Limp handshakes and wimpy hugs

I dig a strong handshake. Mine is a point of pride, and I always extend my hand with intention and strength. I don’t get folks who place their hand in mine and sort of just leave it lying there, so I can hold their flaccid mitt. If I wanted a dead fish in my hand, I’d be down at Pike Place Market flirting with the fishmongers. If you are going to shake my hand, press the flesh like you mean business. I don’t care if you have sweaty palms, raggedy cuticles, or aphephobia. I do care if you washed after peeing. If you can't muster up the energy to grip my hand and give it a few pumps, rest assured I’m going to curl that hand up and steer it in the direction of your face. So much for your fear of being touched. Touch my fist, friend.

And if you’re going to hug me, press your body against me properly so I can hook my leg around your ass. That’s just good form. Don’t lean in and pat me on the back without actually making contact with me. It either indicates that 1) I smell (which is clearly ridiculous), 2) you are afraid of my boobs (which is possible), or 3) you hate the idea of human contact. Embrace intimacy, embrace me. I won’t bite (unless I really like you).

(Photo: http://adsoftheworld.com/media/print/casall_sports_products_the_fishy_handshake)

Parents who give their offspring names all starting with the same initial

Forget the Octo-Mom (is she related to Doc Ock?); I’m way more disturbed by 17 Kids & Counting, the TLC show about the Duggar family. Yeah, there are 17 of them. I could comment about the crazy number of children but that would be like shooting fish in a barrel. That’s not what gripes my ass. Rather, it irritates me when parents give all their kids names starting with the same initial. Jordan, Jason, Jinga, Jessa, Jill, Joshua, John-David, Jennifer, Jackson, Justin, James—okay, enough already! Would it hurt you to throw a Kevin or Stacey in there, John Jacob Jingleheimer Jackass?

The Duggars aren’t alone. I grew up surrounded by kids who came from an alliterative household. Carol was kin to Cathy and Christine; Dan’s siblings were Dave, Debbie, and Diana. Dumb.

I don’t even know where to begin with George Foreman.

(For the record, my brothers are Chris and John and my step-sibs are Jay, Joe, Paul, Amy, Denise, and Annette, because, obviously, my parents rock.)

(Photo: TLC)

Man boobs + thin tight sweaters = serious beating

As if man boobs (moobs?) weren't bad enough, some chumps are so clueless that they slip on a thin, tight sweater and exacerbate the problem. Simon Cowell is the patron saint of the man nipple (mipple?) congregation, but over on Grey's Anatomy, if the dumbass "Izzie having sex with her dead fiancé Denny" storyline wasn't bad enough, the costume designer put him in a snug sweater to show off his chafed mipples for all eternity. It must be cold in the afterlife, that's all I can say.

Unfortunately, I have no way to lay my hands on Denny, him being dead and all (not to mention fictional), but I guess since he has already kicked the bucket, he's already been smacked down enough. Simon, though, is another story. Dude, for the love of all things holy (i.e. David Cook), put those things away.

(Photo: goofjuice.blogspot.com)

Samoas*

It’s Girl Scout Cookie** season. In other words, I’ve entered the seventh circle of hell. Cheery Girl Scouts camp outside my grocery store, making me feel like a jackass if I don’t buy several boxes of cookies or a fat ass if I do.

I like the concept of GSC. They aren’t that expensive, I’m helping a good cause (that punk girl with the cute freckles and the stage mother, for instance), and it’s tradition. But like many traditions, Girl Scout Cookies perennially disappoint. It may be heresy, but the cookies pretty much suck.

Has anyone else noticed this?

I can deal with the Trefoils (a benign shortbread), but when it comes to Samoas, I just get pissed. Giddy with anticipation, I bite into the classic cookie. With a combination of chocolate, coconut, and caramel, what’s not to like? I can’t put my finger on it exactly but they always, without fail, let me down in a way that a Deluxe Graham or an Oreo or a Chips Ahoy never has. They taste a bit like paraffin.

Maybe if I pulverize these crap-ass cookies, I can transform them into a tasty piecrust. Samoa cheesecake, anyone?

* My friend Kerry says that the only way to go with the Samoa is to pop them in the freezer before popping in your piehole. I might give them another chance because I like second chances (especially when it involves food). That's just how I roll.

** Girl Scout cookies irk Sandra's shit, too. I have to give her a shout-out for this idea. Between her e-mail and Nora having a girl in a green vest knock on her door over the weekend to sell her cookie crack, I had to weigh in on the subject.

Namaste

Every time I hear someone say "namaste," I want to beat them and their sustainable clothing with a rain stick. I mean, fine, say it at the end of yoga class…if you absolutely have to. But when I hear it outside of the ashram, it harshes my mellow. The likely culprits are people who get their kids hopped up on carob chips and let them run around Trader Joe's because they are "spirited."

Namaste means "The light in me honors the light in you." When I'm in shavasana (during my occasional foray into yoga) and I hear this, I throw up a little in my mouth. Laying on my back, well, you can imagine that this isn't a good thing. The light in me wants to knock your lights out or, better yet, reach in and rip out your heart chakra. Saying "namaste" doesn't make you enlightened, it just makes you a tool in an organic bamboo hoodie.

(Photo: powerfulintent.ning.com)

The Magic 8 Ball

Screw you, Magic 8 Ball, and your “Better not tell you now” coyness. You think you're so superior, telling us all what's what with your terse responses. Would it hurt you to give me an affirmative one of these days? I mean, I do my part. I focus, I shake, I beg, I plead, I stroke your smooth exterior. "Reply hazy try again," "Cannot predict now," and "Don't count on it" may be truthful but would it hurt you to throw me a bone once in a while? Everyone knows that polite white lies are just good form if the truth is going to hurt. You don't see me telling you "My sources say you suck," do you? No, I keep it to myself, because I'm classy that way.

You might as well say "He's just not that into you" or "Poverty is in your future," stab me in the heart with a sharp point of your fickle icosahedral die, and be done with it. Stop prolonging the agony, or better yet, give me an "It is certain" or a simple "YES" every now and then, you smug ball of jackassedness.

The OxiClean dude's voice

Nails on chalkboard. Sirens. Mary Hart's voice. These annoying sounds got nothin' on Billy Mays' loud, grating, deafening, earsplitting, [fill in your own adjective] voice when he's hawking OxiClean.

I was at my friend Sandra Watson's home when we both collectively—I don't even think the commercial came on—shouted out how much we hate his piercing voice.

While I'm sure Mr. Mays is a very nice man who doesn't holler at his friends and family 24-7, I want to take down, or maybe take out, this howler monkey's voice box. Can't a girl just watch late-night cable in peace?

Blow-in cards

Whenever I receive a new magazine in the mail (and I get a lot of them: Allure (where I'm a contributor), Vogue, Lucky, Entertainment Weekly, The Week, Seattle Magazine, Hallmark, and—don't ask—Seventeen), I immediately rip off the polybag and remove the blow-in and tip-in cards. They drive me, in a word, bananas. They fall out all over the floor, both at the newsstand and in my bathroom, they kill trees, and most importantly, they impede my reading pleasure.

Those thicker pieces of paper often are wedged between a gorgeous fashion spread or they are lodged between a compelling story. And when turning the pages, they cause my magazine to flop open to the spread where the blow-in card is, demanding that I pay attention to the subscription card. Grrr.

I don't have a fireplace to repurpose these as tinder. I liked this site's suggestions for blow-ins. I bet there are some craft opportunities for the paper. But the best thing I can do is to toss them into the recycling bin. They are dead to me.

Molly Ringwald's prom dress in Pretty in Pink

Biggest. Cinematic. Letdown. Ever.

After showing mad personal style throughout the entire movie (no one, and I mean no one, rocks pearls and flowered fabric like Molly Ringwald), the girl shows up defiantly at prom to prove to the world and to Blaine, the insipid boy with the crazy eyes and white pleated pants, that she's not broken.

Um, it's just a thought, but she might have chosen a more suitable dress to take a stand in, something that didn't scream "home-sewn hot mess."

Andie should have left Fiona's dress alone. I want to bitch slap that polyester Frankenfrock with the collar and mesh insert, shred it, and burn it. Oh, wait—it's probably flame retardant. Fire bad.

Let's hope Andie got that scholarship and used it at FIT or Parsons.

Sequels to movies that sucked ass to begin with

When I was in Oshkosh last week, I asked some students what or who they'd like to punch in the face. This was one of them. Pink Panther 2, anyone? Steve Martin, do you really need a paycheck that bad? Does a producer have some incriminating photos squirreled away somewhere? Shame on you. And why is it called Pink Panther 2 when it's like the 11th PP film?

The students also brought up films like Without a Paddle: Nature's Calling, which has none of the original actors from the original junk show. Let's not even talk about Step Up 2: The Streets.

And then there's the recent string of Bring It On and American Pie movies, which are more like branded films (think National Lampoon) than sequels. While American Pie Presents Band Camp sounds, um, charming, without any of the original cast (except, curiously, Eugene Levy) or an honest-to-God MILF in sight, you can bet it's gonna blow monkey in addition to a woodwind instrument.

Heart-shaped crap

Are you with me on this? The only heart-shaped things I like are schmancy chocolates that I can stuff down my piehole.

Cell phones in public restrooms

Is your cell phone call really that important that you have to keep the convo going while you're doing your business in a bathroom stall? Really? Do you tell the person on the line that the sound of running water is a faucet and not your bladder? And have some respect for your fellow pee-ple—we might be trying to have a moment of peace away from the maddening crowd (or perhaps we're communing with our US Weekly).

Pry the phone away from your ear, urinate, wash your hands, punch yourself in the face, and resume your call.

Airport bathroom stalls

I've been traveling for the past day and I was rudely reminded of how much I hate airport bathrooms. Unlike most public places, airports usually have an ample number of stalls but like seats on flights, they are getting smaller and smaller.

The door usually opens inward and barely misses hitting the toilet. I then try to push my way in with my carry-on bag and laptop case. How are you supposed to get everything in there if there's no room between the toilet and the door? With a lot of angling and maneuvering and shoving and pushing, that's how. Oh, and swearing.

I am downright thrilled whenever I discover a stall with a door that opens outward. Are airport planners worried that we'll push open the door and smack an unsuspecting woman on her way to the changing table? It beats dropping a Nalgene bottle down the crapper because your backpack tipped as you were trying to twist your wheelie into the stall.

And don't even get me started about automated plastic seat covers. Most of the time, they don't work and sitting on used plastic seems much, much worse than sitting on tissue or the seat itself.

With hand sanitizer at the ready, I'm ready to use the stall as a punching bag. On second thought, maybe it would be better if I just kicked the crap out of it instead.

Admit it: You thought this was going to be about Larry Craig, didn't you?

(The photo comes from the Poop Report. Seriously.)

Obscene portion sizes

Yep, this "Celebration Cake" really was as gross as it looks. Supposedly a red velvet cake, it was just white cake that was tinted with food coloring. But the bait and switch wasn't the problem. The size was. I mean, look at it. It looks like the bow of the frickin' Titanic! It was put together with two giant wedges of a three-layer cake stacked on each other. Blech.

If this was our entire dinner, we might have been able to choke it down. As it was, we were already stuffed. At the recent CHA Trade Show in Anaheim, a group of us headed to Buca di Beppo for our last supper.

There were five of us.

We ordered a calamari appetizer, a large salad, and two entrees (they serve everything family style). We were on a good pace during the app and salad but collectively groaned when the chicken parm and spicy sausage penne arrived. The bowl of penne was particularly egregious. To give you an idea of scale, the giant white bowl looked big enough to soak my feet in. Both of them. And the pasta was mixed with sausage and several links were sliced and laid across the top. Tasty, sure, but the size was just plain offensive. The restaurant is in the midst of hotels so I suspect that the primary way leftovers are taken away is via Dumpster.

And that's sick. At least Olive Garden waits until you finish the first basket of breadsticks and bowl of salad before the waiter brings you more.

Quantity does not equal quality, especially when it comes to Celebration Cake. Cut that cake in half (and while you're at it, try making a real red-velvet cake). When I'm not punching this cake's lights out, I'm rubbing my belly in pain.

Fingernails

They just keep growing back.

Until the day you die, you're going to have to file, trim, shape, buff, or polish your fingernails. Or, you give up and become a contender for the Guinness Book of World Records. When I'm not biting my fingernails, I'm wishing I could punch them. (But that would be impossible, since they are tucked inside my fist.)

Don't even get me started about cuticles…

Harrison Ford's earring

Love Harrison Ford. Hate the earring. When he pierced his ear a few years back, I thought that it was his sad attempt to feel young and hip. Maybe his relationship with Calista made him feel impulsive or desperate. But I had thought it was a passing fad and he’d lose it around the time Hollywood Homicide came out.

He didn’t.

So then I resorted to prayer.

It’s not working. So I’m left with anger. I want to beat the crap out of that earring and Harrison Ford’s left earlobe.

You're not in Manchester, mate

I just got an invitation from Nordstrom to experience the new MAC Cosmetics Hello Kitty collection. While Hello Kitty will undoubtedly merit its own rant at some point, I was more irked by the fact that I was invited to be “one of the first to see the looks, colours, and accessories of this exclusive limited-edition collection.” Um, colours? While I know that MAC was founded in Toronto, the last time I checked, this was the US of A and Ontario had not been joined the union as our 51st state.

What I'm trying to say is that your spelling don’t play here. Confused? Let me give you a little spelling lesson. It’s color, not colour; harbor, not harbour; analyze, not analyse; center, not centre; and theater, not theatre. Unless you are Hugh Bloody Grant, back away from the extra “u” and the “re”. If you don’t like the way Merriam-Webster and I spell, move to the UK or Canada and spend all your savings on an OED, you pretentious sot.

Get with the program(me) or I’m going to drive my fist into your Anglophile face and let your universal health care pick up the tab.

Are there any other Anglo-cized words that drive you batty?

Gummy kisses

Maybe it's just me, but I've been out with more than one guy who tucks his gum away behind a tooth or some other mysterious place when he goes to make out with me. Do these chumps have a hinged filling to store the Juicy Fruit? Where does it go? Does it even matter? Are you that destitute that you can't pull out a new stick post-mackdown? The only oral fixation you should have at that moment is with my mouth. Lose the gum, jackwipe.*

You know what? On second thought, I don’t want to kiss you. I want to hit you. Really hard. In the kisser.

*If you're a chick, the same goes for you.

My GI tract

Probiotics, Prilosec, six GI repair pills a day, visits with a gastroenterologist, and an endoscopy. What’s a girl to do to calm the acid reflux, the rumblings, and the Barney-like burps in her digestive tract? Change my diet and reduce my stress level? Hells no! Punch my lower intestine in the face, that’s what. Oh, and order some Thai food, 4 stars please. Suck it, duodenum.

Those effing commercials

You know what's getting old (besides the 25 things epidemic on Facebook)? Getting blind-sided by the polar bear commercials with Noah Wyle, the starving children commercials with Laurie Metcalf, and for God’s sake, the animal cruelty spots with Sarah McLachlan. Make it stop, please, make it stop, or I’m going to have to punch global warming, famine, and animal abusers in their collective faces.

(Photo can be found at www.firstpeople.us)

Welcome fellow malcontents

This is my first post for Things I Want to Punch in the Face, a decidedly less sunny blog than my crafty Prairie Tales blog. See, things irk my sh*t on a daily basis. Alone, they are not a big deal but add to it a stressed gal with a short fuse and you get—you guessed it, Einstein!—something I want to punch in the face.

So without further ado, I present a snarky take on life's little annoyances.

Today, I'd like to smack down waiters who top off your coffee without asking. I mean, you might have just gotten it to the right temperature and blend of cream and sugar when they come along and fill up your decaf cup with regular joe while you're eyeballing the dessert menu. I'm the boss of me! I want to punch these presumptive bozos in the face.