"Buy Nothing" pleas

I love free stuff. I brake for broken chairs abandoned on corners. I am first in line for a clothing swap. I enter every online sweepstakes that crosses my path.

Which brings me to the Buy Nothing Project. I loved this movement committed to gifting unwanted items within your community. I'm not the only one keen on this concept—there are more than 280,000 members in 18 countries participating on 1,300 Facebook groups.

I'm in one of those groups. Last summer, when I moved in with my boyfriend, my couch simply had no place in our home. I had special ordered that sofa from Dania, picking out a custom nubby tweed upholstery. I loved that thing but it didn't fit in the house—literally—so while lounging on it on the porch, I posted it on my local Buy Nothing page and got rid of it in under five minutes.

I gave it to the first person who responded.

Come to find out, it's not always that easy.

Buy Nothing giveaways are constantly being posted, catching my eye throughout the day. I'm not usually the first one to respond, so I think I'm out of the running. But hold the phone.

It's not always first-come, first-regifted.

The comment thread is chockablock with pleas and pitches. Sob stories, requests worthy of Mother Teresa, personal connections that can only mean that the Keurig/framed poster/lawn gnome/size 8 Mossimo dress and its suitor belong together.

When faced with "I'll use your grandmother's jewelry to make new pieces for a battered women's shelter" or "This will remind me every day of my dead cat" or "We lost all our plants in a fire,"
how's a greedy girl to compete?

I don't. I throw in the towel, look at my many belongings, and try to remember that Marie Kondo stuff about "sparking joy."

Please consider.

Evites

I’m going to make a bold statement: Evites are the downfall of manners and etiquette. 

Evite burst onto the scene in 1998 and quickly became part of the fabric of our lives, hooking us with its ease of use and transparency.'

And once the site reeled us in with cutesy-wootesy birthday and cocktail party templates, we got lazy.

Too lazy to send proper invites. I just heard today about an evite that was sent out for a small memorial service for a classy, elegant woman. She deserved better. She deserved hand-written invitations on 100-pound cardstock. If you’re having a housewarming party for everyone you know, pick a festive design and evite the shit out of your shindig. If you are having an intimate get-together to mark a significant event, care enough to send the very best. Get thee to a Hallmark, y’all.

Too lazy to explore other options for gorgeous, functional online invitation tools that aren’t littered with ads and a slow user interface. I only find out about sites like Paperless Posts when friends more adventurous than me invite me to something.

Too lazy to RSVP properly or at all. Evite notifies guests on the invite list by sending e-mails but it doesn’t include the event details. So people often don’t even bother to click through to the actual information, let alone reply. And if they do reply, they get a chance to sit on the fence with a “Maybe.” In my day, you either responded with a “Yes” or “No,” not a “I’ll try to come but I might be on a deadline.” I call bullshit.

And yet, I can’t bring myself to just say “No.” The allure of being able to peruse a guest list is irresistible. Is my frenemy going to be there? Is my former lover planning on coming with a +1? Are my favorite people opting out, leaving me to make stilted chitchat with that horribly dull man who never ever asks me a question about myself? Is that fashion plate coming? If so, that means I have to step up my sartorial game for the night. Evite allows us to make quasi-informed decisions regarding attendance without peppering the host with inappropriate questions.

So am I going to finally kick evites to the curb? “Maybe.” But I’m also indulging my love of stationery and loading up on some letterpressed invitations for my next soirée.

Airline boarding process

I recently was flying out of Seattle when I realized just how low I ranked on the food chain of travel. I wasn’t flying first class. Or business class. And I didn’t have gold, silver or aluminum club status. I wasn’t a member of the military, or even wearing camo cargo pants ironically. I didn’t have small children or a feeble grandparent in tow. I myself wasn’t disabled, on crutches, in a wheelchair, or zooming around in one of those motorized La-Z-Boy scooters.

And no, I wasn’t sporting a Russell Wilson Seahawks jersey. Which on that day moved you to the front of the pre-boarding line.

In other words, my carry-on suitcase and I were hosed. It didn’t matter that I checked in 23 hours 59 minutes before our flight. I clearly was not part of any cool kids’ club. And I clearly need to get a credit card that earns me miles.

Can it really be called pre-boarding when 90 percent of passengers are locked and loaded by the time they announce Zone 1? Airlines want us to pay for upgrades so that we can board earlier and more importantly, feel as though we’re part of an elite group of flyers, the Star-Bellied Sneetches of the skies.

Here’s an idea: Maybe they should shift it to post-boarding. Board all of the seemingly normal, deodorant-wearing folks first and then call for the dregs. Wearing patchouli? You can finally board, and take the seat in the very last row. Lump all the Chatty Cathys together and seat them in the same row. Got a pupu platter of dietary issues? You get to board, only after the gate attendant flogs you with a bunch of lacinato kale that you get in lieu of the snack pack. Carrying a shit-ton of computer equipment so you can rock some in-flight spreadsheets? Enjoy sitting between the 6’7” dude in front of you and the inconsolable toddler who likes to kick behind you.

Or maybe the airlines should just go all Lord of the Flies at the boarding gate and let us fend for ourselves. Armed with my conch shell as my only carry-on item, I can assure you that I'll be elbowing my way to the exit row in short order, Russell Wilson jersey or no.

Thanksgiving control freaks

Folks love Thanksgiving for a buttload of reasons: family, football, food. I love Thanksgiving because I like to eat myself sick. But as I get older, I realize that for many, it's not about food, it's about control, and not in an awesome Janet Jackson way. Let me explain.
I traveled with my pal to her parents' home for Thanksgiving a few years back. Cousins, siblings, parents, and friends gathered around a perfectly appointed table for a perfectly planned-out meal. This was the kind of house that had enough matching chairs and china for a party of 12.

It was a little schmancy for me but I wasn't going to complain because, hey, stuffing! And I was too busy trying to figure out which fork to use for the mâche with satsuma and crystallized pansies. I helped serve the turkey, which had been carved offsite in the kitchen, and was gently admonished to serve from each person's left.

Well, at least I hadn't spilled anything…yet.

All this was fine, as my discomfort was about to be alleviated by dessert. One of the cousins brought a scrumptious apple pie and I couldn't wait to tuck into it, perhaps with a cup of coffee. 

Then time stopped.

The lovely, albeit tightly-wound, hostess appeared in the doorway holding a Le Creuset casserole dish. Poached. Pears. In. Port.

It was at this moment that I climbed back down the social ladder and stepped onto the firm ground of the lower middle class. I may not have money, but I do have taste. Thanksgiving dessert should involve pie, cake, crisp, cobbler, cookies, mousse, brûlée, ice cream, or some combination thereof. It should never ever consist solely of baked fruit in fortified wine. There were children at the table, for the love of Myles Standish.

Where was the pie, you ask?

Good question. I found it later, squirreled away on top of the fridge. My only saving grace is that it tasted amazing at 11pm with a cold glass of milk under the cover of darkness. This Thanksgiving, I'm grateful that while I veer into the land of the obsessive-compulsive, I'm generous enough to allow other people to bring things to the table, be it a talent, an idea, or a pie. If someone asks if they can bring something to dinner, say yes. While Thanksgiving often means cock-blocking the kitchen for many hosts and hostesses, it should be about abundance and generosity. Sure, that shot-in-the-ass green bean casserole might not pair well with your sav blanc, but someone made it out of tradition and/or love so pass the dish to your neighbor and reach for your ramekin of emmentaler gratin instead.

For the record, this year I'm making salted caramel pie and a fruit crisp. In recent years, I've made this sweet potato cheesecake from Kingfish Cafe, which is always a big hit. 

(photo: taylor.pt) 

Social media spoilers

Let me let you in on a little secret.

I'm pathetic.

Yep. I'm one of those people who sit on my increasingly fat ass, watching the latest realobotomy TV or awards shows while simultaneously writing on a laptop. Being extremely Caucasian, not to mention cliché, I have an unhealthy relationship with Mad Men, Downton Abbey, and now Girls and The Newsroom. I take these shows seriously, often discussing characters as if they're real people, perhaps even my friends or coworkers.

"Can you believe what Pete said to Joan? And did you get a load of his leisure jacket? 

"Lady Mary and I have so much in common, not the least of which is our ability to bungle every romantic situation that presents itself."

Yes, I really do talk like that. Out loud.

So I'm rather put out (i.e., en-fucking-raged) when some Facebook or Twitter premature e-proclaimator decides to discuss an episode or plot point while it's still airing. In a different time zone! You're not an early adopter; you're a co-opting snot. I can't even imagine how the poor kahunas in Hawaii cope with the likes of loose-lipped or trigger-fingered mainlanders hashtagging #jaguarfail or #phillipphillips while a show is airing on the East Coast. Show some discretion and stop giving away the gasp-worthy moments. If you don't, let me clue you into a spoiler of my own: #iwanttopunchyouintheface.

(This post was inspired by blogger Ryan McRae, who writes Geek in Afghanistan.)

(photo: brandwang.wordpress.com)

Special-occasion fleece

As the curtains opened on my evening, things looked promising. I bellied up to the bar, where I was greeted by a handsome man in a natty suit. We moved on to the theater to see Lewis Black's charming and funny play, One Slight Hitch.

There was, however, one slight hitch. Actually, there were a few hundred hitches surrounding me. Men and women alike were sporting fleece vests, cargo shorts, baseball caps, polo shirts adorned with Microsoft logos, and grotty comfort sandals. The audience looked like they were ready to gut a fish, not watch a performance by professional actors (that they paid good money to experience).

Like weddings, job interviews, and black-tie galas, the theater is a special event. Like spotting a unicorn or rainbow, it's not something that happens every day, at least in my world. The theater is a reason to get dressed up, not give up. Akin to wearing pajamas as outerwear, wearing convertible pants and your favorite hoodie is a sign that you don't give a shit, either about yourself or the cultural institution. I know I live in Seattle, but for fuck's sake, people and REI employees, would it kill you to wear tinted lipgloss or pants that reach to the floor?

If you keep insisting on wearing the same garb for weeding the garden and supporting the arts, I'll have no choice but to bring the lights down on your sorry performance. And...scene.

(photo: theepochtimes.com)

People who stop at the top of escalators

Um, excuse me. You there at the top of the escalator. No, not you. That guy. The completely unaware yambag checking his watch, looking at a map, looking anywhere but behind him. EXCUSE ME! I’m about to rear-end you, and not in a good way. Where the fuck do you think I and the rest of moving humanity queued up behind you are going to go?

Up your ass, that’s where. Escalators don’t break for boobs, Einstein, and neither does my ire. I’m going to create my own moving walkway and I’m going to call it “Your Back.” Are you listening now?

(photo: perezsolomon.com)

People who don't scoop their poop

Unless you’re some fancy-pants lord who has traveled through time with your German Shorthair Pointer and can’t wrap your 19th-century mind around the idea of picking up after your pooch, you’d best find something with which to clean the sidewalk or I’m going to mop the floor with you. Caught unawares? Find a big leaf, trash, your hat, something.

For the love of all that’s good and holy (i.e. my shoes), at least pull your pooch off the sidewalk so a hapless passerby doesn’t step in your shit. It’s as though you are giving a giant steaming fecal finger to the rest of us, which not only merits a punch in your thoughtless face, but a flaming bag of Great Dane scat on your doorstep as well.

(photo: yourdailythread.com)

Last-minute cancellations

Things happen. Viruses rear their ugly heads at the most inopportune time. Food poisoning, bad day at work, a hangnail, a new episode of Glee—shit comes up. And while this blog may be evidence to the contrary, I think I’m a pretty understanding gal. I don’t mind if you cancel because you were felled by a migraine (in fact, I did this a couple of days ago).

Just don’t make a habit of it.

But when you bail on me yet again an hour before a concert and leave me with an extra ticket, I am not quite so forgiving. When you blow off my party with a wuss text as things are getting under way, it’s not okay. When canceling late in the game becomes the rule rather than the exception, you either need a full medical workup and are possibly contagious or you’re just fucking lame.

Either way, not cool.

Man up. You made a commitment so unless you're suddenly puking in the ER, show up. Wear a face mask, stuff cough drops and Kleenex in your pocket, do what you have to do. Just don’t keep opting out at the 11^th hour, or I might have to opt out of our future plans to be friends.

(photo: onefinephilly.blogspot.com)

Sidewalk cyclists

I’ve been noticing something around my neighborhood. I can’t really help it, seeing as I have to weave and dodge, even when I’m on the supposed safety of the sidewalk.

Out of nowhere, a biker yells, “Left!” as he whizzes past me, narrowly avoiding a tree bed. He, however, cannot avoid my tire ire.

The thing that really chafes more than Lance Armstrong's saddle sores and sets me off on an epic tour de rants? There’s a bike lane on my street! What’s next, you greedy Spandexed asshelment? Pumping up your tires in my flowerbed?

Cyclists want it both ways. They want to right to ride on the street—which they have, by the way. In fact, cyclists are legally supposed to ride in the road. But they also reserve the right to jump the sidewalk and draft behind a stroller when the mood hits. Sorry, but it’s called a sideWALK, not a sidePEDAL. Keep your wheels on the road. If you continue to want your cake and eat it too, you are destined to either find yourself on a 4-wheeler in the ER or be named as the defendant in a hit-and-pedal. Regardless, you will shoot to the top of my cycle list.

People who don’t leave voicemails

Do you think, amongst my superpowers, that I can read minds? Did you accidentally ring me when you sat on your Blackberry? Are you an Amish child who thinks, like a camera, my phone will steal your soul? Are you trying to be all mysterious and shit so that my curiosity will be piqued? What the eff do you want?

If you’ve already left me a voicemail, don’t trouble yourself with another rambler. But if you are just calling and, in essence, hanging up on me and my recorded message, don’t assume I’m going to call you back. If you actually want something, you can damn well leave me a message.

I know a lot of folks who are masters of the passive-aggressive hang-up. When I do answer the phone, they often start off with something akin to, “Oh, you’re finally home!” which translates to “Wow, you actually picked up on poor me, who calls and calls but clearly has an ungrateful, lame friend who I shouldn’t even bother with.”

That message came through, loud and clear. If only you were as eager to leave an actual voicemail, our communication would be crystal clear.

(photo: larryfire.wordpress.com)

Blabbing on red-eyes

You’ve made your connection, and he’s in the aisle seat. It’s like some sort of dreamy Sofia Coppola movie and you’re the romantic lead. You’re enjoying pillow talk with a sexy stranger who may be your true love, or at least your ticket into the mile-high club. Sorry to interrupt, but can you do me a favor?

Shut. The. Fuck. UP.

I don’t care what time zone we are currently flying over—my internal clock and my wristwatch say it’s 3:30 in the morning. I took this flight and an Ambien because I’m good at sleeping on planes. I have my rituals: I don’t drink caffeine, I listen to Joni Mitchell laced with Sufjan Stevens, I wrap myself in my giant knitted shawl.

All I ask is that a bratty toddler not kick my seat and that you Shut. The. Fuck. UP.

Even with headphones on, I can hear you yammering away with your life story and relationship history (which, from the sounds of it, you might want to keep to yourself until the third date; just a thought).

When I ask if you could lower your voices because every other single person on the plane is trying to sleep (as evidenced by the pitch-black cabin and profusion of navy blankets, sleep masks, and earbuds), you stare at me as if I just killed your dog. I explain that of course you have the right to talk but that I’m just asking for some courtesy of your fellow travelers. Bring the volume down or I’m going to descend into madness and punch you in the face. Forget about true love’s kiss from Prince Charming in 18C. Your kiss is on my fist when they turn out the lights.

What passengers have you wanted to kick the crap out of during a flight?

(photo: flickr.com/photos/wenzday01/3357083325/)

Express lane hogs

Really? Are you really going to try to pass off your Thanksgiving shopping for a family of eleven and, by the looks of it, several pets, as a modest express lane basket? Really? The stuffing ingredients alone exceed the limit, which, in case you forgot your glasses or can’t read, is 12.

And just because you’re not making eye contact with me doesn’t mean I’m not here or that you’ve suddenly rendered your overflowing cart invisible. I can see you, your party bags of Ruffles, and string-bean casserole ingredients. And you’re all making me sick. Instead of being thankful for my good fortune and the peppermint ice cream in my basket, I’m stewing over your gross misconduct.


Let me talk turkey: you blow. And I bet your spinach dip does, too.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful for a few things: my impending tryptophan coma, for example, when I can forget all about you and your shoddy holiday behavior. It’s not called Thankstaking now, is it?

(Photo: static.pixelpipe.com)

Back-handed compliments

I can’t get over how good you look.
You’re so lucky.
If I ate like you…I’d look like a house.
You don’t look happy in that.
That sweater is…interesting.
I just think it’s a little young for you.
It’s a hat, all right.
You’re more of a “street smart” kind of guy.
You’re not the kind of girl guys date; you’re the kind of girl they marry.
You're so evolved…for a man.
You’re so real.

As a perfectly bred broad, let me be perfectly clear.

The back-handed compliment really should be called a back-handed cutdown because there’s absolutely nothing complimentary about these sort of comments. Worse than actual criticism, they drip with condescension, as though I am too thick to pick up on what you’re really saying. Oh, I get it. And it sucks. You suck.

Spit it out and say what you mean, or keep your rude trap shut. If this dress makes my skin look like a rotten cantaloupe, I’d sorta like to know. If you think I said something inane, keep it to yourself. With loads of etiquette options in front of you, don’t secretly delight in choosing the road less mannered. Don’t rationalize away the passive-aggressive comment by believing you’re refraining from saying what you really think. Instead of demonstrating tact, you’re just putting the ass in class.

And in case that was unclear in any way, that’s not a compliment.

What less-than-kind "compliment" sticks in your craw?

(photo: puntabulous.com)

Violence

I kicked Ponell Williams in the head in second grade because he tripped me when I was rounding third. I also got into a locker-room scuffle after gym class in seventh grade. I think some girl was disrespecting me during 4-square. Other than that, my hands are clean.

Sure, I verbally smack shit right and left and it gives me more pleasure than you know. It’s a great release for my anger, be it a passing peeve or deep-seeded fury.

What I’m not down with is physical violence. I try to keep this blog light but I have to tell you, I wanted to smack Rhianna upside her head after she entertained thoughts of returning to a guy who tenderized her face. And yesterday, I heard that Perez Hilton, the reigning king of the verbal shit-sling, got clocked by the Black-Eyed Peas’ manager. He allegedly got into it with will.i.am and the next thing you know, boom, boom, pow! A black eye and a call to the po po. Will, I am not impressed.

I am reminded of something that a former co-worker told me: “Sometimes, words can hurt more than fists.” I know what you’re saying, brother, but tell that to a woman who is holding her face in her hands after being hit in the face with a baseball bat or a recumbent cyclist who’s been sideswiped by a red-faced (and possibly redneck) driver. Sometimes, Perez Hilton or I am going to say something that somebody will take offense to. That's fine. Talk back; we can take it and we'll get your point loud and clear.

Raise your voice, not your fist, or I’m coming for you. yes.i.am.

(photo: this is Perez Hilton with a fake black eye; haven't been able to find one of the real shiner; buzzworthy.mtv.com)

Texting at the table

You’re having a lovely time at dinner with friends or family. Maybe you’re even on a date. Conversation, along with the wine, is flowing. You’re relaxed and feeling connected. You’re experiencing the power of now.

Then someone pulls out a cell and checks his text messages. He might try to be subtle about this, holding it below the table so you’re only tipped off by the glow of the screen and the fact that he hasn’t heard what you just said.

What am I, chopped liver? Who are you texting who could possibly be more important than me? What could be cybersaid that could rival the pearls of wisdom and wit dropping from my lips?

Everyone agrees that it’s rude but when it’s you, you always find a way to rationalize it. So as not to be a massive tool and hypocrite, I have to admit that I’ve been guilty of this, when in the throes of a weird text and IM-only relationship. But no more (I'm tired of punching myself in the face). If I need to text or call someone, that’s what the bathroom or the front door is for.

I can see only a couple of instances where texting at the table might be allowed:

1. You’re a brain surgeon, or someone else with a job way more important than mine, and you’re on call. And if this is the case, excuse yourself and take care of your thumb business out of my sight line.
2. You’re by yourself, since your friends have ditched you and your boorish behavior.

The most fitting punishment, aside from breaking your thumbs, would be to take that snazzy new iPhone of yours and drop it in a really large glass of red wine.

TAFN & NRN

(photo: foodrush.ivillage.com/food/archives/2009/05/texting-at-the-dinner-table-th.html)

Coffee snobs

I’m a coffee pussy, I'm the first to admit. But when I’m forking over good coin for my grande decaf Americano (with room, if you please), I’d really like it if the barista didn’t coat me with disdain. I once ordered a nonfat decaf latte, and the baristickupherassta snidely informed me that this particular drink is called a “why bother.” As I added my three packets of raw sugar, I thought that maybe I should have bothered to jump behind the counter and whack her upside the head with my metal thermos.

It’s not just espresso-stand employees who give me guff. I also take shit from my more cultured friends who seek out beans picked by virgins in the most remote mountain regions of Central and South America and then home roast them, pulling them out at exactly the right moment after the second crack.

Dude, you have your form of crack and I have mine. You’re addicted to caffeinated coffee that costs $20 a pound. I’m addicted to MAC Viva Glam V Lipglass. Potayto, potahto.

If you insist on giving me the java jeer, I’ll have no choice but to give in and order up a cup of black coffee. After a horrifying sip, I decide you’ll enjoy this a whole lot more than me so I’m going to throw it in your jittery Starfucks face.

Just say espressno.

(photo: bloglines.com/blog/lizfender/2007_11)

American Idol judges

Dawg, yo, yo, check it out. Here’s the thing: After eight seasons of American Idol, I’m over the sniping and playground antics. I may be a cold-hearted snake, but I want to look into the judges’ eyes and redirect the conversation where it belongs (toward Adam Lambert).

What is going on behind the judges’ table? The wheels have come off the short bus. At one point, Paula pulled out crayons (probably what she used for her eye makeup) and handed them to Simon, suggesting he was a wittle childish. It takes one to know one, even if you are hopped up on an OTC cocktail. And Randy and Kara, I’m not letting you off the hook, either. Stop taking the bait, talking over each other’s barbs, and keep your eyes on the goddamn stage.

How can I be so heartless? Well, I need something new to do, since my “Seacrest Out” voodoo doll doesn’t seem to be working.

It’s too late to apologize. Just focus on the performances and stop bickering with each other. You’re eating up airtime that could be spent talking about Adam, I mean, the contestants. Do what you do best: Paula, keep giving us kookaloo non sequiturs. Simon, take the words out of our mouths when critiquing the contestants. Randy, take the middle ground. Kara, well, um, just follow Randy’s lead with the commentary and keep wearing pretty baubles.

To make sure you fall in line for the finale, the voodoo dolls are in play. Feel that, Simon?

(Photo: Michael Becker/FOX)

Space Invaders (and not the rad Atari variety)

Rainbow Space Invaders
Originally uploaded by Rosy_O

I'm sorry, do I know you? Did you want to pay for my groceries? Are you trying to get a DNA sample? If the answer to any of the above questions is “no,” I have one thing to say to you:

Back. The. FUCK. Up.

Well, actually, I have a bit more to add.

If you’re close enough for me to smell what you ate for dinner last night, you are cramping my style and my body. You aren’t going to get to the register any damn faster. Calm down and stop hoovering the anti-oxidant trail mix; no one is going to cut in front of you at Trader Joe’s. I know your plane is boarding in an hour; so are the flights for the 10 people in front of us. Hold your fugly topsiders and your Ziploc bag and step back before I clock you and you miss your flight altogether.

Being the optimist (and a Monty Python fan), I like to look on the bright side of life. The upshot of your vertical spooning? You’re within my reach. I don’t have to move to push back…hard. Shove off and stop sharing my oxygen. Oh, and yes, my hair does smell terrific.

Seat hogs

After suffering through planes, trains, and automobiles for nigh on a week, I’ve had it with all the greedy fucks who ooze over several seats. At the airport, businessmen ignore the masses at the jam-packed gate and set up shop with their computer and carry-on to one side, meal to the other, and cords snaking out and plugging up all the available outlets.

On the bus, selfish hosebeasts sit on the aisle, cock blocking the empty window seat next to them by dumping a backpack on it, or simply ignoring my presence behind sun-blocking shades.

When my friend and I scrambled onto the Amtrak regional train bound for New York, we found ourselves in a free-for-all of epic proportions while trying to score two seats together. This might have been easier had the asswipes not come out in force, draping themselves over two seats and feigning sleep.

Move your fat faker ass, and your little dog too!

If you insist on being a waste of space, I’m afraid I have no choice but to assume the seat of power and hand your ass to you on a silver platter. You'll feel the earth move under your feet as I herd you to a standing-room only area for the duration of your trip. If you covet your neighbor's seat again, I'm going to gather up your belongings, pile them in your lap, and wrap you in yellow "POLICE—DO NOT CROSS" tape. That should contain you nicely while I punch your greedy gob. Awake now? No? Then you won't feel it when I smother you with your travel pillow.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/joekerstef/2882501714)