The Decay and Demoralization of Civilization and Humanity.

I’ll be the first to admit that I have a George Contanza-like ability to obsess over the littlest, most trivial of things.

I’m going to apologize for that right up front.

With that out of the way, I’ll admit to this – I operate on the idea of basic principles and manners befitting a human being when out in public.

Some of these rules are (with examples or further expostulating in parenthesis)

1. There should be at least a one-stall cushion in the bathroom (This gives women enough privacy to conclude their business and if you’re a guy, well, unless you want to check out someone’s junk, go as far away from the other male as possible.

2. Do not hover over a person at the ATM (Straight from the George Costanza handbook. If I wanted you to know my secret code – Bosco – I would take out a billboard and sell my identity to the highest bidder).

3. Do not bring more items than stated to the speedy check out (Really, mom of four who is shopping for the week when all I have is hamburger buns, turkey burgers, and potatoes).

4. Do not give blood at the plasma center (There is nothing wrong with giving blood, but if you want a sterilized needle, you should go to a place that doesn’t give away checks to the unkempt masses. Before you castigate me, you should see the lines I pass at the plasma center on my way to work. Or ask my sister about her co-workers “girlfriend” who had a stripper friend that went to the plasma center every week for $35. Still need proof? I’ll take a picture).

5. At any big event there should be a chicken option (Not everyone eats fish, not everyone eats beef, but unless you’re a vegetarian, no one will turn down chicken).

6. Assume everyone around you cannot read and does not speak English (I’m guilty of this one too, my sister will talk and I’ll find the TV way more interesting than her. That is why you should always explain everything in detail to someone).

7. Do not take up two parking spaces (This is especially important when you are at the mall and even more important if you are at the mall at Christmas time. Don’t want your Jag beat up? Then I suggest you call a cab because if you’re taking up a space that could be mine, you might find a surprise when you leave).

8. Always be nice to your waiter. Even if they suck (Really, do I need to elaborate? They are carrying your food out to you and unless you want to kiss your waiter or waitress, I suggest acting as pleasant as punch and getting your revenge by leaving two pennies face down as the tip).

9. The left lane is for passing ANY TIME there is a left lane (This is the biggest pet peeve of mine, people who get in the left lane and barely drive. Or drive just fast enough to keep pace with the guy in the right lane, ensuring that everyone else behind them gets to drive at their slow pace).

10. If you are rude enough to take kids on a plane, keep them occupied, quiet, and in their seat (If I’m stuck on a cramped, two-hour flight with your screaming child, there is a very good chance someone will get hurt and someone will get arrested).

11. When standing in a line, once you have been waited on, move out of the way (Seems easy enough, but you’d be surprised).

Those are a few of my rules for everyone to get along in a civilized society. Seems as easy as pie, right? Wrong. Oh so very wrong, you are.

Whatever it is that has caused this blatant disregard for some of these basic rules, I have come to blame both the government and the economy.

To start blaming the government, I’m going to start with a very important document we all know named The Declaration of Independence. The declaration states: …that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights that among them are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness…

It then goes on to say that governments are set up by the people to make sure these rights are given to all.

Did anyone notice though that little tiny word in front of Happiness? Yes, that word, pursuit. Like, I am pursuing a goal of making a million dollars, of having book published sometime. Does the word pursuit guarantee that either of these things will happen?

No.

It doesn’t.

Which is good because if the government is supposed to make sure I am happy then they need to get cracking on helping. My hair is frizzy, my ass is too big, my dad is an exploitative ass bag, I drive a gold Saturn, and my dog is getting old. And I’m going to stop right there before I say way too much.

However, I know the government doesn’t give a damn about my situation (could be because my family is middle class though…). I know that at the moment, things are unhappy for me. I’ve come to terms with that.

I just don’t believe some people have. Some people feel entitled to happiness, even when their happiness infringes upon those few basic rules of a civilized society.

Now, onto the other topic of blame – the economy. Thomas Hobbs said human beings were self-serving brutes. Ok, maybe not all of us, maybe not all of the time, but let’s think about this in terms of Darwinism. Darwin preached about survival of the fittest. Well, in an economic downturn the “fittest” are the wealthiest.

Those who are unfit go into survival mode and survival mode causes them to forget about the world around them. They become so programmed into themselves they forget there are other people around and ignore those unspoken tenets of a civilized society.

Ok, I’m done preaching; I’ll get off my soapbox and tell my story now.

Penn Station is one of my all-time favorite restaurants. Their fries are just all kinds of scrumptious. Sunday night, Andrea and I decided to get Penn Station. We had some coupons for a free meal with a small sandwich, small fry, and a regular drink. Now, all of that works, except for the fry part. I devour those fries like an island castaway that’s just been rescued. So I ordered two extra small fries, one for each of us.

On the drive there, we both decided that a small wouldn’t be enough, so we arrive there and decide to get two mediums. We enter the building and find two older women (50-ish) hanging around by the register. We want to pay and aren’t sure what is going on. One pulls out a baby photo.

The two oblivious bitches who clearly think they are above everyone, do not move. Finally the squealing stops, one of the old bitches leaves and the other one stays there. We think she needs to pay. However, we find out that is not the case. The woman is standing there waiting for her food.

For those of you unfamiliar with Penn Station, I’ll tell you this – their food is cooked fresh when you order. Therefore, you will have a small wait until your food is ready. This is how the process works, you go in, you order, you slide down the food banquet and pay. After that I had always assumed you took a seat until you food was ready. It was what I did. I mean, it would be cool if Penn Station was only open to serve me, but it’s not.

So the old woman, she pays and stands there. The employee looks at us and we tell her our name. I naively think this woman will at least get out of the way so we can pay. Nope, she doesn’t. I thought wrong. She makes Andrea reach over her to pay.

So we fill up our drinks and sit at the small bar directly behind the woman where I begin to berate her behavior with my sister.

Andrea was a little shocked at how pissed I was.

“I mean, it’s the basic rules of humanity. You get out of the way for other people. Who does she think she is? She’s old, has bad hair, and a fat ass. I hope we get our food before her. Not so much because I want to leave, but because I want to get served before her. Seriously, what does she think she is gaining from standing up there? Does she think they’ll cook her food faster? I mean, I want my chicken done. No salmonella here. Honestly, Andrea, what the hell. Is she worried someone would spit in her food? I’d spit in her food if I was an employee here. If she can’t sit down and get out of my face, I would so spit in her food. It would be so funny if we got our food first because we’re all chill and relaxed and she’s like right there. ”

Okay, maybe saying we were chilled and relaxed was a bit much because I was clearly worked up.

Anyway, I could explain her slight to us by saying that despite being in our mid- to late-twenties, we look young. With our dirty Sunday clothes on and unkempt hair, she probably thought we were some high school kids and figured that since we were high school kids we scum (I have a tendency to generalize about high school kids which makes me feel old).

However, when a family of four, parents in their thirties and their two young children, came through the line, the stupid ass bitch still didn’t move! She made the family reach over her to pay!

RUDE!

RUDE, RUDE, RUDE!!!

And then she got her food first.

Two minutes later, Andrea and I got our food. We take it and walk out the door to the gold Saturn. Parked next to our car, just sitting in her car is the stupid ass bitch that wouldn’t move to save her soul despite the unspoken rules of society. She was smoking a cigarette. Go figure.

“What the hell,” I said. “Go home! You stand in front of the cashier to ensure you get your food as fast as possible and then don’t want to go home to your family…”

“Who just sits in their car and smokes a cigarette!” Andrea says. “At least light it and drive on! If you can’t smoke and drive then you shouldn’t smoke! Oh, her window’s open,” Andrea says a little quieter.

“I don’t care. Who can’t move out of the way? Seriously.”

I know I have been stressing about this more than I should be. I know I have practically told everyone I have come into contact with this story (Now I’m blogging about it). But I can’t get over it. This woman was old enough to know better. That’s the real kicker. But some self-righteous, all consuming demand for superiority flew up her ass causing her to think that she took precedence to everyone around her. Well, honey, you’re forgetting one thing. Pursuing happiness isn’t the only thing the declaration mentions. In fact, this other little phrase I’m thinking of is mentioned in the declaration and The Gettysburg Address.

“All people are created equal.”

So next time…

STEP ASIDE!

Oh, You Know...Just Been Hanging Out Beaking In To My Car...

My brother is pretty much the only HK to still talk to my dad (I’m not about to talk to him and after his wedding shenanigans, Andrea is hesitant to call).

Anyway, he has a key to my car. He has had a key to my car for about two years now.

Here’s the skinny on the extra key. I had numerous keys. But for some reason my ignition likes to die right around the 2+year mark. I don’t understand it. I bought it in 2005 and have replaced the ignition twice. Anyway, the last time it was changed, they tried to avoid changing it by recalibrating the lock. They then gave us two keys. One I used and one I gave to my dad (at the time, we were talking. This was before he through me under the bus for a SECOND time).

When the latest “bus throwing” occurred, asking for my key back wasn’t exactly at the forefront of my mind.

However, about a month ago, that key would’ve sure come in handy.

See, I left my keys in my car and locked the door after I got done at the gym.

I called my dad’s cell from our home phone (my cell was charging in the locked car). He didn’t answer. I then called his work and his secretary informed me that he was out. Well, that blew.

Work isn’t exactly my favorite place in the world to be everyday, but paychecks are nice, so I ponied up and called my uncle who owns a body shop. Thirty minutes later, my car was unlocked and my checking account was $35 lighter (that’s like three liters and a mug on a Friday).

Now, to present day.

Kevin is home this weekend for our annual Fall Festival. This is a five-block street festival complete with rides, carnies, a plethora of food ranging from waffles to crawfish ettoufee to chocolate covered crickets, and mullets-a-plenty!

He came in on Thursday and I asked him, texted him, “When you see dad, ask for my key back.”

Friday, we went to the Fall Festival. I got potato springs. They are like potato chips, kind of. The potato is sliced super thin and curls off like a spring. It is then fried. So, it’s like a cross between a French fry and a chip – which are two of my favorite ways to ingest potatoes.

Mom got potato springs and a pronto pup (which is different from a corn dog because it is made with pancake batter). Kevin got a pronto pup and a philly cheesesteak.

After our heart-attack inducing afternoon, mom and I went home (I went to the gym) and Kevin went to get his hair cut by Andrea. And he didn’t come home. In fact, Andrea got home before him. This is a little obscene considering Kevin got his hair cut at 1:15 and Andrea got off work at 4 p.m. That is when I am informed that Kevin went to see out father.

I texted him: Don’t forget my key.

I get this back: I’ve already left.

Yes. That means he did not get the key. Why am I not surprised.

Since then, I have been riding his ass about getting my key. The ass-riding culminated his afternoon.

I had some errands to run earlier in the week. Procrastination and house cleaning set me back. I woke to the phone ringing and hearing my mom ask if I needed anything at Sam’s. I was a little disappointed because mom could’ve taken me on my errands and saved me the gas. I told her this. Since Andrea and I picked up a somewhat drunk little brother last night, she said she wanted me to sleep in. Nice sentiment, but I would’ve rather have had her drive.

I then haul my ass out of bed, dress, feed the dogs (stand over the bowl and tell Mac to at because he’s having an Olsen Twin morning) then head out the door to get my running done.

I get a chocolate covered caramel apple at this amazing chocolate store and realize I don’t have my debit card. I gave it to Andrea last night to buy the Hacienda. Damn.

The cash I was going to deposit is now my money.

I then head to Andrea’s shop and buy detangler and mousse. Next is Wal-Mart. I said a prayer and headed across the street. While there were many degenerates, no one warranted a snapshot on www.peopleofwalmart.com for ridicule. Double damn.

Now its on to Borders where I buy the Charlaine Harris Sookie Stackhouse compilation and a book in the Dark Hunter series. I left the 40% off coupon at the house. Fuck (Thankfully, they had a coupon for me to use, I love you Borders people even though you’re ignorant of books!).

Lastly, I deposit my mileage check into the bank and head home. I arrive home right behind Kevin and holler at him to help me get the diet Cokes into the house (24-pack for $6.98, score!).

I unlocked the back door for him, grab my bags, go into the house, set my stuff down, and change into gym clothes.

I spin some yarns for my mom and talk about my convo with a family friend and how this country doesn’t make people accountable for their actions and a possibly another letter to write to my congressman and senators.

Finally, I leave. As soon as I exit the door, I know, I know, my car is locked and my keys are in it.

I walk to my car, hoping I didn’t lock the car, but knowing that with my OCD-locking-complex this is very unlikely. I try the door. Locked. Of course. I look in the ignition. The keys are just hanging in the ignition. Nice. Damn, damn, damn. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Of course, I run into the house, berate my brother, tell him to call our father and drive me over there to get my keys.

But mom stops him. Armed with a coat hanger, we go outside. She checks out my locks and decides she’s going to try to open my car. With the metal hanger undone, she tries to stick it in the door. It won’t get through.

“Why haven’t you just had another key made?” my mom asked me.

“Because I’m a procrastinator,” I said.

I have another hanger, and push some through, but I can’t get it to open the door. It’s too flimsy. My sticks her hanger in. Our hangers cross paths. I say something that could be misconstrued and Kevin says “That’s what she said.”

Well, this isn’t working.

I tell Kevin to call dad. Then I bitch some more about how he could’ve avoided this whole predicament had he got the key yesterday.

That’s when Kevin sees a carpenter’s triangle. He grabs the triangle and wedges it into my door. Mom works the hanger, and with the help of Kevin and me, we open the car.

HOORAY!

“Call Dad and get your key back,” Kevin said then.

“Oh right, call him and have him not answer or call me back for my key. Just ask him for it, Kevin.”


“Erin,” he said in this tone that tells me I’m acting like an idiot. Well, I may be immature, but I’m the child, not the parent!

“Kevin!”

He shakes his head and goes into the house. I hear him say “stubborn” to my mom.

Maybe I am. But I made amends once. And my father once again tried to screwed me over AGAIN.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, well, cross me off your friends’ list because I will never ever speak to you again as long as we both shall live. And if you go on Who Wants to be a Millionaire and phone me, you better be prepared to lose, or give up 75% of your winnings. Then we might be even.