Hilarity Takes to the Streets

So this morning I am driving behind this old woman who might be categorized by some as "a blue hair," and I notice her license plate: WTF ###.

WTF.

That is just what I want to know, too. It summed up my feelings on her driving quite nicely.

Democrats are the life of the PARTY

Please come and join us in our party to celebrate the best *party* around and watch John Kerry's nomination as the Democratic candidate.

Party Details Here

Do I look like some kind of pinko hippy to you?

So this morning I went to Starbucks to satisfy my mocha obsession. That in and of itself should confirm to you  that as much as I enjoy being somewhat of a pinko, I'll never fully convert. I am a kinder, gentler socialist.

Anyhow, the woman who took my order reminds me of my cousin who is known to many of you as "Skanky Cousin." This woman, like my cousin, didn't really seem to be all that with it. Apparently, when she asked my name for my order, it seemed a lot more likely to her that my name was Airey than Mary.

I mean, do I look like the kind of girl who has a sister named Rainwater or a brother named Earthfire? Airey? I mean, were my parents some nutso hippy dippies who wanted me to suffer the kind of trauma that is associated with being named Airey? And also: WTF kind of spelling is that? (It says Airey right on the printed coffee cup label!)

So then the actual coffeemaking barista calls out "Tall [or is it Talle?] Mocha for...Airey?" and I get all embarrassed because who TF is name Airey?

Only moments before when that same barista had called out (no lie) "Venti, non-fat, whipped extra hot mocha with 3 splenda for Sheryl," I was thinking: wouldn't 'Sheryl' have sufficed? I mean, isn't that the point of asking for a name--so we're not duelling over lattes or cutting in line for frappucinos and so the content of our (weirdy! weirdy!) order remains out of the public domain? I presume I was the only Mary in the place and more than likely the ONLY Airey every who ordered a tall mocha that morning.

Apparently, the coffee making barista realized that her colleague in caffeine vending was a very special kind of stupid and was forced to couple the order name with a complete, faithful description of your morning beverage. (Thank God I am pretty vanilla when it comes to my specialty coffee.)

Airey.

No.

Updated list of ways that people have messed-up my 4 letter, standard, easy-to-spell, common name:
Ming (my eternal favorite)
Marry
Barry
May
Myra
Airey

This brings me to my conclusion of: WTF?

Thanks and have a snappy day.

Dreams of Grandeur

My dear readers,

You will now be privvy to one of my deepest, most intense fantasies of the week. Tonight, I will get into my bed in my most favorite pajamas and next to my favorite dog and I will sleep. I will sleep like I've never slept before. And God willin' and the barn don't burn, my sister won't "forget" about the time difference and call me at 8:15 tomorrow morning (and as a side note for all the readers out there who happen to be my sister: 9:15 is still an unacceptable time to call me on Saturday am). Anyone attempting to disturb the peace of my much-needed and deserved once/week slumber will be called out for the true poopy-pants that s/he is.

I sleep in once a week. Thou shalt not disturb me and my fantastic snoring.

And one more note to my horsey, British neighbors across the street and two houses over: If your stupid, psychotic dog (stupid dog should not be taken lightly as I have virtually never met a dog I didn't like) wakes me up just ONE MORE TIME with his piercing, menacing bark because you like to sit in your front yard with your INSANE dog (who appears to be some sort of advanced hybrid of shark, tiger, crocodile, and wildebeest), we are going to have words. NO, your dog is not "just trying to play," unless you mean he is trying to "play kill other dogs and small children." I have an MF pit bull and when my dog and I *fear for our lives* when passing your house, this is bad news bears (WM). I put up with your combination of pirate flag and Union Jack on the fourth of July (which I found to be utterly distasteful). I ignore your fleet of mini-coopers which have been all souped up to look like...well, I don't know what. Turbo lights, racing roof, and a big-ass grill. WTF is that supposed to be? I mean, could you BE anymore stereotypically British? You've got the teeth, the horsey, disdainful expression, AND the mini-coopers. The husband looks like he lost some teeth in a row at a pub and the wife looks just like that nutso landlady with the stuffed dog in Amelie except she has a WORSE hair dye job. Across the street and two houses down British neighbors, I don't know you, but I really, really dislike you a BUNCH.

Okay, so this turned from a rave about the lovely, gorgeous world of slumbering to a rant about my piece of crap neighbors, but I don't care. They deserve to be called out in public. Oooh, maybe I'll dream about it tonight.

Bed: you're on my mind, you fluffy thing. It's going to be a magical night.

You go, Maple-Powered Howard!

I (heart) Howard Dean. I really (heart) him.

My weak attempts to say that Ralph Nader is a major butthole, pale in comparison to his eloquent debate with the old b-hole himself.

Vocal Parker: "I will not be marginalized!" -- a rant about valet parking

Correct me if I'm wrong (really, don't.) but isn't the point of valet parking that you cannot find a relatively close/convenient parking space and you would rather pay an attendant to find one and park a weird way in order that you may go ahead into your chosen venue without the hassle of having to walk very far or get rained on or parallel park into a wee spot or get towed because you accidentally parked somewhere illegal or too near a fire hydrant? I mean, really, that IS why people use valet parking.

The latest trend in valet parking absolutely disgusts me. Apparently, valet parking is now exclusively for show and maximum irritation and is, for all intents and purposes, no longer optional.

All the premium parking spaces-- the ones closest to the venue, most easily accessed, etc. are now coned off for valet parking 100% of the time. For example, at Tony Mandola's Gulf Coast Kitchen in the River Oaks Shopping Center, parking spaces that would otherwise go to patrons of *other* establishments in the shopping center are blocked at a certain hour so that these valets may park your car approximately 8 feet from where you got out of it, insuring that patrons for nearby stores must park a considerable distance away and that you, the patron of this restaurant are required to pay and tip a valet for the awesome task of having walked a shorter distance than I do to go from the carport adjacent to my home to my actual home.

Excuse me?

I'm not paying for that. Not only am I going to pay for the service that I didn't get; I am also not paying so that an unsuspecting patron of perhaps Sur la Table or Events is required to park in the isolated parking lot that necessitates quite a trek just to pick up a baking dish or a pack of invitations.

Thanks to these lazy valets who are not earning their wage (amazingly, I do *work* at my job), other patrons are at much higher risk of danger while carrying their parcels to their car.

And though I made an example of Tony Mandola's, I have seen examples of this scattered all over Montrose, Mid-Town, the Heights, the haughty Galleria (surprise!) and anywhere else that so-called fine-dining is found--and that's just Houston. (I exclude downtown because frankly, there's no damn places to park downtown and I feel those valets are justified in their presence.) Go ahead, all you restaurants, have valet parking-- but make it optional. Allow your patrons a *chance* to get their own spots if they wish and if there are spots available and they still wish to valet, then kudos! You've just gotten $5, honestly!

I can afford valet parking and I'm not a cheapskate, but even so, it's not like I can throw money around so easily. If I want to park my own car, do NOT think it's acceptable to act smugly when I pass your valet stand without giving you patronage. Last I checked, I was the one about to patronize a fine restaurant and YOU are the valet, punkass. Further, do you feel that it is KIND and COMPASSIONATE to mock others for being frugal? If so, you're a jerk.

I am going to be putting a call in to Tony Mandola's shortly. This is unacceptable, frankly. I urge you all to do the same.

I don't like mangos. Please stop asking.

Dear World,

No, I don't like mangos. Yes, I've received the memo about everyone in the WORLD liking them, and yet, I must be a dissenter. The smell of them makes my stomach turn. The combined taste/texture/softness induces my gagging mechanism in the thinking of it.

I do not like them in sauce.
I do not like them fried or tossed.
I do not like them with whipped cream.
Nor in a smoothie, you evil thing.
I would not like them in a box;
I would not like them with a fox.
I would not like them here or there;
I would not eat them anywhere!
I do not like them on a ham,
I do not like them, Sam-I-am!

Now back off and quit trying to get me to eat your grossy mango crap. I'm never going to say yes*.

*Unless my life actually depends on it, in which case I say--may I have a fork?