CREEP Week: The Old Man (with issues)

The Mysterious Old Man

This is a man with experience.  He believes that this experience will show him the way into your pants.  He believes that he can convince you of his skills in the bedroom.  He will tell you how good he is with women, but he will not show you that he is good.  The Old Man believes he is smooth, but spends all his time talking about being smooth, rather than actually being smooth.

When you, inevitably, reject him, he will get angry and dismiss you as a bimbo or just as stupid.  He will tell you that you’re missing out.  And he’s right, you are missing out on getting to see how long it takes for Viagra to kick in.

Have you encountered such a creep?  

We have.

YOU ARE GROSS.

The Negatives: 

His name was Matt, but I called him “Tom.”  Why?  T.O.M. = Tall, Old Matt.  He was 36.  I was 21.  He was a Class A Creep.  This is a dude that was out hunting for younger ladies and came upon me at a book stand.  He claimed to know about the book I was holding, which was later revealed as a farce.  He spent the next few weeks trying to sleep with me or marry me or move to NYC with me or something else altogether.  He was weird.  He slowly revealed that he was a recovering drug addict, working part-time as a line cook, who lived with his mom and step-dad.  Oh, he was also sexist, afraid of strong women, wanted to dress me, and thought I looked like a lesbian when I wore shorts.  Also, he was 36 and he was trying to date a 21-year-old.  That’s borderline illegal.  Speaking of borderline illegal, after I dumped his old and wrinkled ass, he sort of stalked me for a few weeks.  The police were involved.

The Positives:

We never slept together.  I got rid of him.  No harm.

The Lessons:

  1. Ladies (and gentlemen), never let a man tell you how you can dress.  You wear what you want.  You do what you want.  Creeps don’t rule the world.
  2. Ladies, never let a man lie about his age and get away with it.
  3. Ladies, never let a man stalk you.  

Creep Qualifications:

  1. He lied about his age.
  2. He was seeking someone in the low twenties.
  3. He admitted to dating a 16-year-old.
  4. He wore swim trunks everywhere.
  5. He talked about how hot he was all the time.
  6. He used tanning oil.
  7. He was a straight-up scrub.
  8. “Live at home with your mama?” Oh, yes. Son, I’m talkin’ to you.
  9. “Have a car, but you’re walkin’?” Oh, yes. Son, I’m talkin’ to you.
  10. He had just been released/escaped from rehab.
  11. He ran away from rehab.
  12. He thought I looked like a lesbian when I wore shorts.
  13. He accused me of being misleading because I was wearing a dress when we met, but didn’t always wear dresses.
  14. He really wanted to have butt sex all the time.  NEVER happened, FYI.
  15. He just kept talking about butt sex.
  16. He was paranoid about abortions… with no risk of pregnancy.
  17. He was obsessed with having public… encounters… with strangers.
  18. Did I mention he lived with his mom?

Here are some examples of Mitt Romney’s painful awkwardness.

Much like Mitt Romney’s face, your parents’ honeymoon, post-break-up coffee dates, and that Jon Lajoie video about genitals, Mitt Romney is awkward.  It’s a fact.  This is a man who doesn’t imbibe anything naughty… you know, besides heartlessly firing people, shady business practices, and being a weirdo.

Want to see some examples of his awkwardness (read: awkward-mess)?

I DO!

I sometimes can’t decide if he’s more awkward or creepy or just old and white.  But, then I think about it more and I realize… probably all three.  Look at the following; it’s irrefutable.

INITIATE HUMAN LAUGHTER SEQUENCE. HA. HA. HA. O10110001010101.

Sometimes, he puts on gloves in public.  And it’s awkward.

 

Remember when he talked about Michigan’ trees?

“I like music.”

 

Mitt Romney Is a Robot-Alien, and other things I sort of believe.

Mitt Romney is a weird guy.  I think we can all agree on that much.  He doesn’t really seem to understand what’s happening around him.  As any politician must, he bravely ventures into diners filled with Middle America’s most middle-ish of people.  Romney is a 1%er, in fact, he’s probably in the 0.005%.  Dude is rich.  Dude is so rich.  Dude doesn’t even know what a clearance rack is.  Dude probably doesn’t even like Target.  If you don’t regularly shop at Target, I have doubts that you understand “middle class.”

Romney’s absurd wealth makes him so out of touch and seemingly odd that he seems like an alien/robot, or a robot alien.  I just don’t think he can wrap his beautifully gold-plated brain around the milieu of normal life.  *By the way, I mean real gold; I’m not calling him a blond.

Are you wondering why I think he’s both a robot and an alien?  

I’m just pretty sure he’s a robot alien.  As in, I think he is a robot who was likely designed by aliens far away in space, then maybe the robots rebelled and started to produce more of themselves, and now they are infiltrating other cultures and planets, and Romney is one of their best machines… His bid for the presidency is one of the final steps in their plan.

Anyways………….  Here are some reasons.

REASON:  He’s bad at talking like a human person.

Imagined Mitt dialogue: “Hello there, Average Joe.  I am Candidate Stone Hair.  I would like you to vote for me.  I will do anything, literally.  Also, what is a ‘flannel’ and why is everyone in plaid?”

“TERRIFIC!”

“Oh, boy! It sure is sunny!”  “Haha!”  “Yes!”

“I like Michigan.  I like trees.  All the trees are the right height.”

“Tall women are dangerous.”

“Hello there, waitress at diner.  I would like two poached eggs with truffle oil, on a bed of fresh mint, with a piece of Wonder Bread, toasted, and spread with pumpkin butter on one side and Belgian chocolate on the side.”  And then the waitress is like…  “?”

REASON: He just might be too rich.  I don’t think this is a “punishment for success” as Fox News might think it is; I just think someone that far out of the normal American experience won’t be able to understand what people need or want.  I don’t feel comfortable being represented by this person – just like I wouldn’t want the King of France leading our country.  That would be weird.

REASON:  His richness leads to thinking that the middle class stops at $250,000 per year.  Um, if you’re making a quarter of a million dollars, you’re upper class.  I bet that he cannot even imagine that a middle class family might make less than $100,000 per year.

The poverty line must be so astounding to him.

REASON: Well, it’s because he’s so robotic and awkward.  He doesn’t seem to understand humans.  I imagine that life in general is very confusing for him.  In this campaign, he’s had to sludge to such awful, lowly places (by his standards) and it’s hard.

He just doesn’t get it.

REASON: He tells stories like this: “I met a guy yesterday, seven feet tall. Yeah, handsome, great big guy, seven feet tall! Name is Rick Miller—Portland, Oregon. And he started a business. Of course you know it was in basketball. But it wasn’t in basketball! I mean, I, figured he had to be in sport, but he wasn’t in sport.”

REASON: His face doesn’t make sense.

REASON:  Romney doesn’t seem able to agree with himself for any substantial amount of time.  I’m not sure if he’s sure if he’s real or not.  Is moderate Romney the real one?  Is super conservative Romney the real one?

watch?v=bxch-yi14BE&feature=related

REASON:  I’m confused.  Isn’t this guy just the leftovers?  No one was excited about him a few months ago.

Mitt Romney is crazy-crazy.  He just confuses me.  What do you want?  What is your deal?  Why do you want all this power?  You don’t really have any views or thoughts that stay steady.  Ugh.

Married for 40 Years! It can happen.

Though I was going to write a post about my devastation that Amy Poehler and Will Arnett are separating (because that is seriously the end of the world and it makes me want to cry and scream and I think it might mean that love is dead and I’m scared that the world will end and that this is the first sign of the apocalypse and I just can’t stop crying about it because it’s so damn sad – they’re so beautifully funny and their union was everything we were going for – and by “we” I mean EVERYONE – and this is the most devastating news and I’m so sad and I don’t want it to be true and it’s awful and I know we’re all suffering), but instead, let me talk about my parents.

They’ve been married for 40 years.  I’ll give you a moment to process.

Barb and Don are so adorable. Seriously, they’re so in love and so happy and so, so weird.

These two got married on September 9, 1972.  Barb was 20 (but a wee little baby) and Don was 23.  They were so young and so in love and such hippies (sort of).  They are adorable and so very in love.  It took 15 years for them to finally make a baby, though they tried and tried and tried.  In 1987, they welcomed my older sister.  Two years later, they welcomed me – I was even shorter back then.

They’ve had some tough times, an aneurysm and a stroke between them, but they are inspirationally, Notebook-level in love.  Even when they’d fight, they would always come and find my sister and me to explain that they were just mad about “something stupid” and that they’d surely get over it soon.

I cannot even imagine being married right now, so it makes it even more impressive that they did it and did it right at such a young age. I feel weird even talking six months in the future with my boyfriend, but Don and Barb knew that they wanted to spend their lives together.

Don proposed when they got back in Barb’s car (which he was driving) after they had pancakes.  He basically just turned to her and said, “Will you?”  She obviously agreed.  Though this detail is less than cinematic, it’s sort of the perfect starting to a simple, happy life.  They never needed a big show; they have each other.  For the record, I would like a proposal with more planning (so would Kate)… At least a poem or something…  Perhaps a watermelon?

When I feel sad about celebrity, friend, and my own break-ups, I just focus on them.  They’ve given more unrealistic expectations about love than any amount of Disney or chick flicks could.  They’re amazing and wonderful.

Happy Anniversary, Don and Barb!

 

Wasted: Government Conferences with Big, Huge, Scary Bills

A few months back, the nation was outraged to hear about the money spent on a conference for the GSA (the Federal General Services Administration).  They put on a conference that managed to spend almost a million dollars – on party favors, trinkets, psychics, and other such baloney.  Somehow, through all the bureaucracy required in this government agency, a whole heck of a lot of unnecessary, insultingly wasteful activities and things were authorized and enjoyed.  It’s really quite shameful.

For more information on the absurdity of the GSA Conference Scandal, visit the Huffington Post.

Because this was such a massive scandal and because it was grotesquely wasteful, I hoped it was an isolated incident.  It was not.  Not even close.

I was sad to hear that the VA is now under investigation for a similar scandal, though this seems even worse.  The alleged number I keep hearing is … $5 Million Dollars.  As in, $1,000,000 times FIVE.  As in, $5,000,000.00.

Not only is this number shocking, the fact that it was approved in such a bureaucratically controlled system is also shocking.  Think about all the different people who had to authorize that.  Think of all the different people who emailed each other about.  In my experience, bureaucracy, through its inefficient back-and-forth, prevents a lot of big waste.  Sure, it wastes a lot of time because people are going back and forth, and it can be incredibly frustrating.  Yet, it does somehow manage to keep wasteful spending away a good amount of the time.  I mean, the last time I had to buy bubbles for work, I had to prove in three different ways that it had a business purpose.  How does this happen?  How could enough people have thought this was okay?  How could anyone spend $5,000,000 on two conferences?

Ahh!  Shouldn’t this be stealing?  Am I just crotchety?

They somehow spent $5 million on two conferences.  This is so much money.  This is money that could have created jobs, facilities for patients, or supplies for staff members.  These could have been research dollars.  That money could have funded so many good things that would have impacted VA patients, staff, and students.  Instead, that money went towards two internal conferences.

These weren’t even national conferences where information, best practices, and cutting-edge research could be shared. These were internal staff conferences about procedures, policies, and other easily emailed stuff.  Team building should not cost millions of dollars.  You can build a team with talking.  You can build a team by going hiking.  You should never waste that much money just to have a giant meeting.  It is absurdly irresponsible.  It is disrespectful.  It is shocking.  It is sad.

Maybe you are asking yourself, “How much does a normal conference cost?”  As someone who has planned both state and national conferences, I can confidently say, “A hell of a lot less than $2,500,000.”  To get specific, I believe a national conference with 500 attendees can easily be planned for under $100,000 a day – that would cover food, facilities, materials, even some “splash” items, honorariums (payment to speakers), and lodging for some of the guests.  That’s $200 per person.  That’s reasonable.  That’s possible.

I strongly believe that frugality is next to cleanliness (I won’t get into godliness). I also strongly believe that government agencies should be frugal, very frugal.  Now, government employees should be paid fairly, should receive benefits, and should be happy and comfortable; I do not believe we should expect people to sacrifice their paychecks to work for the government.  That said, I don’t think the government should approve stupid conferences that cost so much they will eventually cost someone their salary.  The money wasted on frivolous things at a conference is money that will never go to an employee.  In a time of major lay-offs, controversy over programs that help people, and massive deficits, I expect government agencies to spend smartly.

I would rather see money go towards any number of social programs that benefit people’s lives.  I highly doubt that those employees’ lives were deeply affected by these conferences.  I would wager that the employees could have learned all the same information for a lot less money.

Money should be going to schools, medicine, research, food, welfare, police, teachers, benefits, and many, many other programs – not conferences.

You can stop whining about how hard it is to be young now.

More and more often, I’ve been seeing articles bemoaning being in your twenties (in particular, Thought Catalog and the HuffPost Blog love making lists on this topic). I wrote a goofy version (at least I like to think so) myself–far less, well, serious and doom-y. But I’m really, really, REALLY getting tired of people bitching and moaning about being twenty-whatever in combination with one of the following:

A. Not having a job. I get that this is frustrating. I do. Having a degree that you worked hard for and that you can seemingly wipe your ass with sucks. However, there is not some sort of cosmic significance to your lack of employment. We have a shitty economy. We are, realistically, in a rec(depr)ession, and you’re pretty much at the bottom of the ladder. It is, yes, adversity that you have to work through, but plenty of other people have worked through it before you. It is not something special for our generation, it does not make you better/unique/more self-aware. You’re also the one who refuses to do menial labor because you’ve been fore fed some bullshit about it being below you for the last two decades. You annoy me. Shut the hell up already.

B. Being single. And drunk. And single. Okay, I get it. You’re lonely. And you’re verging on being a full-blown alcoholic. This has nothing to do with being in your twenties. Being drunk and lonely is not a profound experience, nor is it the special property of the young.

C. Feeling directionless and using your blog to whine about it. Blogging always straddles that strange line between making your point and getting whiny in order to elicit sympathy from total strangers. One thing that is true about many people in their twenties (but also true of many teens and even a boatload of baby boomers) is a need for constant reassurance/confirmation from their social circle. Why else would social media be so addictive and so conducive to the humblebrag?

D. Being too far or too little self-aware. It depends on who you ask on this one, but for all the time you, author of blogpost/article, are spending reflecting on being in your twenties (instead of oh, I don’t know, living them) I sure hope you’re erring on the “too much” side of this equation. Honestly, quit taking yourself so seriously. Chances are, by the time you hit your mid twenties, you’ll experience something that will change the way you see the world or yourself. That’s healthy and appropriate. Whether that’s losing a beloved grandparent, having to break off a long-term relationship, or even getting a first phone call from a collections department, all of these things can force you to crawl out of your (supposed) vodka-induced coma from part B of this list and re-evaluate your shit. It’s called life, and it is not special or particular to being a young adult.

E. Whining about being broke. Your parents are paying (or stopped paying) your rent/grocery bill/phone bill/bar bill/healthcare bills (think Lena Dunham à la Girls). You live in New York/L.A./Miami/Chicago. Um. What did you think was going to happen if you moved to a HUGE metropolis and had, if we refer to part A, NO JOB? Shit is expensive! I hope your parents have already paid off the house they have in Happytown, USA because even a shitty studio apartment in some of those places is probably going to have them forking over twice as much as they did for their mortgage. Give me a break. Stop acting like they’re obliged to be paying for your dumb ass to live the high life while remaining totally oblivious to all of the benefits you do have, like parents who are not only willing but able to help you with your rent.

F. Jerking off to your own perceived intellectual, social, and cultural superiority. We get it. You have clever Tweets. Who knew so much wit could be packed into a mere 140 characters? Your Instagram photos each have the perfectly selected filter for the five hundredth picture of your cat, or the one where you’re holding up a half-drunken PBR at some skeevy neighborhood bar you like because it’s “pure” (that is, you’re the only person under forty inside of it). Your Tumblr is both thought provoking and delightfully cheeky in the 21st century intarwebs sort of way. You’ve read (and get) Derrida and Naked Lunch. You need to remind your Facebook friends how brilliant and unique and clever and unique and underground and unique and unique and unique you are. Did I mention you’re unique? And your blog, OH! Your BLOG. It is so deep and meaningful and there’s just so many feelings you need to discuss.

The biggest problem is that there’s a good chunk of “twenty-somethings” who aren’t anywhere near this obnoxious, self-righteous, self-absorbed, and arrogant.

We live on our own. We have jobs. We pay our own bills. We might have put ourselves through college. We aren’t stressing that we don’t have the newest version of the iPhone. We still don’t really “get” Twitter. We’ve (self-consciously) learned how to resist the humblebrag. We take care of our parents, financially, physically, or emotionally. We appreciate cheeky internet humor as much as the next guy, but don’t feel compelled to base our entire self-worth on it. We, too, sometimes drink to much, have a crisis of conscience and confidence, and really–really–enjoy watching Girls. We just don’t take to the virtual streets and feel it’s necessary to tell the world each passing detail of our lives, or record them in photographs, preferring to experience them without a camera lens in our face or our fingers racing across the touch screen of our phone to check-in on Facebook 24/7. And quite frankly, we’re sick and tired of getting lumped in with people who do act those ways and do those things. I’m looking at you, New York Times.

So, let’s be real. Being in your twenties, like being in any other conveniently-named age range, has its ups and downs. Sitting around pampering your bruised ego on the internet or looking for affirmation of your feelings and your self-worth from your peers, known or unknown, is a (bad) choice, not a feature of an age group. It’s okay to feel pissed off because you’re unemployed or because you can’t find a boyfriend; it really is. But it has nothing to do with your age.

Your Bra Size Is NOT My Concern

Sometimes, I am a loud-mouth.  Still, I have self-control, and an awareness of myself whilst in public places.  A young lady I encountered today was lacking in the whole control area, but she was clearly an expert in loud-mouthery.  Man, oh, man…  She could talk.  LOUD.  She struck me as the kind of person who updates her facebook status at least twice a day; likely about half of those statuses are vague and emotional so that people will ask what’s wrong.  Basically, I’m saying she was really darn annoying.

We were all trapped trying on clothes in the Salvation Army, when some loud-mouthed teen decided to declare her cup-size to us all.  I was not amused.  Here are a few things she exclaimed:

  • “I’M ONLY 5’1″ AND MY BOOBS ARE D-CUPS!  D-CUPS, I TELL YOU [and everyone else].”
  • “OH MY GOD, STACY.  YOU HAVE TO COME SEE HOW HILARIOUS I LOOK.  MY TITS ARE SPILLING OUT ALL OVER THE PLACE.  IT’S RIDICULOUS.”
  • “DEFINITELY WHEN I’M DONE LOSING WEIGHT, I’LL BE ABLE TO FIT IN THIS… OF COURSE, THAT’S ONLY IF MY D-CUPS SHRINK! HAHA!  THEY’RE SO BIG!”
  • “UGH! I HATE MY D-CUPS!”
  • “MY BOOBS ARE SO HUGE.  IT’S SO AWFUL HAVING BOOBS THIS BIG.”
  • “BIG BOOBS ARE THE WORST.”
  • “NO ONE MAKES CLOTHES FOR BOOBS THIS BIG!”

I have a lot of issues with this.  First of all, don’t scream about your boobies in the middle of a store.  It’s one thing to say to your companion, “This won’t fit over my boobs,” or, “Haha! Look at this.”  It’s very different to share your cup-size like a news announcement.   I promise, no one cares as much as you do.  You can share the moment with your friend, but you don’t need to share it with everyone else.  There are kids around, and old folks, and folks who just have normal levels of privacy…  They don’t care.

Also, they do make clothes for big boobs.  As a lady with boobs EVEN BIGGER than yours, I can assure you that I wear clothing that I do not make.  Therefore, some clothing has to fit over boobs of that stature.  Yes, it is harder to find button-ups, bathing suits, dresses, and tanktops, but you learn to deal.  Big boobs happen.  Big shirts happen too.  You just have to accept that you can’t fit into anything and everything… You know, like everyone else.

Another thing, most people don’t want to hear complaints about big boobs.  Big boobs get a lot of press and a lot of love.  Maybe don’t whine in front of all the A-Cups and B-Cups of the world.  They’re hatred of you and your D-Cups could penetrate your skull and crush you at any moment.  Stop complaining.  You’ll be fine.

Maybe I’m just a cranky old lady, but I just don’t want to hear about a stranger’s boobs from across the store.

Do you think Christina Hendricks screams, “HOW WILL I FIT MY CRAZY-HUGE TITTAYS IN THIS OUTFIT?!” every time she tries to buy a tanktop?  No.  She does not.  Christina Aguilera doesn’t either.  Some ladies have big boobies.  Every single person who sees a lady with big boobies will, with a doubt, notice that she has them.  Big boobs are kind of hard to miss.  Therefore, they don’t need to be announced in the Salvation Army dressing rooms.


Look Before You Squat: One Woman’s Advice on Toilet Seats

Ladies, look before you sit.  This seems to have reached epidemic levels.  Ladies’ lady parts are plunging themselves into toilets because they aren’t looking before plopping their naked asses on seats other people pee on.  This is something I, as a lady, find confusing.  You see, I’m quite protective of my bum and genitals, thus I look before I squat.

I always have, and thus, I have never fallen into the toilet.  I am really tired of hearing women complain about men leaving the seat up like they’re being attacked and/or disrespected.  Someone just forgot.  It’s like if someone left a seat cushion off a couch…  but you’d probably see that first, and then put it back before setting your rear end on it.  How is this a guy’s responsibility?  You should be more concerned about your own bum.  You should care more.  You shouldn’t feel so entitled.  Also, it’s just a damn toilet seat.  Just move it.  You’ll have to wash your hands either way.

Yes, I think it makes sense for the person who originally moved the seat to move it back, but who gives a crap?  (Pun SO, SO intended.)

Just look.  You’re putting your naked butt (which is really close to you genitals) on something AND YOU’RE NOT GONNA LOOK?

Just look.  What if there’s pee on the seat?  What if someone else’s pubes are on the seat?  Wouldn’t you want to check for that anyway?  Wouldn’t you also want to make sure there’s TP while you’re at it.  Just look.

Hide Your Tampon, You Beast!

Are we afraid of periods?  Are we afraid of tampons or pads?  Do ladies think dudes don’t know about periods?  Don’t dudes know?  Periods are not an attack on society.  We all get them.  It just happens, y’all.

I had a wonderful experience this week.  I was in the wide open spaces of my office (visible from the doorway), when I ferociously dug through my purse, carelessly took a tampon from my tiny lady business purse, and dared to hold it for all to see before shoving it, slowly, into my giant dress pocket.  That’s right, people.  I grabbed a tampon – IN THE OPEN.  I am a monster!

Moments after my sinful act, a concerned elderly lady (actually elderly) explained to me that she saw me perform this act of horror, and that I was inappropriate, dishonorable, and altogether yucky.  She was offended by my tampon stashing.  She was offended by my lack of discretion.  She felt I should be more careful, and far sneakier whilst collecting and transporting such feminine goods.  WRONG.

I am not ashamed of my menstruation.  I am a woman in my (barf) child-bearing years.  I get my punctuation every month.  Personally, I consider the crimson tide a celebration of life unmade.  Most single, sexually active women probably have similar reactions.  Sure, cramps happen, but cramps are the song a body sings to remind you that labor would be even worse.  It is a warning and a party all at once.  At this point though, it’s really just a party.

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU DIDN’T MAKE A BABY!  Thank you for telling me, body.  This is great news!

People should not be weirded out by a young woman with a tampon, a pad, or some other period-y product.  It’s in the wrapping.  It’s new.  How is my period offensive?  I don’t want to tell you about it.  I just want to be able to carry a tampon in my own damn office, or down a damn hallway, or in front of other people.  Why?  Because I do.  It’s a fucking tampon.  Get over it, you child.

I was never nervous or embarrassed by buying feminine hygiene products, even as a teenager.  I have friends who still get embarrassed about holding tampons or whatever in the store, but I don’t.  If I don’t feel weird, why should you?  I should be able to walk up to a check out lane with condoms, tampons, pads, adult diapers, hemroid cream, diet pills, and crocs without shame, and without making anyone else feel ashamed.  You don’t know me.  I don’t know you.  Nothing should be that surprising.

Vaginas bleed sometimes.  Sometimes guys get boners.  People buy condoms.  I buy tampons.

The next time some one in a store, or an office, or wherever gets all weirded out by seeing me with a tampon, I will bust out the below tampon flute and go to town on that bitch.

15 Reasons Your Waitress Hates You

    1. She knows you’ll give her a shitty tip.
    2. You’ve hit on her.  She’s not interested.
    3. You grabbed her ass.  Really?
    4. You will continue your cell phone conversation while we are taking your order.  Then, you’ll hold up your hand to her, so that she doesn’t interrupt.  
    5. There are kids with you.  Oh, god.  Leave your badly behaved kids at home. 
    6. You will make her say how cute your evil kids are while they are pouring out their food and breaking everything.  Thank you.
    7. You’re blaming her for food you don’t like, or prices you don’t like.  She didn’t cook it.  She didn’t price it.
    8. Your specialty order is out of control.  You want extra onions, no olives, extra cheese, no salsa, replace the beans with fish, replace the salt with ice cream…  Something will be missed in the kitchen.  You will flip out.  
    9. You didn’t tell her about your food allergy until after she brought out your food.  “Oh, does this bread have wheat in it?  I’m allergic.”  If you have an allergy to wheat or gluten, don’t order a sandwich.  If you have an apple allergy, don’t order the apple pie.  Consider these rules.
    10. You complain about the meal, after you eat all of it.  Well, she could have tried to fix that… but okay.
    11. You ask for extra napkins four times.  You’re eating a hamburger.  How many friggin’ napkins do you need?  
    12. You will claim there is something wrong with your diet coke.  She knows that there is nothing wrong.  She will either 1) walk to the back, pause, and bring the same drink back to you, and you will say it tastes better, OR 2) will walk to the same machine which filled your glass last time, dump it out, then refill it, and suddenly, you will like it.  Either way, it’s the same.  You have wasted her time.
    13. You won’t leave when you’re done.  She wants to put new people in your table.  New people who will pay her more.  You are costing her money.
    14. She is stereotyping you based on age and the people you’re with.  Super young = bad tip.  Super old = bad tip.  Bunch of ladies = bad tip.  Bunch of douchey guys = good tip.  First date = good tip.  Super drunk = either super bad or stupid good.  Bitches/Assholes = likely a stiff.
    15. Oh, right.  THE BAD TIP THING.  For the record, 15% is base minimum.  20% for good service.  10% if the waitress attacked you, forgot your food, insulted your hair, hit on your husband, poured whiskey on your dress…