to be discussed, but at the core of it all, would any of that have changed what happened today? I’m not so sure. What I do know is that we’re all pulling for those in Newtown, CT. Anytime a mass shooting happens, it rips open every old wound, and makes us relive each shooting from the past. Columbine, Virginia Tech, and Aurora now have another companion in being Anytown, USA. Another community mourns its dead, and this time, it feels more personal. It cuts a little deeper.

My thoughts, prayers, and heart are with Newtown, Connecticut tonight, and they will be for quite some time.

HOW IS THIS NEWS?! (A serial series here at The Walking Mishap)

14 Dec

I think by now, you’re all familiar with my overall and general loathing of all things reality TV (with the exception of MTV’s The Challenge – don’t judge, it’s a trainwreck that I can’t rip my eyes away from, and it’s chock-full of super sexy eye candy). You’re also probably familiar with my annoyance toward the Kardashians… you know, the family whose names all freakishly begin with “K” and whose fame stemmed essentially from Kim having sex on camera with a D-List celebrity no one’s considered relevant in lord knows how many years. Anyway, as it turns out, Kim, of the 72-day long sham marriage fame, is dating Kanye West. Who gives a shit, right?

Apparently, Kanye gave Kim a kitten (I couldn’t have planned that alliteration if I had wanted to… and why on earth would I want to??). As far as cats go, it was a pretty cute little thing – you all know I’m a dog person that’s fairly convinced cats are plotting on us all, so really, for me to openly admit one of these creatures is cute is a big deal. Mercy, the kitten, even spawned her own parody Twitter, which was actually pretty funny. The fact that Kanye had given Kim a kitten (again, with the alliteration), shouldn’t have really been a blip on our radar. People get pets. It’s what we do. Why one would actually trust Kim Kardashian with a living, breathing animal is beyond me, but let’s face it. Little Mercy was a gift from the guy who can’t find the capslock key to keep from Tweeting in all caps and who not only announced on TV that George Bush hates black people, but also interrupted Taylor Swift’s award acceptance speech to bestow his own honor on Beyonce. Guy’s kind of a loose cannon.

Fine, the cat's cute. Though she does look like she's plotting her escape.

Fine, the cat’s cute. Though she does look like she’s plotting her escape.

Anyway, in the three minutes of reading I did about ten minutes ago on the subject of the Kardashian cat, it turned out that Kim was allergic to this little ball o’ fluff, and instead of sucking it up and getting injections to keep her, she gave her away to her sister Khloe’s assistant (I think Khloe’s the Amazonian looking one). Whatever. Here’s where the story gets sad. Tiny little mercy, only four months old, had a nasty stomach virus. This virus acts as a cancer in small animals, and the poor little thing had to be euthanized at only four months old. As much as a cat fan I’m not, I still feel awful about a baby animal having to be put down, even if it meant ending her suffering. I also feel awul for the Kardashian assistant who had taken her in, as I know what losing a pet feels like. It’s an absolutely heart-wrenching experience.

The thing I’d like to know, dear readers, is HOW IS THIS NEWS?! How is this story featured on Yahoo! and USA Today and MSN?! Thank FUCK CNN doesn’t seem to have any trace of it on their website. USA TODAY?! If I were to lose a pet, IT WOULD NOT MAKE THE NEWS.

What is our society’s obsession with every little move a celebrity makes? Can we also just mention that, technically, this cat no longer even belonged to Kim? It belonged to her sister’s assistant.

Things that ARE news, and should be treated as such:

Nicholas Checque, Navy Seal, killed in action

Actually, you know what? I’m not even going to list any articles other than the one linked above. Why? Because I shouldn’t have to. Why is it we revere these asshats who make fools of themselves on TV, and our fallen members of our Armed Services, who risk their lives for us on a daily basis, don’t really ever get the recognition they deserve?  I think it is a shame someone lost a pet – they truly do become members of the family – but it is certainly not national news worthy.



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