A lot of times, I don’t like what—seemingly—everyone else on the planet likes.
Bacon, for instance. I’m not in the “bacon makes everything better” camp. I’m in the bacon-overwhelms-everything-with-bacon-flavor camp.
I can see y’all reacting like this already:
I know; I’m used to it. That’s the same reaction someone has when they find out I don’t have a dog. I wrote Paws Off aiming to explain this apparent defect in my character.
I also wouldn’t pay $1 to see Johnny Cash or Led Zepplin. All these things consistently get me side-eyed by the masses. Since the head shaking is ramping up, I’m gonna go ahead and fully unburden myself with a few more confessions. I’d rather the truth be out there, than continue having to whisper, “And can you please hold the bacon bits?”
This talk is long overdue.
If a public door has a vertical handle, I pull from the tip-top portion to avoid the bottom—where I know kids’ dirty.ass.paws.go. Make no mistake, I know the middle and top are caked with adult grime, too—I just think kids’ filth goes the extra mile.
CASE IN POINT: You know those little matchbook cars you pull backwards to make the wheels spin, then let go and it catapults the car forward? I had the joy of watching a 4-year old rolling one all over the floor at our favorite mexican-food dive. I watched his parents enjoy their Micheladas while he crawled around their feet, under the table—scooting that car on the floor. And juuust when I thought I couldn’t be more grossed out, he pulled the car back and let the tires spin on his tongue.
I had to silence a scream.
I don’t like it when men walk languidly, with their hands clasped behind their backs. It’s the hands-clasped-behind-their-backs part that rubs me wrong—not the slow walking. A slow walker (though oft-times annoying) is just a guy who’s probably content, or maybe mentally preparing a marriage proposal. A guy slow walking WITH his hands clasped behind his back is either philosophising in a way I find off-putting or he’s plotting a grisly crime. I had a dozen experiences of seeing this—and having a negative reaction—before I realized, “Oh, I just kinda hate this.”
When I drive through small towns, I try to figure out where I’d work. With no corporate options, it’s fun to scope out my next gig. Would I be a checker at a grocery store—taking pride in knowing everyone’s name and remembering to ask about Sharon’s daughter’s wedding? Would I become partial owner of the skating rink—maybe even trying my hand in the DJ booth, mixing today’s hits with yesterday’s Rick James jams? Would I start a lawn service, called The Lawn Ranger? See, we don’t know. And that’s why it’s so fun.
I don’t love tapas. I know I’m supposed to. I know people adore them. I know they’re sexy. But really, I’m just consistently underwhelmed (and still very hungry). I assumed going to Spain would change my (secret) opinion of them, but it didn’t. Tapas were definitely better there, but the hardcore fact remained: it’s a little bit of good for a lotta bit of money.
I see things. When I look at textured ceilings, at marble surfaces, at clouds in the sky—I see vivid images. You know how some people stand in front of a Monet, appearing lost, but actually looking reverently? That’s what I do when I stare at granite.
Is this called Pareidolia?
One time I saw an old 1920s gunsman—his sunken lips indicating he’d left his false teeth bedside. Another time, I saw Barbra Streisand with a scarf on her head, riding an old-timey motorcycle. I didn’t see the motorcycle, but her body language and blowing scarf suggested this activity. A pattern in the carpet at an office showed a couple saying bye at a train station—he on the step, her reaching up to him. I once saw a belly dancer in the clouds. I also laughed audibly once, when I saw in a marble foot rest at a spa, a group of weebles looking up at the Pope.
Remember the famous “blinking guy” GIF?
Well, I see him every day in my shower:
I enjoy watching someone walk into a glass door, which might make you think I like witnessing calamity—but I’ll give you evidence to the contrary. I haaate hearing playbacks of real 9-1-1 calls on TV or online. The terror and fear in their voices makes my ears cry. It’s too raw and tangible for me.
I also hate watching someone screw up the National Anthem. My skin crawls with cringe. In fact, I’m a ball of tension when I’m watching the anthem live, because I’m so scared the artist is going to mess up the words or get pitchy on us. I’m actually surprised anyone ever accepts the invitation to sing it—because there’s really no winning. If they nail it, the oh-so-judgmental public reacts with a *shrug*, claiming they’re supposed to kill it because they’re a millionaire who’s paid to sing. But if they mess it up AT ALL—oh man, watch OUT—they are the dirge of the earth and unfit to live in this perfect society.
Side Note: Some of y’alls best talent is typing with two thumbs, but until you’ve had to do that in front of millions—and not make any typos—just ssshhh and delete that judgy tweet. Go’head, I’ll save your spot.
When I’m truly chillin’ and have free time on my hands, I can go down a serious rabbit hole with social media—and it happens before I even realize it.
CASE IN POINT: Not long ago, I remembered that Kellie Rasberry, from the Kidd Kraddick Show, was talking about a protein drink she liked; but I couldn’t remember what it was. I wasn’t even sure where to look online, because I heard her verbally mention on the radio one morning. I did remember though, that she told listeners she’d post about it. I started with Facebook, and immediately remembered she said Instagram, so I was going to hop over there to locate it—but then I saw a friend’s vacation pics on Facebook and went through them one-by-one.
I regained my focus and went to Instagram, but got sidetracked when I noticed I had a lot of “likes.” I’d forgotten what I even posted—so I clicked over to see. Ohhh, the sushi pic! I looked at the photo again, congratulated myself on the composition, and decided I’d scroll through my Instagram posts. I spent 20 minutes reveling in my good taste.
Then I returned to the task of finding Kellie’s post, but came across several memes that I wanted my friends to see—so I spent some time (just how long is confidential information) tagging them … hoping they’d laugh, too, but also hoping it served as a hello-thinking-of-you-but-haven’t-texted today gesture.
Back to finding the protein drink post. Scroll, scroll, scroll—there it is! Once I found it, I considered buying it, but due diligence prevailed, and I decided to first read a bunch of comments from Kellie’s followers. Their comments and opinions (both for and against this particular brand) were intriguing enough to send me to Amazon.
I located the drink and saw there were TONS of comments and reviews:
I dove in head first. I saw that Lacy wanted “a damn answer!” Sheesh, what was up her ass? I’ll tell ya—carrageenan. She was fit-to-be-tied over the ingredient, carrageenan (or, what I now call “Nancy Carrigan” because it’s easier and I can preserve brain power for reading about this “vile, vile, menacing family of linear sulfated polysaccharides that are extracted from red edible seaweeds.”) Lacy demanded to know if there were even trace amounts of Nancy Carrigan.
I’m thinking, is Lacy playing with a full deck? Do these Nancy Carrigans warrant such vitriol? On Amazon? She takes issue with the fact that they have no nutritional value, but are used in a lot of organic, natural products to bulk it up—and she’s pisssssed about it.
SIDE NOTE: Wouldn’t she be fun to spend a day with?
I just started staring off into space, thinking of all the no-nutritional-value things I eat, and wondered if I should be as mad as Lacy was.
A good 90 minutes had passed at this point.
I scolded myself for going down the rabbit hole, but I guess I didn’t listen because a week or so later, I saw multiple headlines for some artist named 6ix9ine. I thought, “Who is 6ix9ine? Why is he trending?”
Cut to me watching nearly two hours of videos on him. The longest was his interview on Power 105.1’s The Breakfast Club. I’d never heard of him, seen him, or heard a single song he’d ever recorded; yet there I was, watching him like I was a super fan (though I was decidedly not).
During the Breakfast Club interview, I noticed a weird vibe between him and one of the hosts, Charlamagne. I had to know that was all about, so I found a few articles dissecting their tension.
Then I watched a video of him describing all his tattoos. He has hundreds, so the article was kind of long.
I finally decided I should find some of his music, since he’s the self-proclaimed “King of New York City” (something Charlamange refutes). Oh no, no, no—it was super yelly and aggressive. Not soothing in any way. I doubt his little girl appreciates his rap style as much as the rest of NYC supposedly does. I bet she prefers Shawn Mendes and his velvety-sweet voice and gorgeous smile—but who knows?
SIDE NOTE: Please don’t tell 6ix9ine I said that—he’s easily riled and I don’t need that in my life.
Fisheye effects make me nauseous.
It’s bizarre; I used to love all things spinny. I’d shake my judgy head at anyone who got car sick or couldn’t get on the Tilt-A-Whirl. That is, until I starting getting motion sickness so easily that I couldn’t even scroll too fast on a website.
I never throw up or get super sick, I just get a bit queasy. I’m convinced it started several year back, when we were snorkeling in Hawaii in some really deep water. I was taking really deep breaths (because I was a wee bit spooked by the depth and by all the swordfish that looked at me like I was dinner.) I think the combination of the slow-wave water and too-deep breaths made me nauseous. I remember popping up out of the water, feeling like I was going to toss my cookies and wondering, “Crap, how will this work? How do I throw up in the ocean, upright, and around other snorkelers?!”
Fortunately, I held it together, and all that shrimp cocktail stayed in my stomach.
The nausea lasted for a few hours after we got out of the water—then kicked back in the very next day when I was riding in our Jeep. True, it was the Road to Hana (which can cause it), but up to that point in my life, I’d have been FINE. And I swear, I’ve never been the same. Since that day, I’m just super susceptible to motion sickness, and I very much dislike any and all fisheye lenses. So can y’all please stop using them? And can you please stop offering me bacon?
On the second thought, give me the bacon—and keep your no-nutrional-value Nancy Carrigan far away from me (and Lacy).