An Open Letter to the Whistler on My Floor

Please stop whistling.

You wander up and down our hall whistling non-stop the entire time, and you know what? You’re not great. While I can definitely make out certain melodies every now and then, I can assure you, this does nothing to help your case, as knowing the song you’re attempting to recreate just makes it all the more cringe-worthy when you fail.

That being said, I’ve still only recognized two of your songs, and those were “Pirates of the Caribbean,” and “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” You even included the piccolo solo, and while I do appreciate that as a piccolo player myself, it was still unwelcome. It was unwelcome mostly because the Hawkeye Marching Band had just finished playing that song in a three-week show, meaning I’ve been playing that exact solo for three weeks straight. At this point, I don’t think it will really ever be acceptable again.

“Pirates” is where I start to think this is a personal thing. You know why? Because you whistled that the day after we performed that show in HMB, so I know now there has to be some connection, be it mere coincidence, aliens, or maybe you’re just in band too, but I know something’s up. How else would you know just the right song to whistle to get on my biggest nerve? I don’t have a song that’s annoying me this week? No problem! You just fall back on that safe strategy of whistling whatever random series of sound-notes pop into your head.

But I don’t think you know you’re bad at whistling. I think you think you’re good because of the sheer amount of volume you can achieve. I’ve never heard someone whistle that loudly with any semblance of a melody before, and I would applaud you for that, if you weren’t so incredibly annoying about it.

On top of that, you use the outside hand dryer. Let me just say, those hand dryers are loud. Very. Loud. They’re annoying when you use the ones that aren’t in the hallway, so my question to you is, why use the one single dryer that is? There is a sink and dryer in every bathroom on this floor, why the hell not use one of those? What makes you think it’s a good idea to fire up the thing three feet from my open door while there are quite clearly seven people in my room trying to watch Arrested Development? Because of you we can no longer hear the hilarity, as we’ve been keeping the volume down in an effort to be considerate to our neighbors, it being 10:30pm and all.

But no, you whistle on down to the bathroom, do your thing, and then open the door with your still unwashed hands as you go for the sink, and then the inevitable dryer. By the way, the rest of us touch that doorknob after we’ve washed our hands, and you’re just making the whole process pointless by opting for the outside sink.

The worst part is, I’m not even entirely sure who you are. I thought you were the one I know only as “Hipster,” but then it appeared as though you were “Totally Normal Guy” who lives on the other end of the hall from Hipster. So I don’t even know who to blame for all of this pointless agitation.

Frankly, I’m afraid it might be both of you.

September

It's September and we kinda suck. Going back to school has pretty much turned us into slackers, blog-wise. Really, should I be alarmed that I have more followers on Twitter than on this blog, considering that I don't tweet?

So...all you several people who have been reading, don't ditch us quite yet. We'll be back.

Someday.

Thank you.

How to be...part one. Now with 20% more snark!

Okay...so rules. Here's the thing about rules. There are certain fundamentals that cause a civilization in forward motion to continue moving...well, forward. Our country's near-universal awareness of Kardashians makes me wonder if the forward progress train has actually shifted into reverse, but I'm gonna go with optimism today. So, among these fundamentals are grammar, spelling, manners and rules. Rules are not here to inspire you to make up your own more creative personal rules that are just for you. No. YOU are supposed to follow the ones they give you. And yes, some of them are not "written down" anywhere. These are called UNWRITTEN RULES! Follow them anyway, dahmmit. Our society is on the verge of implosion and if you're among the ones making up your own crap, it's all your fault!

We'll start small....

The flat expanse of concrete or asphalt with the painted line pattern is called a parking lot. You're supposed to put your car there while you're inside taking 24 things through the 20 or fewer line. (Yes, I know in the store it's called the 20 or less line. That doesn't make it correct.) Or when you're just picking up movie tickets for later. Or when you're "really quickly" returning a pair of shoes. When you leave your car in the parking lot where it belongs, other people don't have to play bumper cars with it like they do when it's on the pretty stripey pattern right by the front door. No one cares that you're in a hurry. We're all in a hurry. And no, it won't ever be "just for a minute". You know better than that.

I also do not care that someone just dropped you off and they're waiting in the car that is nonetheless sitting where I'm supposed to be able to walk. Having someone in the car does not make it any less in the way. It does give me someone to give the stink eye to but they know better than to make eye contact. AND I might add....that spot is reserved for the emergency vehicle that might have to come carry YOU away when someone's little darling decides to "help Mommy" by pushing the cart-right into your Achilles tendon. Usually it's mine, but today could be your lucky day!

I understand this desire to avoid the parking lot. We have fewer and fewer parking spots these days. It started with the handicapped spots (is it okay to call them that?) (shrug) Let me be clear--I'm totally on board with these spots. I do wish they would all remove those hangtags when they're driving. But that's not the point. After the reserved spots for the mobility challenged came the special spots for new and expectant parents. Well...maybe I'd dig that one a little more if they had been there when I was an expectant/new parent. There's a spot for security. Fine.

But now, at my grocery store, there are spots reserved for their make and take meal center. You know what I mean--they chop everything up and you go in and assemble a bunch of meals to put in the freezer. It takes like two hours. It seems to me that if you're going to be in the store for two hours it wouldn't immediately kill you to park a little further out. For God's sake, it's not even open half the time! I'm waiting for the day when the entire outer edge of the parking lot is reserved for fat-asses who need the exercise.

And also--in the store, if you should run into your long lost bestie and just HAVE to catch up right there, park your carts accordingly. There is nothing other people hate more than breaking up your tearful reunion in the cereal aisle..."excuse me, could you move it along there, sister?" Don't side by side your carts while you wile away the time comparing your Prada knockoffs. And don't think you have anyone fooled either. Not in this neighborhood, honey.


....to be continued....

PS...Full disclosure, this was written pre-blog and there have been some changes. The sign in the store now actually says "20 items or fewer" and the make and take place is no more. So those two spots are now normal parking spots. I'd like to think that I telepathically had something to do with the sign correction. Alas, I did not.

Bugs and shoes

Today I was in the church parking lot chatting with KDHD while Spouse was inside having a chat with our Pastor. Suddenly a small grasshopper flew at her torso. She started a bit, then nonchalantly brushed the grasshopper away. We are not like those girls...you know- the ones who scream and writhe and freak out at the sight of anything with antennae. BUT the grasshopper flew directly at my face and I naturally swatted at it. Just because I don't fear the bug does not mean I invite it for tea. But the critter dropped straight down and into my cleavage, where it decided to just chill out right there in my dress for a while. So that was fun.


After I evicted my little friend from his new home, KDHD noticed a pair of shoes sitting next to a street light on one of those little island thingies in the parking lot. They were black high heels, kind of big...size nine. Okay, they weren't exactly cross-dresser big, but still big. The height of the heels made them look even bigger. We were bored so I had to try them on. Oh, don't be so grossed out. It had rained the day before. I don't really know what I would have done if they had fit ('cause a 9 is not really that big for me), but they didn't so we took them inside, put them in lost and found, collected the Spouse and came home. Where we made and consumed BLTs. With fresh tomatoes from the garden.