I HATE! Assholes - Part Deux

I have a confession to make. I (gulp) wore my sunglasses on the subway last week. I know! I know! It's awful. But I had a really legit excuse for committing such an egregious hypocrisy. And you know that I wouldn't have worn sunglasses inside unless I had a really, really, really good excuse... I can only afford to look like that big of an asshole once or twice a year!

The excuse is as follows: I went to the dermatologist last week one day after work for a follow-up appointment. My first visit was rather tame - a consultation really - so I wasn't expecting anything too different the second time around. The doctor, apparently, had other plans and immediately went to work on my face. She wiped off all of my make up (with a towelette that was so saturated with alcohol that it could have been used as an anesthesia substitute) and then proceeded to poke and prod my face with some sort of crazy-looking metal tool that I initially thought to be a medieval instrument of torture.

To put it bluntly, I left the doctor's office looking like my face got stuck between a rock and a cheese grater. I had planned on reapplying 'my face' before I went back out in public, but the doctor had just blown up my spot by saying that the "large amount of make-up" I wear was probably the reason for my clogged pores, and even though I am somewhat vain, I'm not a glutton for punishment. So in lieu of the make-up, I searched my purse to try to find something that might help me to conceal my battle wounds. Save covering my entire face with a tissue, the best I could do was my (brand-new!) sunglasses. In MacGuyver-like fashion, I managed to create a disguise for myself using only the sunglasses and my hair, succeeding in almost completely concealing my identity (and the cheese-greater face). Brilliant!

Don't mind the lengthy transgression - on to the real point of this post. So here I am, walking the streets of New York at dusk idiotically wearing sunglasses as if I'm hiding from the paparazzi. I am already self-conscious enough at this point because I'm feeling super hypocritical, like a real douche. After all, I'm the one who always makes fun of those who do just what I was doing at that instant - wearing sunglasses despite the lack of sunlight. If I could have seen myself, I'm sure I would make fun of me.

Anyway, as I'm making my way to the subway, I begin to notice that people are staring at me, without even trying to hide it - just blatantly looking me up and down with expressions ranging from the stifled, cynical smirk to the completely unbridled sneer of disapproval. Let me make something clear to all the morons I encountered on the street that day: just because I am wearing sunglasses does not mean that I am blind and cannot see the way you are looking at me! Are you people retarded?!?! Correct me if I'm making assumptions here, but Ray-Ban Wayfarers usually aren't the type of glasses that might indicate that one is blind. While you may not be able to see my eyes, I can certainly still see yours AND that horribly judgemental expression written all over your face!!! My dark glasses do not obscure my view of you or any of the other people checking me out (sleazy businessman in cheap suit) or giving me undeserved dirty looks (overly made-up middle-aged woman carrying the wonky-eyed lap dog).

I'm the one wearing the sunglasses! I'm the one who should be secretly judging people! If you're going to overreact to me, my appearance, or the fact that I'm wearing sunglasses at dusk, at least demonstrate a little bit of decorum and try to hide your judgement! It's the only way to be :-)

P.S. I just found out that there is actually a song called Sunglasses at Night written and performed by a fellow named Corey Hart. He wears his sunglasses at night so he can "watch you weave and breath your story lines" and also so he can"keep track of visions" in his eyes. Hmmm... I'm not sure I approve.

I HATE! Assholes

eccentrichic: for someone so small you have a lot of anger
eccentrichic: what about being told to go back to LI?
Kelirish18: hahahah
Kelirish18: i'm not very small
Kelirish18: but yes, the anger abounds

I doubt there are any habitual readers of this blog, but if there are, I'm sure it has become apparent that my posts come in waves. For a week or two, I'll be filled with rage toward everything and anything and therefore, be inspired to write a feverish number of posts in a short amount of time. Other times, I'll have a weeks-long lull in posting. I'm apathetic and lethargic and nothing makes me particularly angry. (Ok, I just laughed out loud. That statement is not true, not even a little bit; I'm always angry about something, but there are times when I am just too damn lazy to type the word 'blogger' into my browser.) Obviously, the recent weeks past have been one of said lulls and in an effort to be more productive in getting my message of anger out to the masses, I asked a good friend of mine for some suggestions as to what I might write about next. (See excerpt from AIM conversation above.)

Genius that she is, she struck pure gold with one of her suggestions. Why I had not thought to write about this incident earlier, I don't know.

Let me preface the following tale by saying that this post is going to be a bit different from the others, in the sense that it will be focused around one particular incident rather than explaining why a specific source (person, place, thing) is worthy of my hatred.

I had just arrived back into NYC after spending the holidays on the west coast. It was New Years Eve and because I had just been traveling, I hadn't made any concrete New Years plans. So I spent the night at home with my roommates drinking champagne and counting down the minutes to the New Year. After a relatively unexciting ball-drop, I got a call from an old friend from high school (let's call him Goldy) asking me to come meet him at a bar uptown. Eager to fill my night with a bit more fanfare, I happily obliged.

After a bit of confusion over the actual location of the bar in question, I finally met up with Goldy. Because it was just the two of us (the rest of his party had mysteriously disappeared), we took a seat at the bar. For New Years Eve, the bar was pretty dead save for a small group standing right behind Goldy and I at the bar. Everything was going just fine, Goldy and I were chatting, catching up, swapping stories, etc. when one of the girls standing the group behind us (let's call her AssholeFace) elbows me in the back. An accident, I'm sure. Two minutes later, she does it again. I take a deep breath, internally blame it on the girly drink she has in her hand, and go back to my conversation with Goldy. A few seconds later, there the elbow is again, in my back, and harder this time. I turn around and, in the most pleasant and polite way, ask AssholeFace to stop elbowing me in the back. She ignores me. I turn back to Goldy, trying to maintain my composure. Mere seconds pass before I feel the elbow again. I tried to control myself (ok, no I didn't), but I snapped around and forcefully told (read: yelled) AssholeFace to "stop fucking elbowing me in the back." I guess I finally got her attention because she called me ugly and told me to shut up. I turned my back on her again, hoping she had taken my point, and was planning on ignoring her until she left. I mean, what can you say when someone calls you ugly? "No, I'm not"? Not a very good comeback. But then again, calling someone ugly is a desperate, floundering, middle school insult.

I really thought that would be it. I really wasn't trying to get into a fight. (And I'll make a confession here, when it comes to fighting, I tend to do more talking about fighting than actual fighting.) But a few moments later, AssholeFace crossed the line and I couldn't let her foolish and asinine behavior go unpunished. As I tried to continue my conversation with Goldy, I heard her yell, "Go back to Long Island!" Obviously being the tipping point, I literally jumped out of my bar stool and lunged at her, kind of crowd surfing atop the rest of her group of friends. It was over in an instant. I think I was able to get a firm grip on a chunk of stringy, overly-styled, bridge-and-tunnel-hair, while she managed to claw me in the face before Goldy pulled me off of her. Out of nowhere, the bar's bouncer appeared and practically picked AssholeFace up and threw her out of the bar.

Despite my obvious victory, I was seething at AssholeFace's insult. Long Island? Me? She told me to go back to Long Island? I was flabbergasted, especially because AssholeFace looked like she came right out of Jersey City with her crunchy, overly-teased hair and ten pounds of eyeliner. What an asshole. There is simply no way that I could be misjudged for someone from Long Island. Do I look like I come from Long Island? Do I sound like I come from Long Island? I believe the answer to both of those questions is no. A big HELL NO.

Anyway, the moral of my long-winded story is that I hate assholes. Specifically assholes who elbow me in the back at bars and then tell me to go back to Long Island.

I HATE! Ed Hardy

I'll openly admit that I love VH1. I love the fact that the formerly-music-based cable net now primarily airs reality programming. I also love the fact that virtually every show the net broadcasts is a spin/rip-off of the one launched right before it. (The Surreal Life - Strange Love - Flavor of Love - Rock of Love - I Love New York - Real Chance of Love - Charm School - I Love Money... the list goes on and on.) I love the caliber (i.e. extreme levels of trashiness) of the contestants featured on said reality shows.

In fact, I'll even go as far as to say that I've learned a great deal from the countless hours I've spent glued to VH1's back-to-back line-up of stippers, excessive drinking, and humiliatingly debasing physical competition; a few select gems: don't get so drunk that you sleep through your first elimination ceremony, don't play roller derby if you have breast implants (they might burst), don't call the boyfriend you still have at home while you're on a reality show hoping to find love with an aging rock star (cameras are always filming), and hocking a loogie into someone's eye is the deepest insult you can hurl (both literally and figuratively) at someone.

While clearly I've learned a great deal about etiquette and decorum from watching VH1's fabulous, white-trash-laced line-up, there is one thing that is prevalent on the network that I will never incorporate into my own life. I will never, ever, ever (you'd have to kill me first) adorn my body with an article of clothing designed for Christian Audigier's brand Ed Hardy. (Keep in mind, I use the word 'designed' loosely here because as far as I'm concerned everything in this 'collection' is created by a retired tattoo artist with a Lisa Frank stencil left over from middle school and some neon Crayola fabric paint I found in the back of my closet.)

So I'm sure you get my drift. I absolutely detest Ed Hardy. Detest it. It absolutely screams "I'm trashy". Ed Hardy is one of those brands that people buy because they want people to know they've spent a lot of money on their clothing. And it clearly doesn't matter that everything produced under that label is utterly abhorrent. When I say Crayola puff paint and Lisa Frank stencils, I'm not joking around. Ed Hardy designs strike me as the result of a collaboration between a musclebound tattoo artist and a three-year-old coloring-book-enthusiast.

Sometimes I look at people wearing articles of Ed Hardy clothing and I think to myself that Christian Audigier must be playing a big joke on everyone; he creates the most hiedous clothing possible, charges a ridiculously large amount of money for even the smallest, most obsolete piece (read: belt buckle and/or bedazzled trucker hat), and sees how may idiots he can trick into buying and wearing his strikingly hideous garments. Then, I gesticulate, he laughs at everyone stupid enough to fall for his brillant scheme and then spends the rest of his day rolling around in all the cash he's made.

And when you look at the clientele to whom Ed Hardy caters, that scenario doesn't seem so inplausible. The entire cast of Rock of Love is pretty much decked head-to-toe in Ed Hardy and they're just about as trashy as you can get. Other notable (and point-making) fans include Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Madonna, Ceiling Eyes and Plastic Surgery Barbie from that show The Hills, Ashley Tisdale, Carmen Electra, Tara Reid... need I say more?

As an afterthought, I guess I have to clarify something as I started this post with somewhat of a trangression: I love to watch VH1, yes, but more specifically, I love to watch VH1 and laugh at how the quest for fame and fortune can cause people to behave in the most ridiculous ways in front of millions of people. Wearing Ed Hardy from head-to-toe falls into the 'ridiculous behavior' category. It's a blatant attempt to broadcast how much money you've spent on your ensemble, no matter how fucking ugly the clothing actually is.

P.S. I have just found out that Christian Audigier is also responsible for the Von Dutch phenomenon, a cause championed by another one of my faves, Mr. Ashton Kutcher. This tibit speaks for itself.

I HATE! The Lack of Bathroom Engineering

Is there such a thing as a bathroom engineer? This afternoon, it crossed my mind that there must be someone whose job it is to design the lay-out of public restrooms. The official title of said profession, I am unsure of, but with these people, I have some serious, serious beef.

Let's walk through my grievance together, shall we? You go to the restroom, finish up in the stall, wash your hands, and then reach for a paper towel. Has anyone else noticed that paper towel dispensers are almost ALWAYS mounted on the wall at an elevated height? Seems like not such a big deal, right? THINK AGAIN. Imagine this: you reach up (with your dripping wet hands) to turn the dispenser handle, wave your hand under the motion sensor, pull the towel down, whatever, and then all of a sudden, you realize that gravity has kicked in and water is rapidly dripping down your arm and into the sleeves of your shirt. For some reason, this irks the shit out of me. Having beads of water sliding into my shirt sleeves really bums me out. OK, I'll be honest, it actually infuriates me. (And, for the record, even if it's seasonly warm month and I'm not wearing long sleeves, having droplets of water gliding down my arm is not any more pleasant.)

So this brings me to my main point: why, can't these (seemingly allusive) bathroom engineers come to their senses and realize that paper towel dispensers should not be elevated, but in fact, be adhered to the wall at hand-level at least. If I were to design a bathroom, I would actually situate these dispensers lower than hand level in order to ensure that the excess hand-washing-water dripped off the hands and onto the floor, and not off of the hands, down the arms, and into the shirt. Is this not common sense?

P.S. If anyone knows someone who is employed as what I'm referring to as a bathroom engineer, please let me know. I'd love to contact him or her with my suggestion.

I HATE! That I Don't Really Hate this Post

Given that this blog is called 'I Hate!' it would be weird for me to post something that I do not hate, but thanks to the brilliance that is 'Best of Craigslist', it looks like I may have found my soulmate (assuming the anonymous post that I am going to re-post here momentarily was written by a dude). The similarities between the opinons (and pet-peeves) of Mr. Anonymous and myself are striking and normally, I would have assumed that this fellow (whoever he may be) read my blog and jacked my opinions (the tone is SO similar, it's borderline ridic), but this post was written in 2007, so that scenario is not even possible. Read the post below and tell me we're not on the same wavelength. It's f-ing eerie. Or maybe we're the only two reasonable people in this f-ing city... Regardless, I'm in love!

best of craigslist > new york > NYC SUBWAY RANT: JESUS CHRIST!
Originally Posted: Mon, 6 Aug 14:33 EDT
NYC SUBWAY RANT: JESUS CHRIST!
Date: 2007-08-06, 2:33PM EDT

OK, I have been riding the subway every day for a lot of years. When you start riding, it doesn't take a much time to see all sorts of characters. At first, these people sightings might be somewhat shocking or even funny, but you begin to grow used to the pants less, toothless, yelling, drunk, cracked out, stinky, sweaty, and perverted characters that ride the subway. They really don't bother you much; in fact I welcome a little cameo from these guys once in a while. After all, it is part of our city culture. That said I have compiled a list – a spilling of my mental Rolodex of the people I share the subway with on a daily basis. These are the monsters I can't get used to and won't accept. They annoy the ever-loving piss out of me. Thing is, I never see these hooligans all at once, but I do see one at least once a day.

- Lady that fans herself with a piece of paper in the train car with broken a/c: Look lady, the air is hot. Not just your air but everyone's air. We are all breathing in each other's nasty hot breath and germs and here you go creating a gust of hot wind. This does not cool you down and it is especially fucking annoying when the car happens to be stuck that day, all is silent and we are forced to listen to the flip flopping of your paper up and down as you breath in and out deeply. So fucking ridiculous.

- Chinese guy with yellow nails and a bag of chicken feet: Dude, I'm not even kidding, you are nasty as hell. No one likes a set of long man-nails near them EVER and here you are wrapping those daggers around the center subway pole nearly slicing innocent bystanders as the plastic bag of chicken feet sways near your legs. Oh yes, and what are you going to do with those chicken feet anyway? Take advantage of us poor unknowing customers by grinding them up to use as filler in the next batch of HAPPY FAMILY from the local Jade Garden? I mean Jesus.

- Asshole with the sunglasses on: OK, there is no sunshine on the subway. This is not the L train pal. You sit there with your black as night shades on clearly staring at people for as long as you please. That's just wrong. Your probably staring at the lady's tits who is standing above you or even undressing some poor middle schooler with your eyes. Not only are you taking ample amounts of time to fanaticize about unsuspecting riders, but you look like an idiot doing it. This is especially worse when you also chew gum with an open mouth like a friggin' cow. You are drawing attention to yourself now and I can tell by the direction of your neck muscles that you were staring at me! Lady on the 8:30 F train Monday morning - you know who you are!

- Jerk that leans over you to look at the subway map: OK, your ball sac is 2 inches from my face. You don't care do you? Even though you've traumatized me and I lean back in my seat to shy far far away from your jewels, you lean in closer to get a better look at where to transfer from the E to the D train! Yuk man, have some manners. This is worse when you are sleeping with your head in your hands and wake to find a pants slacks covered man bulge in your grill.

- Ghostfarter: OK, I know it may be hard to hold it, but if you had diarrhea this morning of course your farts are going to reek! I mean the train is crowded with little ventilation yet you subject us to the rotten remnants of your ass-meal. This is inconsiderate and nasty! Hey if one clipped out, OK - it's happened to the best of us but you try to move around a bit and circulate. Don’t just stand there and poof out stinker after stinker while you read your paper! I'm talking about the well-dressed guy in the suit or the one hot chic on the train, it was probably you!

- Asshole with the book bag: If your bag more than 3 inches off of your back for god's sakes put it in front of you toward the floor! This is common knowledge!! I can't tell you how many times some retard with a book bag extending 3 feet tall off his back has decided to turn around and talk to his friend or bend down to tie his shoe and clock me one without knowing the difference. Yeah, that was me who bumped you on purpose. I hate you!

- Lady that hugs the pole on a crowded train: Are you fucking blind!?? There are other people riding the train with you jerk but yet you proceed to make sweet love to the silver pole. Can we maybe hold on for a second TOO so we don't break and ankle??!!! Then, when we ask you to move you PRETEND you don't speak English. Real nice. Why don't you walk to work with a broomstick and hug that you shitbag.

- Nail Clipping Fool: This means you regular business guy with no regard or oblivious Asian lady. Jesus Christ, does anyone have manners?? DO NOT CLIP YOUR NAILS ON THE SUBWAY! I should be making signs for god's sakes! Not only are we subjected to the resonating sound of your clipping but your nail shrapnel is flying every which way and hitting men, women and children. This is by far the most disgusting thing ever. I'd like to take a free shot at your gut while fellow train riders hold you up.

Location: NYC

I HATE! When People Don't Hold Doors

I really love it when someone lets a door slam in my face. Like I really fucking love it. I'm in no way exaggerating when I say that I get a door slammed in my face at least once a day, sometimes more. The usual culprits are businessmen (whose tailored suits would wrongly suggest that they have at least an iota of etiquette). Often, foreign-language-speaking-tourists are to blame. (Look, I know America is one of the most hated countries in the world [thanks G.W.!], but come on, you can't blame the language / cultural barrier for everything! And by the way, everyone is on to you about supposedly not knowing how to tip.) But the majority of the time, it's just oblivious assholes, New Yorkers, fingers glued to their Blackberries and iPods, who can't take the time or exert the energy to extend an arm and hold the door for the frazzled girl with the monstrous purse, venti coffee, and overloaded weekend bag. (Yep, it happened to me this morning!)

And you know what? It really baffles me, really boggles my mind. How hard is it really to hold the door for someone? Unless you're a paraplegic, this shouldn't be an issue. It shouldn't even command a second thought. It should be a natural instinct, a second nature, if you will. Even if I'm not aware that there is someone walking behind me, I'll still hold the door open a few extra seconds, just to be sure I don't inadvertently slam the door in some unwitting person's face.

Fuck that nonsense about New Yorkers being rude; rude has nothing to do with it. Rude is when I drop my Blackberry on the subway and it lands under another, seated rider's feet and that person doesn't even move a muscle to attempt to bend down to retrieve it for me. Holding a door open for the person behind you is common fucking courtesy. Plain and simple. And no only is it common courtesy, but holding the door for the person behind you also helps promote efficiency, productivity, and the flow of movement. Listen to me! I'm mounting a case for holding doors based on a platform of efficiency. That's how you know humanity is in bad shape!

Hold a door. Prevent a senseless nose job.

I HATE! Improper Yoga Etiquette - Part Deux

The solution is obvious. I should probably never go back to yoga. I simply cannot escape the weirdos. It seems that the yoga studio I attend is a mecca for everything I hate in life. I'm beginning to feel like every time I attend a class, I discover something that is newly infuriating. The thing is, I do actually like the practice of yoga as an form of exercise, given that I've recently found myself to be substantially less motivated to do anything vigorous (save my weekly soccer games). And this really sucks because I just can't seem to escape the seemingly mocking torment of some of the utterly ridiculous behavior I've been witness to during yoga.

Example #1: Excessive and Continual Passing of Gas by Girl on Mat in Front of Me

We all have the same bodily functions. I get it; I can't knock an escaped fart here or there, but look, if you're having some severe intestinal and/or bowel issues, it's probably best NOT to attend a class where you have you ass in someone else's face for the majority of the time. I think that makes perfect sense. If I was having problems with my plumbing, I would 100% avoid yoga at all costs until the issue had been cleared up. I would be utterly mortified if I had the misfortune to accidentally let one rip right into someone's face. Apparently, though, this isn't necessarily common sense.

A few weeks ago, I attended a yoga class during which, the girl on the mat in front of me kept farting - not once, not a few times, but continuously throughout the ENTIRE CLASS. And, pardon the expression, but this gas-passing sounded rather juicy in nature - like there was something chronic going on. Initially, I gave this girl the benefit of the doubt, assuming that her undoubtedly sweaty hands / feet were making weird noises against her rubber mat, but as the noises continued, it became painfully obvious what was going on. And I couldn't believe it! Have a little decorum - and if not on your own behalf, at least avoid yoga for the sake of everyone else cooped up in that hot, sweaty room with you.

Example #2: Being Told Not to Chew Gum By Instructor of Equal Age

I do not go to yoga to be bossed around by the instructors. When I get bossed around or told what to do by someone who does not have authority or seniority to do so, I get angry and getting angry is counterproductive to the underlying goals of yoga. Unfortunately, most of the instructors I have encountered manage to piss me off in one respect or another, but I deal with it because yoga is good for both my physical and emotional well-being and stability. Generally speaking, I have found some qualm about every single one of them; i.e her voice is too squeaky, she doesn't stop talking for two seconds, he speaks in monotone - I'm falling asleep, she goes around 'adjusting' only the males in the class, etc... My most recent encounter, however, takes the fucking cake.

I'm doing my poses, minding my own business, chewing some recently purchased Orbit Sweet Mint (my fave), when this asshat instructor (who one of my roommates refers to as an 'Abercrombie model turned hippie-yoga instructor'), comes over and begins to adjust my pose while uttering the following phrase: 'It might be easier for you if you spit out that gum.' Pardon me? Pardon me? I was in shock. Who did this guys think he was? First of all, he was, most definitely no more than a year or two older than me at that and secondly, when did yoga instructors get free rain to boss their 'students' around like they're fucking teaching remedial middle school math?

Example #3: Things Not to Wear to Yoga 101: Full Make-Up, Jewelry & Halter Tops

The very same day I was forcibly regressed back to middle school, I happened to look behind me while in downward dog and noticed that the woman holding that spot was wearing not only an excessive amount of jewelry (big, dangly earrings, chunky necklace), but also a full face of make-up (perhaps even complete with false eyelashes), AND a halter top (that wasn't haltering anything, if you catch my drift). I'm assuming that this woman must have been trying to impress someone because there is really no other explanation as to why you would show up to yoga decked out with rings on your fingers and bells on your toes. I'm convinced that this woman had some sort of ulterior motive because she wasn't even following the flow as everyone else was; she was totally doing her own thing, which included some pretty complicated poses. Clearly, this woman was not an amateur.

Fact: if you've come to yoga with make-up on, you'd better believe you'll have sweated it clean off before the class is finished. Jewelry could only be an additional annoyance, banging all over the place as you're flipping your head upside down every 3 minutes, and the halter top... I wouldn't even begin to know how to make sense of that. There is such a large margin for error there; I can't comprehend it.