Uniting In Fury (Again)

Remember when we United In Fury a while ago? I shared with you some things that made me a LOT madder than they should (misbehaving clothes hanger, I’m looking at YOU.) I found out that we truly did unite, because many of you expressed getting unduly upset by things way less serious than a canceled flight or your favorite team losing. It’s true, anger towards bad weather on your vacation is entirely warranted; however, fury aimed at your phone for using initial caps against your will, is ludicrous.

Yet. Here we are.

1. Go ahead and tell me I can change the settings. I know. But, how about when you fill out a medical history form online or sign up for a jibjab account—what then? Where is the logarithm or other techie rule, so that when you fill in your email address, it doesn’t assault you with an initial caps? I want to venture a guess here and say that maybe 2% of the population chooses an initial caps for their email, so let’s please not cater to that misguided bunch.

I don’t mean to be judgmental towards this potentially marginalized group—I know they’re just living their lives and bleeding the same blood as the other 98%—but I don’t agree with their choices and I don’t want to be inconvenienced by them.

2. I am vehemently opposed to football players getting water squirted in their mouths when they come off the field. It’s so embarrassing to see the trainers nurse them that way. They might think it gives off an air of importance—like the little people are there to cater to their every need—but I think it gives off an air of you-just-lost-your-man-card.

This must stop.

This must stop.

How can they pile drive a 240-lb running back, who is sprinting full speed ahead, and then run off the field and open up like a baby bird? It’s one of the dopiest things I’ve ever seen. Professional athletes’ eye-hand coordination is second-to-none, but somehow they can’t negotiate their own drink of water?

Side Note: If we’re not going to demand an end to this insanity, can I at least get someone to swing by my cube and hydrate me, while my precious hands type mind-blowing copy?

3. While we’re on a sports wave, let’s unpack some more nonsense. It infuriates me when football players don’t dress for the weather. The edge they gain from being a Mr. Tough Guy in short sleeves, when it’s 0 degrees is, oh I don’t know, nothing. None. Not one guy out there thinks, “Dude, Jason Witten doesn’t have sleeves on … like, his arms are just … out in the elements … uncovered … I can’t compete with that kind of toughness. I’m going back to the locker room.”

At least 10 knuckleheads I'm mad at.

At least 10 knuckleheads I’m mad at.

All they do, when they hit the blizzardous conditions in short sleeves, is make the rest of us extremely uncomfortable—to the point of anger. I get mad and so do my friends.

A text I got last week: I’m uncomfortable with the temperature of this game and displeased with the short sleeves I’m seeing.

We are incensed with their blatant disregard for our comfort. Do they know what happens when they get hit and slapped at and punched by a corner trying to strip the ball from them? WE FEEL GENUINE PAIN BECAUSE WE KNOW THEIR SKIN HURTS. We’re cheering our hearts out for them—the least they could do is meet us halfway.

Please don’t tell me the players’ adrenaline warms them up, because the coaches do it, too.

Another text from last week: Anna, can you and Jocelyn please unite in refusal with me? It’s 15 degrees and UM’s coach is wearing a short-sleeve shirt and no coat. Literally, a polo and khakis. 15 degrees with blustery wind—please help.

Side Note: I’m actually mad at anyone who doesn’t dress for the weather. Shorts at the mall in December? Get outta my face. Short sleeves in any restaurant, at any time of the year, in Texas and not shivering? Off with your head!

4. Now my anger is escalating and it’s about to get gross up in here, so consider yourselves warned.

I have a really strong stomach. I don’t puke when others puke (I’m too busy laughing for some very weird reason.) I don’t lose it when I see blood. I can watch surgeries on TV without covering my eyes. But I cannot, under any circumstances, abide a nose picker. I’m ALREADY queasy just typing it. I will turn my head like a damn owl, risking injury to my sternocleidomastoid, to escape the sight of a nose picker.

And make no mistake, I’m crazy coo-coo for babies and kids, but when I see a child picking his or her nose, I full-on abhor that child. Sorry. I will change their rancid diaper and accept their throw-up on my person, but I cannot tolerate a nose-digging brat (sorry, that’s the anger talking.)

Side Note: If pinned down, I think I know the origin of this contempt. My college team played a couple of games in LA one year and our coach drove us down to Hollywood Boulevard and the Rodeo Drive area. He wanted to drive by as many sites as possible before letting us loose to explore on foot. For reasons that are now a blur, one of our rental cars was a minivan, with a rear-facing back seat.

Like this, but not remotely as nice.

Like this, but not remotely as nice.

I jumped back there with a couple of teammates and a kid who was with us on the trip. Seeing the sites was awesome, but the more we drove—with me riding backwards—the more semi-motion sick I became. And then I turned to point out the Hollywood sign to the child and she was digging for gold like it was her J.O.B. But wait! My timing was so immaculate that I not only caught the tail end of the digging, but also the front end of the consumption. Bang. I’ve been haunted ever since. Now I live in fear that every picker will have the same follow-through and the quality of my life will implode.

5. I feel actual anger when I read blogs or Facebook status updates where a girl calls her husband “Hubby” or “The Hubs.” I realize it’s simply a matter of taste and lots of people don’t feel similar anger, but it actually taints my opinion of that person. I don’t truly believe her husband would think it’s cute, either. I bet he’s never said, “Babe! I saw that you called me ‘The Hubs’ today—aww! You’re the freakin’ best, Babe!”

What’s wrong with “My husband” or, I don’t know, “John?” Is it just simply not cute enough for you?

A Facebook status update that makes me want to roundhouse kick your hands away from the keyboard:
The Hubs and I are heading out for a fun weekend get-away!
An Instagram that makes me want to comment with a throw-up emoji:
Hubby and I are heading out for a fun weekend get-away!
A better Facebook status update:
John and I are heading out for a fun weekend get-away!
A perfectly acceptable Instagram:
My husband and I are heading out for a fun weekend get-away!

You get the idea.

Stop—I know. Now you’re mad that I’m mad. I get it. But channel that anger into something positive, like calling your husband by a name that’s not going to injure my eyes as they roll.

Side Note: I’d be remiss if I didn’t call attention to the guys’ equivalent. Nope, not “Wifey” … that’s minor, comparatively. I’m talking about the use of, “My Bride” when it’s not YOUR WEDDING DAY. She was once your bride, but now she’s your wife. You don’t hear her calling you her Groom. Or wait, do you? Hurry, someone help me … if I see that on Facebook, I’ll need to be restrained.

6. Ladies. I say this with loving tenderness … but I know you’re still going to be mad (join the club.) If you can’t walk in heels, then YOU CAN’T WEAR HEELS. Sorry to yell, but it’s that important—ssshhh—it’s also non-negotiable. I’m not saying you have to be able to walk exactly the same as you do in flip-flops or running shoes; but, if you feel yourself walking like an inebriated Clydesdale, then you’re canceling out efforts to lift your butt. Please believe me on this. If a guy sees you walking with the grace of toddler who got into Mommy’s liquor cabinet, he’s probably not even going to notice your butt. I feel super solid about this assertion.

oops-heels

I guess it’s wrong to say this makes me mad. I’m more disappointed than mad. Truthfully, I’m disappointed in you for making me mad. The fact that you think it’s sexier to be a one-woman stampede in heels, than to walk like a fully developed human, with some measure of graceful agility, angers me.

Side Note: As distressing as it may be, we all have to give up things that don’t work for us. Take me and my fivehead for example. Would I like to grow my hair out so I could just pull it into an easy ponytail? Every once in a while, yes, but I can’t, because my fivehead would make you mad. It’s called being thoughtful. Would it be an easy hairstyle? For sure—but it’s not worth making you mad every time you have to look at the unabridged version of my forehead.

7. When I pull up to a car wash and the attendant asks which wash I want, and I say, “Just the basic $5 one, please” and he says, “You don’t want your wheels done?!” … am I just completely out of my mind and expecting too much, in thinking my tires are very much a part of my car and that yes, of-freaking-course I want my tires washed?

If you go to a hairdresser and say, “Just a trim, please” … they don’t reply with, “You don’t want your bangs trimmed?!”

8. I know this shouldn’t make me mad, but when I’m at work and someone nearby pops open a Coke, I’m suddenly incapable of thinking about anything beyond how much I want a Dr. Pepper—right. here. and. right. now.—and I hardly ever even drink them! Is it too much to ask people to open their super fresh delight somewhere out of earshot? You don’t pipe in dreamy island sounds around me or waft spa scents through my cube, so why would you tempt and tease with a can of Dr. Pepper? Your thoughtlessness enrages me.

9. This one should make everyone mad—but if it’s new to you, hopefully you’ll be mad after you read it. I feel irrational anger towards celebrities—and especially a celebrity’s offspring, when they Instagram or Facebook a picture at work (or working out) and caption it, “Just tryna put food on the table” or “Out here grindin’, tryna feed the fam.”

WHAT? You’re Sean Combs’ son. Your dad is Diddy, and worth over 500 million dollars. Food is not, and never will be, a problem, Son.

We get it, Justin—you're starving.

We get it, Justin—you’re starving.

By all means, Instagram a photo of yourself in the studio or at the gym, but please be honest and tell us you’re out there “grindin’ for a Lamborghini Aventador,” not Top Ramen.

In no way am I suggesting living off your dad’s money, but you do know Taco Bell and McDonalds have dollar menus, right? You play for UCLA and your dad is a mogul—you and your family will be eating just fine, well into your 90s, whether you’re “out there grindin’ to feed the fam” or not.

10. I’d like to close with something that I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, will have you nodding your head ferociously up and down, in united fury. I practically forget.my.own.name. when I go to pull a paper towel or Kleenex and only the part I’m pinching breaks free.

Only Kristin Wiig can accurately portray my anger.

Only Kristin Wiig can accurately portray my anger.

Please join me on Facebook and Twitter … then we’ll all be happy!

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32 thoughts on “Uniting In Fury (Again)

  1. Oh Anna…..I concur on your #3 but in the education realm. Mother Nature paid a nasty visit to Oklahoma last week. “Record lows” the weathermen spouted. But at every high school in the state, 10% of the student body had on shorts. Such a travesty. Lol great post!

  2. I’m ready to start a petition to send to the NFL and NCAA, banning short sleeves when the weather is below 30 degrees. You know I won’t stand for it!!! Loving all of these! And you got a big laugh out of me over the celeb kids and their social media posts. Bah! As for the auto-caps and paper towel ripping incorrectly, I can’t comment on those because my rage is too strong.

    • I wish I could’ve shared all our texts about all the improper cold-weather attire that is so rampant in sports. They are golden! Good-good, I’m glad you’ve seen the “tryna eat!” … “the grind is ON cuz imma put food on the table” captions. I need to know I’m not alone in all of it. Keep raging over the auto-caps and paper towels … I’m here to soothe and understand.

  3. Oh my dear friend… I think you need to see somebody for anger management. The only thing that will save you is that you’re a FABULOUS writer. Otherwise… you’re a mess. xxoo

    • Greg, can’t I just skip anger management and implore athletes to dress properly and talk girls out of “cute” names for their husband? Please? I ask so little of society … can’t they meet me halfway? 😉

  4. I’m with you on nearly all of this that I can understand… But I have to defend the cold, chapped arms of my NFL boys. They don’t go sleeveless to be tough, it’s because — brace yourself for the irony — it’s warmer! Sleeves soak up sweat, wind cools said sweat, and when they stand still for a few minutes, it’s FRIGID! I say this as the moron you see running in 50* weather wearing shorts, bright yellow Adidas Boosts, a beanie with some goofy race logo, gloves, and nothing else. Sweat on your skin traps body heat; sweat in your clothes is a pneumonia-inducing evaporative coolant.

    Ok, maybe it won’t cause pneumonia.

    • Steven, ssshhh … just let me be mad at them. You can say “pneumonia-inducing evaporative coolant” all you want (and it does sound extremely legit) but I have to believe Nike and Under Armour make shirts that combat that? TELL ME the guys aren’t trying to be tough. Ssshhh, I’m not listening!!!! 😉 lol

  5. Hahahah – I’m definitely going to have the hubs read this one! Sweet hubby is going to find all this business hilarious. Especially since I complained repeatedly to him during that blizzardasterous game a couple weeks ago about the players arms being freezing.

  6. There are so many good lines, I don’t even know where to begin. Oh yeah, “like calling your husband by a name that’s not going to injure my eyes as they roll.” We’ll start there. HILARIOUS!!!! And I see you’ve made your second owl reference in a row. Why I love that, I do not know. I never knew I apparently had such a thing for owls.

  7. Can I add one? Pleeeeease? Jaywalkers. I’m angry about jaywalkers. I almost ran over a poor soul this morning who couldn’t wait 2 minutes for a walk signal and so walked right out in front of me. And when I swerved to avoid smattering his brains he cussed and yelled at me, because clearly I was driving on his walkway. Argh!

  8. What a great laugh this evening reading your post, Anna Lea! Your comments on dressing for the weather really hit the mark with me tonight as I reflected on being out during the day today and I noticed at least 3 or 4 girls crossing at the crosswalks as I sat at various traffic lights today, in flip flops! Come on people! This is Canada (albeit in Vancouver), but nonetheless it is Canada, and winter! I also loved your side note on having a five head. I have never heard of it being referred to as that before, but I loved it and will refer to mine as that from now on. Thanks for the much needed laugh tonight ….

  9. I agree with so much here! Heels, hubby, and ugh, wifey. Wifey is probably the worst.

    In other news, I’ve nominated you for the Sisterhood of the World Bloggers award! Your posts are so funny and well written, and I’m so glad I came across your page!

    I just learned that this existed a few days ago when I was nominated, but the gist is this: you accept the award by posting that you were nominated, then answering some questions about yourself, and listing out ten (or 7) blogs that you would like to nominate as awesome. I name you here: http://michellejoelle.wordpress.com/2013/12/18/how-to-hygge/

  10. My bride and I (your mom and dad) love to pop a can of coca cola (as loudly as possible) and then lay back (in our shirt sleeves – and sometimes with no shoes at all) on the couch (where it is sometimes only a mere 70 degrees) and rest our eyes (damaged by too much frustrated rolling). We do however draw the line at any nose exploration.

  11. #5: couldn’t agree more. First initials also work well. #6: right on, sistah! The current fashion of ultra high heels with platform soles that look like booties I find especially ridiculous. I was at a wedding the other day and a woman was wearing a pair in a leopard print. She had to take teeny tiny steps as she tottered along on them, and nearly slipped on the rose petals in the aisle. The shoes were accompanied by a skin tight micro mini little black dress that she couldn’t bend over in. I suspect in 10 yrs or so we will all shake our heads and wonder what the heck we were all thinking.

    • Oh my gosh—that woman was me! How embarrassing! Lol, just playin’. So I’ve been sitting here for the last 30 mins or so reading tons of your blog posts. WOW. All of your cancer posts were just excellent. I’m so happy about the outcome … so happy. Thank you for finding me so I could find you!

  12. Pingback: I’m Not That Picky | Anna Lea West

  13. Pingback: (Still) Uniting In Fury | Anna Lea West

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