Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Of Course You Love Your Kids; Now Get The Hell Out of My Way

Anyone who knows me even a little knows that little tiny stupid things really annoy the crap out of me. Lie, cheat, abuse my pets – no problem. But a handmade sign that uses incorrect punctuation – that shit will have me muttering under my breath for days. Sometimes weeks.

So it’s with that backdrop I tell you about one of my biggest pet peeves. I’ve been walking a lot over the past week or so (another blog for another time) and I’ve noticed on more than one local street the sign that makes my blood boil every time.

“Please drive slowly We Love Our Children.”

This sign is wrong for so many reasons. Let us count them:

1. As you see, the sign never specifically says "love" but uses the heart symbol. Clearly the sign must have been created by an Irish Catholic family that couldn't use the actual word "love" to describe family members. But if Jesus was around the block, those four letters would have been in bold, capital letters, underlined two times.

2. You assume I’m driving too fast. Okay, that’s a fair assumption for me personally (another blog for another time). But you assume everyone who reads the sign is driving too fast.

3. If said driver is driving too fast, would you: a) hope he takes his eyes off the road to read a street sign with more words than almost any other sign you can imagine, or b) watch the road where your careless children might be carelessly riding their crappy scooters you bought them for Christmas at TJ Maxx.

4. The sign assumes the driver does not love his or her children, or perhaps nieces and nephews, but that the unique caring individuals who dwell on these particular streets have this loving commitment to their offspring that most parents do not share. Give me a break.

5. What if you don’t love your children equally? Or you realize the youngest one is a complete turd-on-a-stick? Will you trick that child into walking dead on into oncoming traffic? Will you put up a sign that says “If you see this loser child, step on it and have at it, Speed Racer?”

6. It’s not an official traffic sign and therefore is probably illegal. But loving your children is such a nice warm sentiment, we won’t ever blow the whistle.

7. It’s very limiting, suggesting only children are prone to automobile accident victimization? How about “We love our Depends-wearing, moth-ball-smelling, whisky-smellling grandparents who think they are walking down the Boulevard to the speakeasy before they take in a burlesque show?” Or “We got a retard on the block. He’s not technically a child but one day last week he bit a social worker, a neighbor and the head off a dead bird in the same day. Take it easy, okay?” Or “We are a bunch of newlyweds on this block and we don’t yet resent our spouses or ask ‘what if Jimmy Burke did kiss me at prom’ so could you keep our love whole by being careful on our street?”

8. And it’s just too damn passive-aggressive. And that might make the Catholic- or Jewish-guilt ridden child like myself (uh that would be Catholic; I never looked good in a yarmulke) unknowingly lead-footed on that skinny pedal. And the amount of guilt stored up could result in a crash involving not only your perfect children but both your white haired grandparents and Special Fred, especially if he’s hugging the tree into which my Pathfinder careens.

9. Oh yeah, and it absolves all parents on the street from being responsible and watching their children. It encourages “Gabby was out of work for two weeks and came back with killer bosooms” kind of gossip by neighborhood mothers; it allows 6 dads on the block to stand over one barbecue to supervise the intensity of a charcoal fire, work that requires a can of Pabst Piss Ribbon or whatever cheap swill that your neighbor Steve brings to your house while he stocks his fridge with Stella Artois. This sign allows people the false confidence that allows them to use “But I was in watching The View. Scott Peterson’s girlfriend was on” as an excuse for their beautiful shining child getting scraped off the grill of a Chevy Silverado.

So there you have it. Nine solid reasons to speed up in one of those " our children" neighborhoods. Good luck and Godspeed. Lots of Godspeed!

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Fine, Don't be My Imaginary Friend! I'm Not Mad -- Really!

The world, it is safe to say, is a strange place. It is getting stranger by the day, even with the death of Michael Jackson (chimps and children DO breather easier however).

Technology is changing our lives before our very eyes. I, for one, have embraced the social media (sites like Facebook and Twitter). Why, you ask? Why, thank you for asking. Two reasons:

1. I crave attention
2. It's better than doing work.

(If you are a client of mine, I mean the work of other clients, of course)

But the social media can create some sticky situations, for sure.

My Facebook account was recently suspended indefinitely. I tried to find out but I got a canned email that said basically "It could be one of the reasons listed below, and we may or may not reply to tell you about your case."


They didn't end up telling me, but I think it's because I blogged about feces. It is a mini-obsession of mine ("how many times do you go everyday?" "what color is your poo usually?" "It felt a lot bigger than it looked!").

Who knows where my account went. In any case, I had to start from scratch and build another profile. I had 450 "friends" on my account. I use the quotes around friends because none of them were Jennifer Aniston. Mmmmm, my best friend.

So...I found out when you start an account on Facebook, you can only send friend invites to a certain number of people before the vigilant Facebook police tell you literally "to slow down" or "face suspension."

See -- that's what I'm talking about -- a little warning. What a concept!

So people found themselves not on my friends list. Which means their walls no longer contained references to poop, retarded people (sorry handicapable?), midgets (sorry, little people), or dumb people (sorry - Yankee fans).

Quite frankly, their lives went dark.

So I kept getting these e-mails from very good friends.

"Uh, dude. I'm not sure if you're angry with me and my wife, but we noticed you un-friended us on Facebook. If there's something wrong, you know you can always call. Okay, you can text us and we'll have a two hour conversation instead of five minutes, but you know what I mean. Be in touch, love, Skippy."

Okay, I have no friends named Skippy. But I might just have a buddy Jif.

So I've been in this crazy holding pattern of remembering whom I had befriended on Facebook 1 and whom still awaits an invite on Facebook 2. Meanwhile I've been heavily Tweeting..... "Um, no Ma, tweeting is not a sin. Even if you're not married. You see, there are these things, called Tweets and they must be 140 characters long....No, not like Disney characters... Never mind. Want another Nilla wafer?"

So if you thought you were no longer my friend, well, you're better off keeping it that way. But if you don't see me on your Facebook page, look me up, send a request. Or if you want to follow me on Twitter, I'm at

You'll like me better on Twitter. You're limited to 140 characters (or 1 character -- Grumpy), so Twitter is ideal because people can only handle me in small doses anyway.

And, no I'm not mad at you. Unless you don't laugh at my jokes. Then I'll have to inundate you with Lil' Green Patch requests.

No ma, I'm not giving away lilypads....It's this thing -- Oh never mind....