Recently I have had a some very interesting conversations with people about ancestral origins.  My theory is that you are where you come from.  Where you originally come from.  

And yes, it all depends on how far back we trace our ancestry, but don't start with me, Pedants.  Use your common sense.  Where are your grandparents, great-grandparents and the generations just before them - who probably didn't move around much - from?

In that information lies explanations about diet, about which times of day you're most energetic in, about all those things you describe to other people in these terms: "that's just how I am, I guess."

It's not how you are.  It's who you are.

Fluffy Bear's ancestry is Irish.  Meat and potatoes is what he loves, is what his body thrives on.  He does well in cold temperatures - but not too cold.  He melts in temperatures over 36 degrees C.  

My ancestors come from a tropical island, where the races are French, Indian, Chinese and Creole.  There was no land to farm beef or lamb.  But the island was ringed with ocean, and there were sugar cane fields and rice paddies.  Give me a plate full of rice covered in spicy lentils and I'm happy.

A few months ago, a friend told me a story about a couple who adopted a child from Korea.  They were vegetarian and they brought him up with adequate protein - just of a vegetable variety.  But, as he got older, he got more and more unmanageable.  He got kicked out of kindergarten.  He threw temper tantrums.  Most frightening of all, he deliberately hurt a small animal.  They were worried they had a young Jeffrey Dahmer on their hands.  

They were told to give the child medication.  Being the vegetarian hippies they are, they researched alternatives (and quite right, too).  They found a nutritionist, who explained to them that to feed a child of Korean ancestry a vegetarian diet is anathema to his metabolic system.  His tradition is to eat meat and his ancestors have evolved to do so.  They way his body converted food to chemicals was different to how his parents' bodies did, and there was some kind of chemical that his body was not able to make without eating meat.  Because of eating the wrong diet, he was literally chemically imbalanced.  They changed his diet and he turned out just fine.

I was at happy hour a few weeks ago and told this story to a vegetarian.  He literally laughed in my face.

It was a very difficult moment for me.

I strongly believe in people's right to choose.  Abortion, gay marriage, poly-amorous relationships... you have the right to do what you want to do, as long as it does not hurt anything else with a fully developed brain. 

But we cannot deny who we are biologically.  

If you choose to be vegetarian, and it hinders your health - either physically or psychologically - you have to admit you were wrong and factor complex proteins back into your diet.  You can source them ethically these days.

And if you want to know who you are biologically, go back to your roots.

I grew up in South Africa.  My parents come from a sunny island.  I take 4,000 units of Vitamin D a day, I have consistently tested under the norm for two the last two years, because I now live in a grey, gloomy place.  If I didn't consider the prospect that I get SAD in winter, I'd be a complete fool.

I know the person who laughed at my hypothesis isn't a representative of all vegetarians.  Any named group - be it religious, racial, sexual-preference, diet-preference, political - hell, even a book club - has a diverse spectrum of people in it, even though they market themselves as a homogeneous entity.

But his attitude really pissed me off.

To not consider the fact that there could be people who are simply not suited, biologically, to his dietary life choice, was narrow minded.

Yes, my evidence was anecdotal at best, but counter my proposal, give me your hypothesis.  Don't laugh at me and pat me on the arm like I'm a two year old who just said that I am going to marry my daddy when I grow up. 

I could make a facetious comment about his being too mentally tired to debate due to protein deficiency, but I choose to rise above that.

Nevertheless, my theory still stands...

Hell is other people.

Fluffy Bear and I have decided that there is something about us.  We have a magnet for lost dogs.

We were on our way to our local coffee shop today when we saw a dog, another Weimeraner, lolloping along a busy main street.

There was a guy walking by it and we asked him if it was his.  He said no, but he was on the phone with Animal Control.

I called the dog and it came towards me.  It had no collar, so I caught it but couldn't hold onto it.  As it came near Puppy Dog, it freaked out, so it pulled away, toppling me over.  I hit the road pretty hard on my knee.  I have a lovely bloody scrape now, reminiscent of when I was a tree-climbing, Hide-n-Seek playing child.

(Hello, Neosporin.)

I kept calling the dog but it ran across the road, in front of a Land Rover.  Thank God, the woman in it stopped in time, and saw what was going on.  She stopped, got out of her car and asked me if it was my dog.  I explained what was going on.  She got hold of the dog but, like me, was struggling to hang onto it.  I asked her if we could please put the dog in her car.  She said yes immediately.

So the guy who was on the phone to Animal Control, the woman in the Land Rover, myself and another couple who were walking dogs were all stopped, talking about what to do.  The Land Rover was still stopped in the middle of the street.  She had had to stop there to avoid hitting the dog in the first place.

I was explaining to the woman that, last weekend, we took a dog to the Animal Shelter and they scanned the chip and the dog was back with its owners in an hour.  I was trying to convince her to do this because she was talking about taking the dog to her vet and that made me think she was going to keep it overnight, today being Sunday.  

I didn't think this was a good idea, especially since she said she had two dogs.  The lost dog was already freaked out - we all agreed it probably ran away because it's Seafair today and the Blue Angels jets were zooming by, very loudly, overhead.  It didn't need to spend the night in a strange house, and its owners would have 24 hours of pain and worry.

So, anyway, we're all standing there trying to establish next steps.

And some moron comes along and honks at me because he has to overtake the Land Rover and I am standing a foot into the street on the other side, making his passage through a little narrower.

Now, here's the thing.  You're driving along a main suburban street.  It's a Sunday.  There is a car stopped in the middle of the road.  5 people are standing around, all clearly discussing something.

And you overtake, get mad, and HONK?

You're a fucking Arsehole of the First Degree, a Pillock of the First Class, a Dickhead of the Smelly Smeg!

I don't have to tell you, do I, that I yelled my head off at him.  If I hadn't been dealing with the hurt knee, I swear I would've run after him, hit his car, made him stop and gone Full Crazy Bitch on his ass.  Trust me, with an English accent, it can be very, very effective.

Damn!  Now I wish I had done that.

Ah, well.

The Land Rover lady connected with the guy on the phone to Animal Control and decided to go to to the Shelter.  So hopefully this will all end well.

Oh, and just by the way, the people that left their dog without a collar on, on Seafair afternoon, when there is a cloudy sky and the Blue Angels are obviously going to do their low flying show, are arseholes too.

Hell is other people.

The other day, Fluffy Bear was driving home and saw a Pointer on the street a few blocks from our house.  There was no one near the dog and it had no leash or collar.  

He stopped his car and managed to get the dog over to him.  He got it to agree to get into the back of the car, but had to lift it in.

He asked people who were around, but no one knew the dog or where it lived.  He went to a vet nearby, and they scanned the dog for a microchip.  Nothing.  The vet didn't know the dog - it wasn't one of their patients.

He tried another vet in our area, but they didn't know the dog either.

The first vet told Fluffy Bear that the dog was at least in his teens, and looked in bad shape.  His teeth were rotting, his belly was distended and his nails were very long.  

There is no difference in the value (companionship, love, etc.) for a purebred vs. a rescue or a mutt, but it did seem strange that what looked like a purebred - an expensive puppy to buy - would be in this condition.  

The vet and Fluffy Bear assumed that the Pointer may have been on the street for some time.  

Because the dog moved slowly, Fluffy Bear didn't want to take it into our house with our dogs.  Our manic chocolate nutjobs would possibly cause the dog injury by trying to play with him.  So he left him in the car with food, water and open windows.

Fluffy Bear contacted me and we agreed that, if we hadn't heard from anyone by 5pm, he would have to take the lab to the Animal Shelter.  

In the meantime, I got to work:

• I put ads on Craigslist, Petfinder and a local blog using a photo that Fluffy Bear had emailed me
• I emailed two specialized rescue groups in our State that deal with purebred Pointers
• I emailed friends and colleagues
• I put messages on my Twitter and Facebook

Because the vet believed the dog may have been on the street a while, I wanted to make sure that the dog got a new home.  But, at the same time, I wanted to be sure to set expectations.  The dog needed some care, and that would take money.  So I wrote a second post on the blog explaining the dog's condition, but I also said that he had been very placid, friendly and patient.  He would make a good pet, I said, for someone who could give him some TLC.

Sadly, by 5pm we hadn't got any replies, so Fluffy Bear took the dog to pound.

It was very, very hard for him to do that.  I want to make that crystal clear.  It was awful for him, and it was upsetting to me when he picked me up from work and we discussed it.  

The next day, I got a voicemail from a local family who had seen my blog post.  They had been to the Animal Shelter and got their dog back, and the lady wanted to say thank you.  I gave her number to Fluffy Bear, because he was the one who really went through this, and I wanted him to get the thanks from the family.  

When I got home later, the dog's owner came to our door with her two kids.

She was gracious, and gave us a gift, which was very considerate.

It was all a very happy ending until the kids started to do that precocious thing where they are obviously repeating what they had overheard their parents say.

"You took our dog to the pound!"  the little girl whined at Fluffy Bear.

"Noooooo, Hoooooney," her mother whined back at her, "we're here to say Thaaaank yoooou."

"You took our dog to the pooooooooound!" she whined again.

Her mother shushed her away and she finally got that she should shut up.

Then it was the boy's turn.

"What do you want to say?" his mother prodded him.

He wriggled that way little boys do when they are being naughty, and launched his little volley at us.

"Thank you but no thank you for taking our dog to the pound!" he snapped, impishly.

If you know me at all, you know I don't much care for children, so I considered the combination of the smile plastered on my face and the fact that I didn't reply as proof that I am capable, when duty calls, of being utterly heroic.

I don't blame the children.  Children, like puppies, are innocents.  It's the parents that are the problem.

And there was proof of my theory later on.

First I checked my email, and there it was.  A thank you message from the mother, which included not one, not two, but THREE photographs.  The first was of the dog, pictured in it's bed, presumably once it had got back home again.  The second and third were Christmas pictures of the whole family, including the dog, as proof that he was an integral, and beloved part of the family.

Not enough to clean his teeth and have his nails clipped, though, I thought, wryly.

The final straw was when I went to delete the various ads and online posts.  

Once I got to the local blog, it became clear to me that the father had taken offence to my description of the dog's condition in my second post, where I was trying to make sure any potential family knew what they were getting into.  

His reply to my post went on and on about how much the family loved the dog, and that, when they had been to the Shelter to pick him up, they had "felt like felons."  I guess the shelter questioned them about the dog's condition and lack of identification.  And rightly so.

Also, because Fluffy Bear had found the dog two blocks from their house, I guess he thought that we shouldn't have picked his dog up in the first place.

He had titled his reply:

Loving family's dog "rescued" from front yard is now home.

I'm starting to wish we had kept the dog.

This whole thing is proof - as if I needed any more of it - that hell is other people.

To see more in the series Hell is Other People, click here.

Yesterday, on the way home from gym, I was in the go-straight-ahead lane, minding my own business, listening to the BBC World Service.  On my left, in the left-turning-lane, was a white van.

The turning lane lights turned green, for him to turn left and for cars opposite him to turn to their left.

But the white van surged forward, lurched to the right and went straight ahead, narrowly missing a car on the other side of the road who was trying to turn.

My jaw dropped.

This arsehole had just almost caused a major accident, and done something so illegal it was mindboggling.

When the straight ahead lights turned green, I accelerated like a crazy person and, about half a mile down the road, I caught up with the van.  Once again, it was in the left turning lane and I was going straight ahead.

I should add there that, in England, where the narrow roads and cost of petrol (gas) make it difficult to drive ridiculously large 4X4 trucks, workmen drive white vans.  They are usually driving across London from one job to another, trying to make it through traffic as quickly as possible.  They tend to drive like maniacs.  Everyone hates them and tries to get the hell out of their way.

So you'll understand a little better, I hope, why my blood boiled at this idiot.

I hooted (sounded the horn) for about 45 seconds.

The van's white reverse (back up) lights came on, and it pulled up beside me.  The driver was a young man, baseball hat (there's a shock) and, next to him, a young woman.  

We were yelling at each other with the windows closed, but it didn't take a lipreading genius to see that he had yelled:

"What the FUCK is your problem?"

"You're going to kill someone!" I yelled back.

 

I started trying to gesture what I was saying, pointing at him and doing the sideways cut motion across my neck. 

I suddenly realized that he might think I was saying I was going to kill HIM, so I wound down the window.

We yelled more of the same thing at each other.  

I just kept repeating:

"You are going to KILL someone!"

 

Now the girlfriend got involved. 

"What did he do?" she screeched.

 

Being under 30, they of course have ADD, and probably didn't realize that I was referring to something he had done over 60 seconds ago.

The girlfriend was sitting there, unlit cigarette in one hand, lighter in the other.  She was pretty - in that hard, brittle way that strippers are.  She had blonde hair with a horrible orange hue - a cheap and nasty dye job.

Finally, she threw what she obviously thought was her killer barrage:

"You should stop eating, because you're FAT!"

I thought of a retort, but decided to take the high ground.  If I got personal, the driver wouldn't learn anything.

So I just kept repeating:  

"You are going to KILL SOMEONE!"

 

What I should have said, of course, is:

"I can diet.  You'll always be White Trash!"

 

But, let's face it, this is America, and people like that have guns.  

And so I wound up my window and, seeing the light had turned green, drove away.

Hell is other people.

For more Hell is Other People - click here. 

The other day I was at the Video store with Fluffy Bear.

A father was in there with his two kids.

They were utterly revolting.  I'm not kidding.

He was trying to discipline them, but his tone of voice had all the authority of Deputy Dawg.

It sent something like this:

Annoying Girl:  "Dadeee!  He's kicking me!"

Awful Boy:  [Kick! Kick! Kick!]

Annoying Girl:  "OW!  Dadeee!"

Useless Father:  "Now Bil-leeee... Don't doooo that."

Annoying Girl:  "I want THIS one!"

Useless Father:  "No... We already have one you chose, Cindy."

Awful Boy: [Kick!  Kick!  Kick!]

Annoying Girl:  "Dadeeeee!"

Useless Father:  "Now, Billy, I saaaaid to stop thaaaaat."

Annoying Boy:  "I WANT MY SKITTLES!"

Useless Father:  "Well, you won't haaaave Skittles because you are being naaaaaughteeee."

Annoying Boy:  [Kick!  Kick!  Kick!]

Useless Father:  "Now you kiiiiids go out and wait in the caaaaa-har.  Go wait in the ca-haaaaaar."

I don't have to tell you - do I? - that the kids got their Skittles, and they didn't go out to the car.

As this went on - and it went on for over ten minutes - the rest of us in the video store started to catch each other's eye.  We were raising eyebrows, making faces at each other.  The atmosphere was very tense and I certainly couldn't concentrate on what movie to get.  We were all marking time, wishing they would just leave.

Finally, the Useless Father managed to pay for the DVDs and candy and he herded the revolting children out of the door.

There was an audible collective sigh of relief.

"Well, I would've been whooped if I behaved like that!" said one woman.

"Oh my GOD!  Thank God they're GONE!" said the video store guy.

"I would have been taken out of here with no DVDs and definitely no Skittles!" said Fluffy Bear.  "Not that I would've ever behaved that way in the first place!"

"Me neither," said a man in a baseball hat.  "Not if I wanted to live."

I was so tense by this time that I really felt I had to do something about this.

I went out of the store and up to the Useless Father.  He saw me coming and I swear he tried to get into his car faster.

"Hi," I said.  Then: "HELLO!" as he tried to ignore me.

"Hi," he mumbled.

"A friend of mine is a SuperNanny," I told him.  It's true, by they way.  "Her website is [URL deleted].com, if you're interested."

"No," he said, quickly.  "No thank you," and he closed his door with a bang.

I went back into the video store and told them all what I'd done.

Someone cheered, and suddenly video store guy found a copy of a film we'd been looking for, which someone else (that it had been reserved for) hadn't collected.

I really think we all need to speak up when we encounter badly brought up kids negatively impacting our lives in public.  After all, when we're retired, these revolting little fuckers will be running the country.

I don't blame the kids.  Kids are kids.  They'll push the boundaries if you let them, just like any small animal.  

It's the parents who are the failure.  A mother dog growls at her puppy and shakes it by the scruff of it's neck to teach it what it should and shouldn't do.  Human parents have the same obligation.

Hell is other people.

So we finally get off the tiny-seated, no-food, completely full plane, we walk through the airport, we stand in the cold waiting for the bus to take us to the long term car park, the bus finally comes, we get on, we remain patient while the bus stops for 4 other sets of people.

Finally, we are on our way to the car park.  We have 20 minutes to get to doggy day care to get our older boy.  The clock is ticking.

We are tired, we are hungry, we are impatient.

"How's everyone this evening, folks?" yells the driver.

Grateful there are other people on the bus, we let them answer.  The English don't tend to engage in loud conversation with strangers.

"I gotta tell you a story!" he yells.

Oh, fuck.  Here we go.

"So I'm driving the bus the other day, and this guy gets on with his wife and his teenage son.  Like I said to all of you when you got on, I said to him: 'May I have your yellow ticket, Sir?'  Well, he's diggin' in his pockets and he can't find his ticket. 

"Then he says to me: 'I remember it, though, it's BILL.'  Bill?  Bill?  I don't know what he's talking about. 

"So finally he finds his ticket and he hands it to me.  It's for parking spot B one-eleven!

"I say: 'That's for parking spot B one-eleven!'

"And now his teenage son is cracking up.  The dad is so embarrassed but his son is laughing and laughing.  And then his son says to me: 'You know what his job is?'

"I say: 'What's his job?'

"The boy says: 'He's a teacher!' "

A few polite laughs from the passengers.  Fluffe Bear and I aren't playing.  We stay stoically silent. 

Fluffy Bear opens up the notepad on his iPhone and types something.  He shows it to me.  It says:  Kill me.

"Wait!  It gets better!" the driver yells, clearly having missed his calling as a salesman on QVC shopping channel.

"The son says: 'Ask him what he teaches!'

"I say: 'What do you teach, Sir?'

"He says: 'Spelling!' "

A few people on the bus laugh.  Only the woman sitting at the front seems genuinely amused.  Or maybe she always laughs like a manic banshee, who knows?

Fluffy Bear taps his iPhone again, turning the screen to show me.  Added to the previous message are three words:  Kill me now.

"Yeah," continues the driver, causing Fluffy Bear to slump in defeat (he'd obviously thought the seated-stand-up routine was over), "people do lots of embarrassing things on my bus!

"One time I picked up this really big guy.  He was about 6 foot 6 and really - uh - sturdy. 

"So he gets on the bus and he can't find his ticket.  And he's standing at the front of the bus, fishing in his pockets and he says: 'I guess I have something in my pocket that you want, right?'

Real laughter this time.  Good old sexual innuendo, never lets an amateur comic down.

"So, as you know me by now, I never let a joke go.  So I lean on the pole right here and I say: 'But, Sir, we just met!"

OK, if I was less tired, and had more time on my hands, that would be funny, I guess.

But I'm not and I don't so I'm staring out the window, willing the car park to appear around the next corner.

And it does.

Thank God.

I know I'm a bitch but, still, hell is other people.

Yes, I have three kids.  My first is 13 and is finding where she fits in at school.  You know how that is.  My second is doing fine, far as I can tell.  My third is kinda stressy.  You know, the youngest, not the strongest.  He is also the only boy, so it's hard.  We try to help him and make sure he has man time with his daddy but it's hard because my husband works so hard and I'm the one home all day and so he is surrounded by three females and oh, we had such a sad time last year when our dog died.  We had her for 13 years.  We were at the vet and I was just crying and crying.  So silly I know but I just remembered all the great times we had together you know?  She would play with the kids and jump up on the bed and I remember her chewing my shoes when she was a puppy and she used to swim in the lake with the kids and she really looked after my youngest when he wanted to just be boisterous and go outside and play.  But he can also play with our little rabbit.  Yes, we have a bunny.  He's the cutest little thing.  Brown and soft and cuddly.  Our neighbor has one of those rabbits that are white with red eyes.  I don't like those, they're creepy.  Mostly it just stays in the garden and the mud room but my second daughter likes to take it up to her room and I told her, I said, just be careful of all those wires up there, honey.  And of course with us and the neighbor having rabbits we have to be so careful with our fences because just the tiniest hole and they'll get out...

Update on Saturday, October 17, 2009 at 6:09PM by Ittybittycrazy

There must be a secret society of loud women with nasal voices, and they are out to get me.  I've been identified and targeted as a hostile.  They are therefore seeking me out and annoying the living shit out of me.

That first one on the plane was Agent 001.

At the pool today, Agent 002 was on her cell phone.  

We were at the over 18 pool.  Now why, I ask  you, dear reader, with tears in my eyes, would a hotel even have an over 18 pool?  And why would people use it?

What it is about children at a pool that might irritate someone?

Could it be... might it possibly... can we humbly propose that it is because of the NOISE?

And so sitting with your feet in the pool talking loudly on your cell phone, that's rude, isn't it, wrinkly-leathered-faced-too-much-sun lady?

Fluffy Bear had to do something about this one and so, he asked her, very politely, to talk more softly.  Apparently she moderated her voice.  I didn't witness it... I'd buggered off to go and lie in the hammock on the grass, out of hearing range.

Later on, back at the pool, Agent 003.  

Part of some work junket, she found a colleague she knew and decided to make small talk.

This time it was all about her car ("It's so smooth you just don't know what speed you're going"), getting a speeding ticket on the way to the hotel and how her husband was playing the highway game with some guy.  

"You know the one," she said. "Where you overtake him and then he overtakes you and you are pretty much driving on your long journey together.

"So my husband was keeping pace with him and, when we got the ticket, he said the guy in the Merc had totally drawn him into the trap!"

Yeah, right.

Then it was all about her daughter and how she'd lost her job and was learning to live cheaply - cancelled her cable, eating differently, and now blogging on how to live life spending less.

Finally!

Something I'd WANT to overhear.

I waited to hear the blog URL.  

"It's Callie-something-cheap-something...

"No, it's cheapliving-something..."

She didn't remember it.

Yesterday I was at the video store.   I only had five minutes to run in and choose something because my friend was in the car and she needed the bathroom.  These are the realities of life, and I sympathized with her.

So it's Two For One night - a free old movie if you get a new one.  So I am hunting in the Drama aisle for Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence and I hear a commotion up front.

At first I think it is whatever movie they have playing on the TV perched precariously above the door, but then I see that it's two sales people behind the counter, arguing.

I know the woman - I've seen her there many times - but the guy seems new.

They are bickering like two kids in the back of the car on a long road trip, where neither of them wants to let the other one have the last word.

I didn't hear all of it, but here's what I did catch:

Woman:  "...tired, OK?  If you had a baby, even as a man, you'd be fucking tired."

Man [in a high voice]:  "Oh little Miss know everything.  She knows everything about every movie!"

Man turns to poor customer who has been waiting at the counter while all this has been going on...

Man: "What is your account number?"

Customer:  "Uh... uh... I can't remember."

And who can blame him?  I would've forgotten my name in that situation, it was so fucking awkward.

So it comes to my turn and I ask where I can find Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence because I looked in the Drama section and it wasn't there.

So the Woman looks it up on the computer and goes:

"Oh, it's under Japan."

and she takes me over to the right section.

"Oh," she says.  "We only have it on video.  Do you still have a VHS?"

"Uh... NO."

Wow, what year is this?  Her turn to feel awkward, I guess.

Still, I feel sorry for her because, even though I don't like rugrats and never plan to have one, if she really has just had a baby then it makes sense that she'd be tired.  Or maybe they were talking about a character in a movie.  But then she'd be right, the character would be tired.  So, based on the small part of the argument that I heard, I decide that she is the victim here, and I decide to lighten things up for her.

So we go back to the counter and she rings up the DVDs I've chosen.

"We still owe you Crank 2," I tell her.  "We'll bring it back tomorrow.  By the way, that movie is a massive, smelly, steaming pile of shit, and you shouldn't lend it out to anyone else... ever!"

 At least I made her laugh.

Still, even though I felt for her, they shouldn't have made a scene like that in the store.

Not exactly what you'd call customer service.

Hell is other people.

I fucked up today.

There's no other word for it and there's no-one else to blame for it. 

It was me - and I was fucking up. 

But what I didn't need was some uppity Bitch making it worse.

I was driving Fluffy Bear to a drinks thing with his friends and I ended up in the wrong lane.  I needed to turn right.  Perhaps, I thought, some kind soul in the right turning lane will forgive me for being stupid and let me in.  So I put my indicator (signal) on and was watching the rear view mirror to see if the little white car would slow down and let me go.  And it did.  How nice!

What I wasn't watching was the pedestrian crossing and, as I turned, I suddenly saw some poor girl on a bicycle, on my right, brake at the last minute and nearly get hit by our car.  I braked hard and said I was sorry to her.  She said it was OK and got her balance back. 

I wanted to say more to her when Bicycle Bitch came up on my left.

I just want to say up front that Bicycle Bitch stopped me from making another, proper apology to the poor girl I nearly ran over, and that is what I am most mad about. 

Second, I am mad that she rode accross from the other side of the road to come and shout and me.  Because that is fucking sad and pathetic.

Third, I am mad that she thought it appropriate to yell at me immediately after what could have been a horrible accident, when I was still in shock.

Last but not least, I am mad about what she said.

"Geez, Lady!" she yelled.  "You just turned accross oncoming traffic [note - not true] and then headed right accross the CROSSWALK!

"Thank you so much for pointing that out to me," I told her in my most upper class, withering, look-down-your-nose, British accent.

"That was," I continued, "very considerate of you.  It was also so very helpful, because I am completely incapable of recognizing or analyzing my own mistakes."

Fucking Bitch.

Hell is other people.

I went to a concert a little while ago.

I grew up in South Africa and, because of Apartheid, bands wouldn't tour there.  This was the extent of my live concert experience as a teenager:

• Rolf Harris
• Richard Clayderman
• Boney M

Yes, I am scarred for life.

Ever since I got to the UK, I've been making up for it, and I've continued that in the US. 

For me, it's not about keeping up with new music.  It's about catching up on those bands I've missed.  So I tend to go to the shows by 80s bands that have reformed, or are still going.

Enter Depeche Mode - one of my absolute favorite 80s bands.

So there we are, Bill and I, at the concert.

Behind us are sitting four Suburbanites who, when we arrive, are talking about the last time they came to the arena.  For all of them, it's been years, and the last time they were there it was for a sporting event.

Then the Cute Crazy Couple arrive.  Two guys, probably in their 30s, ready, willing and able to PARTAY.  They come into seats in front of us, and the more outgoing of the two introduces himself to everyone sitting around him, talks about how excited he is and generally just gets the fun going.

"Oh my GOD!"  I hear spat out from behind us.  "Imagine if we were sitting behind him!"

The Suburbanites continue by criticising the opening act and, when Depeche Mode finally take the stage, their arses stay glued to their seats and polite clapping ensues. 

They sit throughout 80%, silent.  At one point, the one on the aisle starts an argument with a girl who has walked down the steps to the edge of the seating block to see the stage because, as he is sitting down, she'd be obstructing his view.

Eventually, when the concert rises to a crescendo and Depeche Mode are belting out some of the old No. 1s, with the crowd singing every word and generally going insane, the Suburbanites stand up.  I turned around at one point and almost burst out laughing right at them... the oldest guy, pot-bellied, was swaying from side to side, shuffling his feet.  In his head he was 16, greasy-haired and covered in acne all over again. 

As for Bill and I, we danced pretty much the whole time.  We sang, we clapped, we waved our arms in the air.  I was sweating like a piggy wiggy, my voice was hoarse and my palms were red from being hit against each other.

Tell me, what is WRONG with these people?

If you want to listen to the music without participating, get a high quality CD and sit sipping lite beer in the basement media room of your McMansion!

Years ago, I went to a Pet Shop Boys concert in London.  It was a strange venue - the Tower of London.  I guess that what would have been the moat back in the day is now a strip of grass between the main part and the outer wall.  They put up a small stage and mostly, during the festival, there were jazz and classical performances. 

There was a tent where you could buy a picnic with champagne to have before the concert on the grass.  It was that kind of festival.

The first block of seats were beige deck chairs.  They hadn't been offered for sale, but rather given to media types and music reviewers.  My friend, Cameron, and I were in the first row of the second block of seats.

As soon as the Pet Shop Boys came on stage, we jumped up and started dancing.

I got a tap on the shoulder. 

I turned around to find a very red-faced, small man who spewed the following invective at me in that vicious camp tone that only gay men can pull off.

"I didn't pay 30 quid for my ticket to come here and watch your fat arse jiggle!" he spat.

Cameron is gay, fearless, extremely intelligent, blessed with an extensive vocabulary and has been exposed to a very wealthy and refined lifestyle, so he can look down his nose at HRH Lizzie if he wanted to.

Cameron said several very rude things to the man which included the phrases "fuck off" and "fat old queen," something that, as a straight woman, I would never have been able to pull off.

By this time people were starting to move into the aisles to get closer to the stage, and were being shooed off by Security.  Cameron noticed that, in the front block of free-ticket-giveaways, there were several people leaving their seats to head back to what must have been a well-stocked free bar.

We sneaked down the aisle and slipped into seats left by two people who were clearly not into "this modern crap they call music" and ended up in the second row.  We spent the first five minutes there turning around to our detractor, even though he probably couldn't see us from way back where he was sitting, and making rude hand signals at him.  We were very, very close to Neil and Chris, so God only knows what they thought we were doing.

Again, what is WRONG with these people? 

Did Mr CampyBitch really think that the Pet Shop Boys is the kind of music you sit and listen to, with reverence?  If he wanted that he should have come back the next day, bought a champagne picnic and bloody well air-conducted to some Mozart.

The whole point of a live concert is to sing and dance and clap and wave and be part of thousands of people who are singing and dancing and clapping and waving too.

At a live concert there is always someone, somewhere, singing the wrong words to the song, and that is exactly how it should be.

Because it doesn't matter.

It's about being there. It's about loving it. It's about letting go and having fun.

Hell is other uptight concert people.

Get the fuck off your arse!

I love Nordstrom.

It's the best store in America.  It's that simple.

I'm too poor to walk into Barneys or Saks and get served and people who shop at places like that and pay over $300 for a scarf are out of touch with reality.

Macy's is OK, but often dirty, and I just don't like the tought of buying sweat shop clothes at the cheaper stores.  Not to say that I don't ever buy from them - I do (especially now that I am an Ex-employee) - but I don't like to.

Why do I love Nordstrom?  Well, because this would never, ever happen there.

I walk into a health shop near my house.  I need a few things, including rice protein for my morning smoothies.

The shop is small, and I am the only customer in there.

Then I hear her.  

A shop assistant talking, at high volume, to a colleague.

"You know this lotion?  Well you know how it's made of organic stuff and, if you open a bottle and let air in, you can't sell it?  And you know that there is a tester on the shelf below it, right?  And it says 'Tester' on it?  Well I've had another customer open one of the bottles to smell the lotion!!!  I mean, dude!  I'm like, this is a thirteen dollar bottle of lotion.  And now we can't sell it!  This is, like, the third customer to do this!  I'm like.... what?!?!?!"

OK, so let's break it down:

• At Nordstrom, they would never talk about customers doing something silly in front of another customer
• At Nordstrom, sales people actually have more than half a brain, and they would realize that, if something happens three times, then their set up is confusing for the customer and has to be changed
• At Nordstrom, sales people are empowered to make changes and, instead of bitching about it, they'd change the display so that the tester bottle was in front of the real bottles rather than below it

So I got my rice protein, waited at the till (cash register) for Little Miss Monologuing Diatribe to finish and walk over to me, paid and left.  I did not buy any of the other stuff I needed, which I chose to go somewhere else - where I didn't have to listen to a stream of invective - and buy.

The little fountain, the wooden and bamboo interior, the soft music.  These things were clearly set up by the owner to create a soft, welcoming and soothing atmosphere in their store which, I'll remind you, is all about health, natural remedies, etc.

Waste of money when you don't train your staff how to behave correctly.

Hell is little, loud sales people.

I got home this afternoon and I had a strange burst of cleaning productivity. 

It all started when I drove Bill and Ted (yes, I tend to be a childish when I give my friends pseudonyms), to get a BBQ.  To fit it in, I had to put the back seats down.  That's when I saw it... a quarter inch deep stripe of tightly packed Puppy Dog hair in the crease where the chairs fold flat.  Blergh!

Later, as I pulled into a parking spot in front of our house, all I could think of was the hand-held vacuum.  I spent the next half hour or so, using the brush attachment, trying to scrape and suck the hair out of the car, and occasionally cursing Puppy Dog.

The hand-held vacuum ran out of charge before my housework energy burst did, so I grabbed the garden hose.

A week or so ago, Fluffy Bear bought this amazing attachment for the hose which has a dial on it. You can turn the water in a jet that reaches 20 feet away, a shower of big raindrops, a soft mist... pretty much whatever you want.

I can stand at the top of the bank that lies between our front porch and the sidewalk and, using different settings, water all the grass and plants on that side of the house. 

So I'm standing there, spurting the plants next to the sidewalk with the Jet setting, making rain on the grass with the Soak setting and gently spritzing the Lavender plants with the Mist setting.

Then a neighbor walked past.

"You know," she said, "it's going to rain tonight."

"Really?" I replied, looking up at the gray, cloudy sky as if noticing it for the first time. "Oh, yes, I see." 

I smiled and shrugged, and she went on her way.

I was being neighborly. 

Yes, I was.

Because, you see, here's how the conversation went in my head:

Neighbor:  "You know, it's going to rain tonight."

Me:  "Is it going to rain tonight in Mexico, too?"

Neighbor:  "Why do you want to know if it is going to rain in Mexico?"

Me:  " I don't.  I was just wandering how far you'd go with spouting useless information that I really don't give a shit about."

Neighbor:  "What?"

Me:  "LEAVE ME ALONE, BITCH!  I'M HAVING FUN!"

Hell is other people.

Last night we went to see a movie.  It's so damn hot that my friend Bill called around to see who had good aircon, and we went to see what they were showing.

We therefore abandoned our dogs, which I feel bad about, but Puppy Dog seems to have survived.

So... the cinema we choose is a little upscale.  Let's face it, no-one has the tolerance for the proletariat when it's hot.  We needed a baseball-cap-free-zone.

This place is over 21 (the ridiculously high American age when you're allowed to drink), has full bar, armchairs, footstools and drink delivery to your seat half way through the movie. 

Very civilized.

Very cosmopolitan.

Very downtown.

But, sadly, not everyone watching the movie was.

Perhaps it's a sign of our times, but young people who have grown up with flatscreens and DVDs don't seem to know how to behave in a cinema.

Take my niece, for instance.  The first time she was taken to see a movie, it was something like The Little Mermaid.  She got popcorn, diet soda, candy - she had a great time.  Then, as the credits rolled and other people got up to leave, she turned to her mother and said:

"Rewind, Mommy!  Rewind!"

No amount of explaining could pacify her and, as my sister-in-law tells it, she was dragged screaming and crying from the cinema.

This generation - in many ways and in many situations - simply has no idea how to behave correctly.

So here we are, about to watch The Hangover.

I'm with good friends, the aircon is blasting, we have great seats.

I'm set.

I have my champagne, I have my glass of water, I have my Nicorette.

I'm set.

I'm an intelligent woman, I have a great sense of humor, I have a keen appreciation of irony.

I'm set.

But, no.

No.

You see, I clearly am not able to truly "get" what is going on without the help of the couple sitting in the row behind me.  And they - Good Christians that they are - will help me out.

And so, after each line that they thought was funny, or each line that they felt confident they could predict before the character voiced it, they articulated - loudly.

Alan: It's time to let the dogs out!

Good Christians: "Let the DOGS out! WAAH HA HA HA HA HA!"

Cellphone rings.

Good Christians: "It's Doug!"

Phil: It's Doug!

Baby is heard crying somewhere in the suite.  Stu, Phil and Alan open a closet.  They see a baby.

Good Christians: "It's a baby!  WAAAH HA HA HA HA HA!"

Alan wakes up, hungover, and stumbles into the bathroom for a pee.  As he is taking a leak, we hear a growl.  He looks to his right and, not quite believing his eyes, sees a tiger.

Good Christians: "It's a TIGER!  WAAAH HA HA HA HA HA HA!"

Hell - blistering, piercing, eviscerating, lacerating hell - is OTHER FUCKING PEOPLE!!!!

It is hot today where I live.  Very hot.  Damn hot.  Pizza oven hot.  Searing fires of hell hot.  Blazing branding-iron hot.

We are uncomfortable.  We are sweaty.  We are tetchy.

So I go out into the garden with my laptop to sit in the shade.  Somewhere from across my back alley, from a house up the hill from mine, live the cliche - the Loud Americans.

Not all Americans are like this but, in Europe, we tend to unfairly stereotype those kinds of tourists who stand in the middle of a busy piazza, neck bedecked with massive camera, and yell "Isn't it just great, Herbert?"

Suffice to say, it's a type of person, irrespective of nationality - one who insists on talking at a volume inappropriate to the proximity of those around them - that I detest.

And just because you are in your own back yard, doesn't mean that consideration isn't necessary.  We live in the city.  The back yards are postage stamps.  I can hear you flush your toilet.  You can probably hear me fart.

So there I am, hot and bothered - and not in a good way - trying to literally and figuratively chill out.

And then I hear it.

Screeching little girl:"I won, Daddy, I won!"

Muffled conversation.  That kind of conversation where you can't hear every word that is being said, but it's loud enough, and - in male base tones - deeply booming enough, to distract and annoy.

Screeching little girl:"I won, Daddy, I won!"

Continued muffled conversation.

Screeching little girl:"I won! Did you see? I WON!"

Continued muffled conversation.

Screeching little girl: "Daddy!  DADDY! LOOK! I WON!"

Continued muffled conversation.

Screeching little girl: "I WON! I WON! I WON! DADDY! DADDY!"

Continued muffled conversation.

And now I shall let you in on a little secret.  I studied Speech and Drama.  In fact, when I was 11, I won a competition in my province for the best recital of a poem and got free Speech and Drama lessons.  My parents kept them up and I did this as extra-curricular activity (outside of school - they were private lessons) from the age of 12 through to 18.

One of the things you learn in Speech and Drama is to project.

You imagine hitting the back wall of the theatre with your voice.  It's not about shouting, it's about speaking normally and yet achieving a huge range at the same time.  It's about allowing your mouth and throat to open up to create caverns which let the sound circulate, amplify and BOOM.

"Daddy," I boomed.  "Please take a moment to tell your daughter that it's great that she won."

Pause....

"Good job, honey!"

"Thank you."

Silence.

Hell is other people.

 

"One Grande Decaf Soy Latte and one Grande Cappuccino, dry, please."

"One Soy Latte and One Cappuccino, Grandes," I hear her tell him.

"Please can you make sure the Soy Latte is decaf?" I ask the nice boy taking my money.

"The Soy Latte is Decaf..... What?.... Oh, you knew that?  Oh, OK."

 

"She's got it," he says to me.

"Did you say that that Cappuccino was normal?" BB asks me, taking an attitude.  

"Yes," I say, between gritted teeth, giving attitude right back.

"FREE SOY LATTE!  ANYONE WANT A FREE SOY LATTE?"

Who would have thought that a kid on your block practising the trombone at full volume every day for the last two weeks could get worse?

Well, it can.

Because now the kid is on vacation and has his friends round.  And they - too young, you would think, to care - seem to believe they should pay homage to Michael Jackson, after his untimely death, by tunelessly warbling his songs to a karaoke machine.

Worse still, they think they can riff and harmonize.

You are not alone... (YOUNOTALONE!)

For I am here with you... (IHEREWITHYOU!)

Though we're far apart...

You're always in my heart...

Poor Michael must be rolling in his grave.

As for me, I am being driven to a glass of wine.

Hell is other people.

1. Hold an open house before the renovation is finished and the varnish on the deck is still sticky.


2. Put a "Media Room" in the basement which is so narrow it can only fit two small armchairs side by side


3. Make interesting spend/no spend decisions in the kitchen: a special water tap next to the stove, but no water/ice dispenser on the fridge; two sinks but no garbage disposal


4. Show the house on a sunny day with the windows closed so it's hot. When a prospective buyer asks if the house has air conditioning, tell her "No, but all the windows open!"


5. Create an upstairs deck which is off the two kids bedroom rather then the master bedroom


6. Create a walk-in closet in the master bedroom that's so small only a nudist's wardrobe would fit in it


7. Put interesting art all over the place, like a five foot diameter clock with massive Roman numerals, a strange 6 foot long, 3 foot wide metal arrow. When people visit a house they want to visualize themselves in it, not deal with your taste in art. When a prospective buyer whispers feedback that the art is distracting from the overall house, say "I'm an expert in this," and walk away.


8. Put the house, in an area where comparable houses have sold for $500 - $800K less, on the market for over $2 million

WTF?

Yeah, good luck with that.