Where Have All the Inventors Gone?

In the year 2013, I am still baffled by some of the basic every day tasks that still require an unnecessary amount of steps to complete. Seriously.

So what you’re telling me is we have the time to invent the Double Down, glue that can repair a hole in a parachute AND a bra that can triple a woman’s cup size, but still haven’t found an easier way to package and distribute CDs? I thought this was America. Here are some things I challenge, neigh, beg, someone to simplify (before I lose what little is left of my sanity).

CD Packaging
There’s nothing like the excitement of walking in to your local Target to pick up the latest, much anticipated, pop artist CD. You walk in smiling, hoping to bond with screeching tweens as you march side my side, hand in hand, skipping past the Home Goods section to the Music/Movies department all the way to the check out line. You pay, briskly walk back to your car, head buzzing with the excitement of the fresh synthesized tracks only to then spend 15 minutes trying to tear off the plastic wrapping because you ignored the “Pull Here” tab that everyone knows is ineffective anyways. As a last resort, you take the keys out of the ignition and use your sharpest key to scrape the plastic away while trying not to crack the case. To top it all off, you have to restart your car in a rage of shame and try to back out of your spot without running over an elderly person and/or toddler.

Hitting Cancel for Credit
How about instead I hit “Credit” to pay by way of my high interest, zero rewards back credit card. Instead it’s like answering Rumpelstiltskins’ riddles three just to pay for a 12 pack of La Croix. Oh and by the way, those “pens” are a joke. I’m convinced they were made as part of some social experiment to test who comes up with a solution to proceeding to the next screen faster, man or monkey (my money is on Diddy Kong).

Can Openers
Shouldn’t all cans just be pop tops by now? Even the electric ones are a crock of shit. I‘m just bitter because I still can’t use the one at my parents’ house that they’ve had for at least 10 years.

Moisture Needed Envelopes
Now that we have the technology to make self adhesive envelopes, why go backwards? On behalf of interns everywhere, exterminate all envelopes requiring any sort of moisture adhesion.

Salting Movie Theater Popcorn
I don’t understand how these bow tie wearing teenage movie theater employees expect me to get my properly balanced salt  to Sour Patch Kids ratio on when they give me an overflowing bucket of yellow goodness and expect me to somehow manage equal sodium distribution. The best I can do is salt the top like a Senor Frogs margarita. Cut me some slack here and throw some salt on that bitch half way through.

Receipts for Non-Refundable Items
No mam, I don’t need a 12 inch scroll of a receipt that lists my $13 Taco Bell order with a customer service poll on the bottom for a chance to win a $100 Itunes Gift Card. I think I’ll pass on the paper reminder of my rock bottom life status, thanks though. It’s not really something I care for my work carpoolers to find shoved under the seat next to the empty McDonalds bag and Starbucks cup.

Scraping Off an Iced Car
… it’s too soon to talk about this one. You either get it or you don’t.

Evaporation

Ten years ago, I would speak differently on this subject. However, it seems everything that was taught to me during Drivers Ed ceases to exist. There is an evaporation of manners happening. Take one second to realize it; think about a time recently when you experienced another driver merging onto the freeway seamlessly. You can’t, it is extinct. Every driver that throttles through the on ramp into traffic has no clue of their surroundings. Every car is driven by Honey Boo Boo. Here I am world, accept me.  I am beginning to think it is a reflection of society.

America’s manners are deteriorating. If some jackass does something inconsiderate, we are supposed to deal with it. No apologies. The masses are just left with phrases like: “I am the type of person that is going to get in your face if you tell me I am a bad merger.” They know that level headed people aren’t going to challenge them. So, swerving out of the way, you cuss them out. Knowing full well it doesn’t fucking matter. That person got what they wanted and you are left with frustration. They are now on the freeway, completely unfazed you are tailing them beat red in the face. They don’t give a shit. Trust me; I’ve driven with these animals.

“You just cut that guy off.” – Me

“So.” –Driver.

Then we just kept on driving. No curtsey wave. No open hand into closed hand shit, I am sorry gesture. We just kept driving. Rules of the road are evaporating right before us. Don’t expect a downpour of good manners to follow, this shit-spiral of a trend is only going to get worse. Other than merging, here is a short list of more road manners evaporating:

1. Thank you wave
2. Blinkers
3. “No…you go first” gesture
4. Looking behind you before backing up
5. Oh shit, that was my fault face.

In an effort to save time and patience I won’t expand on all of them. Although they are a major problem. Granted, I am old school. My seventy year old grandpa taught me how to drive, and subsequently, the unwritten rules of the road. He was a courteous driver, and a smart driver. Yet he got where he needed to go in a timely manner. Not only are these idiots driving with no manners, they are driving like they have no where to be. As if, they got in their car with the intention of darting in front of you; then going at or below the speed limit. Nobody drives with a purpose. It’s like they are on the road to waste time before they can stuff their faces with Arby’s again. I always assumed that people led boring lives. However, are they so boring that they would prefer to get home at 35 MPH oppose to the 45 MPH posted speed limit?  It’s like every one of these drivers have the worst directions ever to a house they have never been to before.

These are the things that haunt me. They are uncalled for. At first, I thought that I was losing it. That there were no way drivers were getting worse in the ten years that I have been on the road. I thought, Jake, you just hate everything. Get over it. Smile; let these lovely people take their time getting to where ever the fuck they need to go. However, I started taking data. I started counting how many times I got cut off, how many times I witnessed a piss poor merge. They started adding up.

Example: I was driving in the right line, with my cruise control set to six miles over the speed limit. I noticed a run down Plymouth Voyager on my starboard; he wanted to merge onto the freeway. I knew it, he knew it. However, he didn’t merge. He wanted to play chicken. I kept my cruise control locked, which prohibited him from immediate access. He then honked his horn and flicked me off. He is at fault. I should have been doing the honking, not him. We do not need to merge with him, he needs to merge with us. It’s our freeway, we need to take it back.

It’s called merging. Not “you come onto the freeway anyway you want.”  Everyone keeps talking about how Americans are constantly in a hurry. Whelp, not on the roads and streets of Wisconsin. No one has deadlines here; no one in Wisconsin has anywhere to be.

If you think I am being harsh, I ask you one question.

How many times have you been in a traffic jam only to realize NOTHING was causing it?

Dear Winter, Get Over Yourself

So today is March 1st and I’m annoyed because even though I made it through the winter slump of February, it’s still technically winter. The fact that I was born and raised in Wisconsin apparently means I’m supposed to be immune to the side effects of that which is a midwestern Winter. Except, that’s not true. I think my disdain for winter began when I stopped wearing once piece snow suits (and no that’s not really me). For my dignity, I will leave out that age. Spoiler alert, I was still wearing snow suits when Limp Bizkit was doing it all for the nookie. As a female, the annoyances of winter are heightened due to the pressure society puts on us to look perfect all the time (for those of you who know me or have at least seen me, you obviously know I’m being sarcastic here) and during winter, it’s just not possible and downright exhausting.

Let’s start out by discussing the dreaded hat hair. I suffer from multiple side effects of this seasonal condition. For starters, my hair is in constant static cling mode during the winter, so taking a hat off is basically like giving a class of preschoolers permission to rub balloons over my head. Second, since my hair is so thin and consists of about 20 strands of hair (including bangs), if I’m going to wear a hat, I pretty much have to commit or else be victim to having my hair look like it was painted to my scalp because it’s so flat.

So let’s say I finally decide to just go for it and wear the damn hat, even leaving the house is becomes a danger zone for style. I tend to wear a lot of black and on top of that, my long winter jacket is a sleek bullet black color. I’ll tell you what two things do not mesh: Black clothes and salty grime on cars. Once minute your accidentally leaning aganist your car and the next thing you look like the jackass from the mentos commercial with salty grime all over your black jeggings and coat. Totally unprofesh look for work and super uncool look for going out. Even in hipsterville, USA where I live, you can’t even pretend you’re rocking the salty marks ironically.

While on the topic of jackets, this is an extremely difficult weekend decision. Do I wear the practical parka that will provide warmth and comfort while preventing me from developing Little Women level scarlet fever? Or, do I sport the pleather cropped coat with pockets too small to store anything? At least then I can avoid carrying around a 12 pound parachute jacket whilst attempting to maneuver through a crowded bar. This is all assuming I make it to the bar and don’t slip and concuss myself due to patches of black ice on the side walk. And by patches of black ice I mean visible chunks of ice I glide on because I tried wearing high heeled booties telling myself the heel would serve as an ice pick. False.

Winter Birthdays suck. Clearly nothing has changed over the past 26 years, but still, every year when I imagine my birthday I see sunshine, grilling out and an adorable sundress with straps that cross in the back. I then snap back to reality (whoop there goes rabbit) and realize the bitter truth, my birthday is still in January. This means, more often than not, snow, below freezing temperatures, pale skin and the aforementioned brittle dry hat hair. Awesome. Nothing says, “it’s my birthday buy me a shot” like 4 layers of clothes, wet hat hair and overly rosy/borderline wind burnt cheeks from seasonal snow “flurries.” Suck it Scott Steel.

Here’s the thing… I don’t mind winter through mid-January. Really, I’ll frolic in the snow building jolly snowmen with the best of them. What really grinds my gears is mother nature teasing me. Whispering sweet nothings with sunshine and 40 degree weather one day but reminding me she’s the head BIC with a winter storm warning the next. With that being said, Dear winter, get over yourself! And tell mother nature, to stop funking with my heart.

The Oscar Snob

Breathe it in, the shit spewing out of the Oscar Snob’s mouth. They flap their gums about best motion pictures while working an entry level sales job in Manitowoc, Wisconsin. I don’t watch the Oscar’s to be given a tutorial on screen play adaptations, rather to watch the hottest people in the world for seven hours straight. It’s a nice escape watching these gorgeous humans parade around on the red carpet.  The whole time knowing that they are better than everyone one of us. We visual ourselves giving the mindless responses to Joan Rivers questions.  Then the flashbulbs crackle and snap us back to February in Wisconsin. We have no Vanity Fair party to attend. Only another Monday at our mundane jobs. Natalie Portman’s beauty taunts us and Jennifer Lawrence teases our dreams. We laugh at Mickey Rourke because his face has been ran through a kitchen blender. Twitter is abuzz with tasty jokes and quips about Joaquin Phoenix’s hair lip. It’s Oscar night. Suddenly, you quiver as you remember you are going to be subjected to this Oscar Snob’s smut during the tiresome acceptance speeches.

We all have our opinions on movies, actors, directors and even genres. I don’t want Zero Dark Thirty to win because I think the movie came out too soon after the covert black ops mission. That is it. I have no other opinion on the matter. I am not going to snobbishly say “well you know the lighting in the fourth sequence and the actors jaw line didn’t  quite accurately reflect the mood.” I am an idiot when it comes to movies, however these snobs think they know better. They will go on to tell you what movie had the best soundtrack.  Explaining which had the best underlying theme like Sophomore English teacher reading from Spark Notes. They ramble on and on about movies, and it is impossible to check their knowledge. Nobody knows, I don’t have a research paper or a pie chart to shove back in their face.  You can’t sit there and tell me Les Miserable should win over Silver Lining Playbook because of the way  the director zoomed in on Hathaway’s huge mouth in during her solo.  No. Did you like the movie? Shut up. Did you like the movie? I always respond the same way. Did you like the movie?? I know, I know, you thought the lighting was better in Argo. I get it. What movie did you like better?? These people give me a headache.

I am not smarter than anyone when it comes to movies; nobody is in my mind. We aren’t part of the Academy. Accept it. I like crap.  All my opinions are based off what I like, not, “what is critically acclaimed”. Here is some insight to my bullshit, I loved Lincoln and Argo. I didn’t care for Django Unchained, at all. Before you say anything I loved Reservoir Dogs and Inglorious Bastards. However, factor this in; I have seen Never Been Kissed and Drive Me Crazy like thirty times. I watch Shooter every time it’s on TNT. These things are all based on opinion. There are literally less facts to back up anyone’s movie argument than there is on religion. “Well of course Noah saved two of every animal, and of course Daniel Day Lewis should win for his portrayal of Lincoln. Both are just true.”  Well actually, those aren’t facts, merely beliefs. There is less science backing up Lewis’s performance than that ‘great flood’ that covered the earth.  However incredible he was in Lincoln, it isn’t a fact. At least Christians can point to the Bible as some kind standard.

These are the same people that will blabber on and on about how the best movie of the year was some foreign film. Then they are shocked you haven’t seen it. I love Hollywood, not Bollywood. Stop talking about the best movie to come out of Denmark. I don’t care about the Slumdog Millionaire of this year; I want to Philip Seymour Hoffman’s fat gut in The Master. The only reason these people saw these foreign films, is to tell you they saw them. Which is just the worst, no one cares. It’s not American, I don’t care. I would rather watch the sequel to Never Been Kissed, Still Not Kissed Yet, than something about a retired teacher in Austria (Amour).

I just want to have meaningless conversations about the Oscars with someone who gives less of a shit about the cinematography than me. Someone whom I can argue with about, basically nothing:

“Yes I know Helen Hunt was good in The Sessions, but who cares about Helen Hunt anymore. Unless you are talking about Twister, get out of my face. Even Mad about You was all Paul Reiser, you’re crazy.”

That is what the conversation should sound like during the Oscars, not about costume and make-up, but relevance to today’s society. That also goes for all the people that  say the actor paid their dues and finally won an Oscar; this is big in Oscar Snob community. Actors should win their Oscar on based on that particularly performance, not overall body of work. If Leo didn’t perform good enough with that fake South African accent in Blood Diamond, then he shouldn’t have won. Save it for the bullshit “Lifetime Achievement Award”. I am not even sure what the Academy is doing anymore.  There are nine movies up for best picture, if you bought tickets to all those it adds up to a mortgage payment. It’s gotten to a point where nothing is special and “everyone is a winner in my book”. Cut it to four of five pictures and then these snobs can offer some perspective. I almost feel like if you give me a book on New York Best Seller’s List I could turn it into a picture that will get nominated.

All I am saying is keep your opinions light when talking about the Oscars.  You aren’t friends with Ron Howard; you grew up in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. You don’t know dick about story-lines and character development you’re an accountant. Stick to saying things like, “oh I really liked him in…” or “oh, I cried during…” and we will be fine. Nobody needs to hear about your love affair with the costume designer.  Two things matter, did you like the movie? And did you like the movie? With all that said, here are my picks.

Best Movie: Argo

Best Actor: Bradley Cooper

Best Actress: Naomi Watts

Supporting Actor: Phillip Seymour Hoffman

Supporting Actress: Sally Field

Director: Steven Spielberg

Animated: I only saw Wreck it Ralph, so that should win.

You Are Here Because You Obviously Hate Yourselves

“You are here because you obviously hate yourselves.” – Mr. Perfect

Truer words have never been spoken than by one Mr. Perfect during the Thanksgiving Day 2011 Boot Camp workout. Sure we all laughed, but then it sank it, why the hell was I at a workout class on the holiday I feel defines me as a person. Of course my existential thought process was interrupted by an almost nip slip of the girl doing burpees next to me (gentleman, you’re welcome for the visual imagery). Which brings me to today’s topic – gym culture and my pet peeves.

Ladies, ladies, ladies, contrary to popular belief of adolescent (and 20 year old) boys nationwide, the locker room is not full of steam, towel fights and sharing secrets. No. It is a place where working women get in, strip down, clean up and get out. Unless you’re telling me my skirt is tucked in to the back of my tights, puh-leaaaase do not talk to me. Or if you must, I beg of you to wait until I am fully clothed. There’s nothing worse than being dripping wet, wrapped up in a towel and having a middle aged woman ask you if she looks too fat in her outfit (true story, this did happen). Who, me? You’re trying to engage in conversation? Normally I’d love to boost your ego, tell you how you are woman let’s hear you roar, only A- I’m dripping wet B- I’m struggling to balance holding my towel and get dressed with mimimal nudity/without my bare feet having to touch the ground (it’s a thing I have) and C- Have my routine down to the second in order to get to work on time. This is NOT the time! Plus, you’re at a gym! If you think your workout gear is too snug, tag on an extra 15 minutes to your elliptical workout.

Speaking of workout outfits, it really grinds my gears when I see women at the gym dressed like they’re freshman at welcome week trying to get a free solo cup at a frat party. The caked on eyeliner, porn star cleavage and intentionally messy pony tails (an art in and of itself), it makes me wonder how they manage to get anything else done. I’m sure I drive them crazy by throwing my hair back in a pony tail, slapping on a headband and letting my bangs stand tall like the feathers on a peacock (get on my level son!). Don’t even get me started on jewelry. I see woman at the gym more accessorized than me on my best night out. Again, not sure what point I’m making here: they are over doing it, or I am fashionably challenged. I guess they have the right motivation since everyone knows how easy it is to meet your soul mate at the gym (enter screen right Katherine Heigl catching the attention of one Channing Tatum while power walking on the treadmill) right? Next!

Lastly, I just do not understand people who come to classes, but make up their own workouts as they go. Ok, I get it, there’s such a thing as modifying a workout, but why bother standing front row of a class if you are marching to the beat of your own drum? And by drum I mean making a complete and utter ass of yourself. Exhibit A – the 5′ 4″ popeye-esqe manboy who stands front row center at my weight lifting class determined to max out every muscle. The point of the class is to work out each muscle group for periods of 4-6 minutes, not lift the bar 4 times, grunt 6 (do the math, it makes no sense) and take 5 water breaks. Not only are you distracting me, you are humiliating yourself. Come on bro, quit while you’re ahead and join the rest of us. Oh and while you’re at it, stop blocking my otherwise perfect view of my gay obsession of an instructor. I only get to see him once a week, do NOT ruin this for me!

So to go back to my personal favorite of Mr. Perfect’s quotes, sure we all go to the gym for our own personal motivations, but just remember, it could be worse, you could be one of the aforementioned gems of gym goers. Consider this a public service announcement.

Attention Gym Members: Wipe Down your Machines when Done.

I have one problem with going to the gym, the people. I have never had an issue with dragging my lazy ass off the couch and going for a run on a Saturday afternoon. Or packing a duffle bag and hitting the gym after work.  To say I never had an issue with going to the gym would be an understatement. I actually enjoy it, a lot. It has great therapeutic value. I could get scientific about how it releases endorphin’s that send positive brainwaves and all that bullshit; however that’s not the therapy I am talking about. I mean it in a way of self worth. There is a lot to be said about looking yourself in the mirror and being genuinely happy with what you is staring back at you. The feeling of accomplishment that you are becoming fit, tight, chiseled, elite, basically just better than the majority of America. Our population is nothing but fat, slobbish, fast food eating creatures. However, beneath this cynical exterior I find myself being a hypocrite. I don’t want America to be fat; however I don’t want certain types of people taking up space my gym either.

Herein lies my dilemma with the crumb bums that go to my gym. I wish they would just turn skinny and attractive immediately. Unfortunately, they don’t and I have to look at these soft bodies everyday.  There are roughly four categories I like to place this trash into. The first of which, I like to call “Doctor says I should workout, midlife crisis club”. They trot their bulbous bodies into the club under doctor’s orders and think going through the motions will halt their inevitable heart condition. So they saunter around on the treadmill for 15 minutes and kick dumbbells around for another 20. They do this with the intention of ordering the Pizza Hut Dinner Box with their three ugly children when they get home. Then they wash it down with a couple of Oreos after because “ Dammit, I worked out today.” Sorry, baby boomers I would rather pay your Medicare in 10 years then have to catch a glimpse of your sloppy workout routine. Don’t even bother.

The next category is neither worse nor better.  The “workout wife who is on the brink of divorce”. This is usually a middle age fit spouse who bought a membership for the husband she is thinking of leaving. I know I stated workout wife, but that was strictly for alliteration. It can easily be the workout husband. This group, however shitty, is at least entertaining. They are enjoyable if you have a sick twisted mind, because you can put two and two together. You have the fit spouse, and the other who has been gaining weight for the past two decades. The fit spouse is on their last nerve.  They have the divorce paperwork filled out but not filed. “Get them a gym membership” their friends say, “Workout together” their friends say. So they obey, because what is more important than what your friends think. Dragging their spouse with them to the gym, they do a couples workout plan.  It’s at that moment the chunky spouse realizes “he” is doing this for their marriage and “he” attempts to mimic the correct movements of the exercise . I chuckle as I watch him use ‘divorce’ as motivation to power through the last leg press set.

The third group, which is sadly closest to my demographic, I like to call “the fashion show club”. This group is predominately twenty something male; they walk into the gym as if they are fist pumping their way into a Jersey Shore night club. I don’t have any qualms with people keeping up on their hygiene and fashion; however there is absolutely no reason to put a fistful of Axe hair gel on before pumping iron. Please save it for your bro’s bottle service on Saturday night. This clique particularly irks me just because you don’t need to try at the gym. I sport an old t-shirt from high school and a pair of non stained jersey shorts. I try not to look like shit, but I also don’t pretend there are Abercrombie and Fitch talent scouts taking notes on a clipboard. Just stop caring so much man, hop in your 2007 Mitsubishi Eclipse and grab a old cut off and come back. We will even hold your spot on the bench press. On a side note, this is usually the group that doesn’t feel the gym rules apply to them. They are careless with the equipment and are don’t wipe down the machines when finished. “Bro, they should be so lucky to get MY sweat on their bodies.”

Lastly, and unfortunately I am attacking “skinny guys”.  I’m sorry, but this group tests my patience more than any other. They don’t fully have the coordination or strength to perform the exercises they are attempting. Jake, everybody has got to start somewhere? Jake, how are they supposed to get stronger? Jake, at least they are trying!!! Thank you for thinking that. I know all this; I play those phrases on repeat everyday to keep me from laughing in their faces while they are embarrassing themselves on the shoulder press.  I know everyone has to start somewhere, for I started somewhere. However, that somewhere was not around people. I hope these little guys don’t get discouraged. Keep fighting, you will get there. However, start your ascent to masculinity just not…here.

In closing, I long for an America that is healthy. For a country where I can walk into a grocery store and am not stalled behind three diabetics fumbling over bags of Cool Ranch Doritos. I want to move freely and briskly around stores free able to pick from fresh vegetables and healthy alternatives without witnessing a struggling elderly woman help her gout ridden husband pick up a 10 for $10 Hot Pocket coupon special. Yet, I don’t want a gym where I am not running the gauntlet of douche bags that don’t know how to adhere to the unwritten rules of gym membership. I want these fatsos to get fit before they come into the gym. I know how hypocritical it sounds. I don’t want these people in the gym, yet I don’t want America to be fat. So I guess my answer is that I am the purest form of American: I want my cake and I want to eat it too.

Fit, tone women, thank you. It doesn’t matter, ugly face, semi-attractive or really hot, if you are tone, thank you. It makes this intolerable bunch, tolerable. I will try not to stare.