An open letter to the grocery cashiers of Buttcrack

[As I may have mentioned once or maybe a thousand times, I live in Buttcrack, MS, deep in the heart of Dumbfuckistan.]


Dear Grocery Store Cashier:

I belong to a sub-culture known in these parts as "Treehuggers". One of the quaint customs of my people is the use of re-usable tote bags at the grocery store. You may have heard of it before. I hear it's very big in Japan, this custom. Also in most places where people don't want to use a plastic bag for ten minutes that will then go into a landfill for decades. I know, it's a crazy idea. Humor me, though, okay? Approximately 9 out of the 10 times I get into line with my tote bag, you are dumbfounded. Even at the grocery store where I shop like three times a week. Seriously, whatever you are doing that wrecks your memory, cut it out, okay?

Let me help you out here with some advice.

1. Do not try to charge me for my own bag and be mystified that it lacks a tag. It's RE-USABLE, see? So I bring in my own.

2. This happens probably 5 out of 10 times: you ask, "Do you want me to put EVERYTHING in this bag??" Hm, I don't know. Depends on how much stuff I have. It's not a TARDIS, see, so if I happen to have picked out more stuff than will fit in the bag, then, you know, put the rest in disposable plastic. I will re-use it for cat litter. Easy peasy, see?

3. I realize that the custom in most stores is to put one item, maybe two in each bag. But I'm guessing that somewhere along the line, you learned NOT to put squashable things in the bottom of a bag. For example: eggs, bread, chips, $5 bags of organic baby spring greens, bananas; these do not go in the bottom. Do not give me the stinkeye when I stop you from dropping canned goods and orange juice on top of squashable things.

4. If I have, say, a box of cat litter and two smaller items, do not put the 15-pound box of cat litter in the tote bag. This is just fucking stupid. Would you put it in a plastic bag? No. Do you think the bag is made of woven titanium and not some kind of flimsy fiber? God, I hope not. Seriously, put the small shit in the bag, and I will carry the cat litter with the HANDLE ON TOP OF IT.

5. Do not bag my items in plastic before putting them into the tote bag. This just defeats the purpose. You DO understand the purpose, right? To not waste plastic bags??

6. When I tell you not to pre-bag my items in plastic, don't roll your eyes, take the item you already bagged out of the plastic bag, wad it up, and throw it away. I can't tell you how depressing it is when you do that.

Sincerely,
Jezebella

misogyny in design today

Inspired by Shakesville's "Today in Disembodied Things" series, I bring you two new objects to heap your scorn upon.

First up, the "Big Ass Pinata," brought to my attention by Apartment Therapy for some reason.

I mean, not only is it offensive and sexist, it's just not an interesting or original product. I am loathe to link to the company in question, so find it yourself with your google-fu if you're interested. After several commenters noted that it was sexist and offensive, the "what about teh menz" contingent appeared with the "How do you know it's not a man's ass?! (because of the exaggerated hip-to-waist ratio, idiot!), and "why are you assuming they don't sell a male version?" (because I checked the website, dipshit!).



Point being: violence against women is neither fun nor funny. Neither is beating the crap out of a disembodied female ass.


Next up, Pharrell Williams' "Perspective Chair".


Huh huh huh, said Beavis, it looks like they're DOING IT. Yeah, that's fucking hilarious. Or is it sexy? Or stupid? It's such a fine line.

Allen Jones did it what, forty years ago? Please. It was offensive when it was done with some measure of aesthetic quality. Here it's offensive AND ugly.

Mississippi Moment: how to spell

It is my contention that Jackson is really just a pretentious cowtown. I drove there last week to drop someone off at the airport, and drove through Brandon, Mississippi. Brandon is obviously becoming a whiteyville-outlying-bedroom community for Jackson commuters. The high school looks like an outlet mall. Across from the high school is a gated community of identical mini McMansions. Outside of these hideous developments, the landscape is pretty boring, especially in winter.

This subdivision is called, I shit you not: Provonce. Clearly it is meant to be pronounced as in "Provence," the region in France, giving it snooty European appeal. And yet, this being Jackson, Mississippi, SPELLED FUCKING WRONG. AAAAAGGGHHHH. Pro-VONCE. Because one of two things happened:

1. the bourgie redneck developers never bothered to check the spelling.

2. They decided people were too stupid to pronounce "Provence" correctly and it would interfere with their marketing/branding/making piles of money selling prefab generic mini-Tuscans to the whitey-flighty masses.

Either way, I wish I'd had my camera with me so I could share this abomination.

splain me this

Last Tuesday afternoon, deep into the funk of a fresh new flu, I was ensconced on my couch watching bog-knows-what on the television. Trash, no doubt. Sniffling, coughing, etc. Right? Suddenly someone is in my driveway honking. I ignore it. They honk again, and again, insistently. I think, "Well, perhaps they are trying to pick someone up and have the wrong address. I will open the door a smidge and let them know I'm not who they're looking for." As I'm in my pajamas, I peek out the door as the person is honking (AGAIN) and she starts shouting to me, asking about the status of the house next door. Her engine is running, it's desperately in need of a tune-up, and she has imperiously honked until *I* came outside to answer her fucking stupid ass questions. Jeezus. NO, I do not know if it's for rent. Do you see a sign? I don't. NO, I also do not know if it is for sale, or rent-to-own, as noted previously: there's no sign. No, I don't know who owns the fucking house. If I did, I'd call them and tell them to clean the place up. This whole conversation, mind you, held while she sits regally in her loud-ass car and I am on the porch in PJs. Apparently she couldn't be bothered to step out of her fucking car like a civil human being and knock politely on my door. NO, I had to come outside and shout over her engine. Who does that? Seriously? Who the fuck does that?

At the end of the conversation she says, "Sorry I woke you up," as though I was a lazy motherfucker who should've been awake at 2 pm and I said, "Actually, I'm home sick." Instead of apologizing she said, I swear, "I've been sick for three weeks." Which information is of no use to me.

I really am left with a giant case of What The Fuck here, because since when is it my job to come out of my house to answer your random questions upon being summoned by your horn?

new york crud

Scintillating details of my trip to frigid New York City will have to wait. I am currently in a haze, induced by codeine cough syrup, ingested in response to a hacking, congesty crud acquired in an airplane, subway, hotel conference room, museum, deli, movie theatre, or possibly Bloomingdale's.

At least one person in a conference session sneezed on the BACK of my HEAD and didn't bother to apologize, and another sat in front of my snorking, horking, snotting, and generally making me gag, when she should've have kept herself and her germs in isolation. Jeebus. My only consolation is that her clingy whiny boyfriend probably got her crud, too.

state of the union

You know, in all these years of Bush's idiocy, he's never actually been so heinous that I've been brought to tears. Until now. In his entire State of the Union address, he made NO MENTION of New Orleans, the Gulf Coast, or the continuing needs of the entire Katrina-affected Gulf South. I guess the "union" no longer includes south Mississippi and south Louisiana, millions of people, billions of dollars of damage, deaths, ruination, disease.... Un-fucking-believable.

I guess now I know how the gay community felt when Reagan and Bush, Sr. refused to even acknowledge the AIDS crisis for the entire combined 12 years of their reign.

the new york times wants to know...

Why are there more single women than married women?

why so many single americans?

simple: because marriage is a losing proposition for so many women. Married women have a lower life expectancy than single women. (the reverse is true for men). Because too many men won't do their fair share of housework or child care. Because too many men abuse their wives physically, verbally, and/or emotionally. Because too many men have double standards regarding fidelity and aging and beauty, to name just a few. Because too many men won't compromise in order to make it possible for their wives to pursue a fulfilling career. Because sometimes it's just easier to raise children by yourself than it is to raise them with a man who doesn't understand the concept of co-parenting. Because we are not obligated to stay in unfulfilling, abusive, or empty marriages, now that we have the opportunities that allow us to support ourselves. Because too many men are addicted to porn and infected with the unreasonable, hateful, misogynistic bullshit that comes with porn-sickness.

Because, as Bridget Jones would say, too many men are alcoholics, workaholics, perverts, and/or emotional fuckwits.

Was that so hard to figure out?

is this a southern thing?

So I'm in a strategic planning meeting this morning for a statewide arts organization, and every other person has to provide a lengthy personal anecdote along with their every suggestion. What is that? Yes, we all have personal anecdotes that lead to our opinions, but when thirty people are brainstorming, is it really necessary to listen to everyone's? REALLY? Bog.

Come to think of it, maybe it's not a southern thing. I went to grad school with a guy, who I actually refer to as Mr. Personal Anecdote, who could never say anything in a seminar without prefacing it with an anecdote. I'm not sure he ever contributed much besides that. But, damn, give him a word or two and he will free-associate a personal anecdote that will be long and pointless, and he will look miffed if you stop him in the middle of it to leave, in the event that you have, you know, SOMETHING ELSE TO DO besides listen to his long-winded tales. Mr. Personal Anecdote is from Kansas. So maybe it isn't a southern thing.

If you have made it through my own tedious personal anecdote, by all means go watch this, which is scary/hilarious.

And then maybe somebody can explain to me why Hattiesburg is the only city in American where NO ONE uses craigslist.

that is all. I have to go back to the strategic planning chatfest. I really need to put a bottle of vodka in my desk drawer for days like this.