“Entitlement is the biggest enemy to our society.” ~ Jason Hartman

So, I was in the Dollar Tree yesterday grabbing some stuff when a couple and their friend walked in without masks on (she also wasn’t wearing a bra and should have been, but I digress 🙄) even though there is a flyer on the front door of the store stating that you HAVE to have a mask on to enter…but ce la vie. These people walked around the store, coughing and hacking (probably not COVID but still…ick…) and then stood about a foot from us masked folks in line and in the aisles. I could see that the cashier, who was the only employee around, was upset but I think she was scared to say anything and I didn’t want to open my big mouth because I knew whatever I said would entail a lot of cussing. Anyhoot, after leaving I started to think about why there is such an air of entitlement among people nowadays…why so many people think they deserve special treatment or don’t need to follow the rules like everyone else, etc. Hmmmmm. (P.S. I love the Dollar Tree and Dollar General…in fact, to sound cool I say “The Tree” or “The General”…it makes ma roll her eyes every time 🙄).

I know we think of entitlement as something that those ‘young whipper snappers’ have, but I think our entire country has embraced this. Young or old, there are people who feel they are above the fray which should automatically give them more advantages. Why?

I’ve been selling a bunch of stuff on FB Marketplace lately…trying to clean out some things and get my junk organized. Anyhoot, I have a really nice roadbike for sale at about $300 LESS than it can be found anywhere else. I paid a couple thousand for it when I bought it, and it’s still in super shape. I can’t tell you how many people offer me $50 for it when I’m asking $400. Fifty bucks? Really? For a LeMond roadbike? One guy said he’d give me $50 and when I said no, he asked why. I told him that was way way way too low and I was already offering a great deal, and he proceeded to tell me I was stingy. Okey dokey. 🤔

Then, a gal has been messaging me about some snow globes I’m selling for, once again, very reasonable prices. When she told me she couldn’t afford what I was asking, I told her to name what she would like to pay. Her answer? Nothing. Heh? When I told her I wasn’t going to do that, she said this: “But I really want them.” So? I really want to marry a rich prince but guess what…probably not going to happen.

Lori Laughlin was just sentenced to 2 months in prison for the college admissions scandal; now, her career is over and her reputation is down the drain just because USC was the only college good enough for her darling girls (🙄). She lied and bribed to get them admitted and scammed the the university in the process. Why? A university that the girls actually had the grades for wasn’t good enough? Are they so ‘entitled’ to get into the school they WANT just because ma was on TV? Really?

In fact, why is it we put such stock in celebrities anyway? Look peeps, their job is to make movies or sing on stages…both of which I would do for free…and they get paid millions and millions of dollars for the privilege. Yes, there is real talent out there and yes, I like the entertainment too. But, just because we see them in mags and on screens does not make them ‘better’ people. I’m sorry but they aren’t saving lives or making a contribution to our world we couldn’t have lived without, but by golly, they deserve more than the average Joe…right?

During the lock-down in March, Jennifer Lopez went to a closed gym to workout when no one else was allowed too. Why? Is it that she’s better than ‘us’ so gyms should re-open just for her? Why should she stay home and work out like us common folk? Don’t tell me she can’t afford a mini-trampoline in her flat for piss sakes 😳.

And then all of the stuff about Ellen? There are so many stories that are telling us she certainly isn’t what she portrays herself to be (kind) and for her to tell people they aren’t allowed to ‘look her in the eye’ is asinine to me. Who, on planet earth, is so special that they can’t be looked at in the eye by us regular guys? You are that extraordinary? Really? You talk for a living. OK?

Then there are other stories as well: Justin Beiber (blech…) spitting on fans, Chevy Chase (who?) slapping a fan, and Adam Levine telling a fan that he doesn’t give autographs to ugly chicks. What the fuck (sorry, ma) but who the hell are these people to think they are allowed to act this way? As my grampa would have said: “Their poop stinks too.” 💩

And yes, we can see this in everyday life as well. I love my sweetie students so much, but I have come across some entitled requests in my career: “I didn’t know I had to take the test too…I’m the best student in the class.” “No, I didn’t go through all the class info…I didn’t know I needed too.” “What? A ‘D’! I’ve never gotten a ‘D’ before. You need to re-grade this!” What? Yes, you have to take the test like everyone else. Yes, you need to read all the info I give you. And no, I don’t need to ‘re-grade’ anything. You turn in ‘D’ work, you get a ‘D’ grade…pretty simple, huh?

Or what about the assholes who park in handicapped spaces? Yes, me of all people know that many ailments aren’t easily seen…I get that. However, when you see someone running out of CVS holding a couple of cases of beer with no sticker on their car indicating they have permission to park in the designated slots, then yes, I call entitlement. Or, the boobs who park right outside the doors so they can run in more easily and grab their National Enquirer. Gotta have that. 🙄

I like the people who can’t wait in line. Look, if it’s such a freaking catastrophe to wait a few minutes so you can buy your BigMac, perhaps we need to reconsider eating out. I was at Kohl’s the other day and a gal was ahead of me in line bitching to her friend about how “…this is so ridiculous…I can’t believe I have to wait in line like this.” What? Didn’t know you were the queen of Sheba who deserved to be moved to the front, pronto. Or people will say this about a line or wait: “Why does this crap always happen to me?” Well…why not? And by the way, if waiting in line is the worst thing you are dealing with that day, count yourself lucky.

What really pulls my chain are the people who are rude to waitstaff and other service employees. I think EVERYONE should work in the service industry for a year to see how hard the work is and how repugnant customers’ feelings of entitlement are. “Yes, I have 8 tables that all have hot food that needs to be brought out, but let me grab that extra lemon wedge for you since drinking your tea with only one is out of the question right now. And of course, I’m non-human so I won’t hear you bitching under your breath about these idiots who wait tables.” Or you’re in line at a fast food joint and a new trainee gets another customer’s order wrong or asks them to repeat something, and the person goes off to their friend, in the employee’s earshot, that it’s unfortunate that stupid people exist (yes, I really heard this one day…I wanted to punch this guy in the face but refrained which shows just how much self-control I really have 😲.)

I was at Wal-Mart the other day returning some light bulbs (don’t ask) and this gal ahead of me went off on the worker who wouldn’t take back a crock pot that had obviously been used for months and was still dirty from the last stew. The woman wanted to know why she couldn’t get a refund since it was in perfect shape. Well hells bells…just ‘buy’ stuff, use it until you’re done with it, and return it for your money back. As the church lady on SNL would say: “How convenient.”

In my town, we have ‘celebrities’ (for the love of all that is holy, this simply means they are on the city council or have a ‘job’ that pays more than other jobs…no one outside the city limits cares. In fact, I’d be surprised if 5% of the entire U.S. population could even show you my city on a map 😐). But, these people are treated differently…more reverentially by so many. Why? I have no clue and I hate to break it to them, but they aren’t better than anyone else. I used to teach with someone who graduated from a prestigious university and would drop the name of it often in conversation. Well, get over yourself…you’re teaching at a mid-western community college like the rest of us here. Sheesh. 🙄

Entitlement really comes down to thinking someone is ‘more’ special and deserving and…well…better…than someone else. I’m going to let you in on a little secret, grasshoppers: It’s not true.

Look, I’m a big believer that all people are born the same in terms of human value, but not in terms of societal recognition. We all come into the world naked and crying and pooping and peeing and burping and barfing and farting. All of us. God doesn’t put a stamp on our behiners saying this is a BETTER person…this is a GOOD person…this is an OK person. We are simply humans who are going to be put on paths that greatly affect how we are seen and treated…and how we behave. Having a larger bank account or better job title or an ability to sing (like I have) doesn’t make someone superior to anyone else. It makes them blessed and I think humbleness needs to be their prevailing attitude…not entitlement.

Even though I worked my booty off for it, I also know I’m so lucky to be a professor. I grew up in a home that had books and trips and good schools. I had a family that provided financial resources above what I was capable of doing myself that allowed me to go to university. I have a support system that has always been there for me and encouraging me in whatever I undertake. Yes, I worked hard, but I was also lucky to have the advantages that so many others don’t have. I’m not better because I’m a professor and not working at a minimum wage job…I’m blessed…and I try to remember that every single day.

No one is better than anyone else when it comes to our humanity. No one deserves special treatment because of what they do. No one should use their positions of authority to ‘cut in line’ so to speak. No one should look down on another. You know, I had someone tell me this the other day: “I couldn’t stand to be mentally ill like you. I just don’t know what my family or friends would think of me then.” What? Heh? Really? Well my dear, I don’t give a crapola what anyone thinks of me being mentally ill. I didn’t ask to be bipolar for fuck sakes. It doesn’t make me less of a person (although I get treated by some as if I am). And if someone looks down on me for it, that’s their sad issue, not mine. I don’t deserve lesser treatment and I certainly don’t deserve better treatment because of it…I deserve to be treated like ‘everyone else’. We all do.

Kristi xoxo

“If you can’t stand the smell, get out of my kitchen.” ~ Kristi

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So, I was visiting with my neighbors last night and the gal, she’s 90 years old and is a complete hoot, asked me if I had ever had any recipes published in a cookbook before.  Had my family been anywhere near the vicinity they would have laughed until they peed themselves, but I simply stared at her dumbfounded for a couple of beats and then said:  “No, A.  I have never, and will never, have any of my recipes published…probably because most are found on the side of the box.”

There are some things I’m pretty good at in this life (divorcing comes to mind 🙄) but cooking isn’t one of them.  In fact…I wonder if there’s a connection there?  Anyhoot, I’ll never forget my first foray into baking something more than chocolate chip cookies. 

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Photo credit: Poshmark

When my first hubby and I were going out, his grandpa was turning 80 and the family was having a shin-dig about 90 miles south of where we lived.  Grandpa’s favorite dessert was lemon meringue pie and I was determined to make this for him to show M just how wonderful a wife I would be if he ever got the inclination to propose (shutty those mouths, peeps 😳).  Ma found a recipe for me; remember, this was before Google, grasshoppers, and there were these things called ‘recipe cards’ that were stored in ‘recipe boxes’ everyone had on their counter.  You might be able to see an example of this in a museum someday.  

I ran into trouble right off the bat.  Ma insisted that the only good pie crust was a home-made pie crust, but after kneading and rolling for an hour, all the while getting flour in every nook and cranny in our kitchen, she came to regret her thought.  And by the way, making my own pie crust is something I will never ever ever do again come hell or high water 🤨.  Then, for some godforsaken reason you had to use ‘egg whites’ and not the whole damn egg when making the ‘lemon’ part of the pie, so I got to learn the art of separating egg whites from the yolks.  This took me about 10 eggs to master, and ma stood by me the entire time giving me the stink eye and getting pissy because eggs were a dime a dozen then and I was on my way to putting us in the poor house.  Anyhoot, that was just the beginning of the afternoon.  I spent another hour mixing up the filling and cooking it without scorching it, while ‘tempering’ the yolks (whatever that means) into the lemon glop I was constantly stirring.  So far, I’d only cried twice, ma and I were still talking (in very loud voices), and I’d only told M 3 times that I hated his guts.

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Photo by FoodInc. and no, my pie did NOT look like this by a long shot!

Then the fun part…the meringue.  Did you know you have to whip and whip and whip this stuff until you want to throw your mixer out the window and never look back?  Did you also know that meringue can weep (hells bells, by this time, I was too 😕)?  Not only did I need to get this as ‘light’ and ‘fluffy’ as humanly possible to impress everyone, I also had to brown it so it would look picture perfect.  I was so scared of doing this after all of that work, I almost puked.  Or, maybe that was because I licked lemon batter with raw eggs in it. Hmmm.

Finally, the pie was done.  The kitchen was totaled, ma told me (in a very snippy voice I might add) that if I ever made one of these son-of-a-bitching pies again she’d personally ‘hurt’ me, and M said that grandpa would love it and this might become an annual thing he’d want me to make.  I wanted to kill him. 

We left for the party and I held that damn pie on my lap for the entire 90 mile ride with the air conditioner on full blast; but the vents were pointed away so the pie wouldn’t get icky and the meringue wouldn’t blow around (BTW, this was in the winter).  There were times on that ride I wanted to shove the pie in M’s face, but the thought of all of my hard work landing on his mug was something I just wasn’t willing to do, despite the temptation.  

So we pull up to the party, I climb out of the car with pie in hand, and totter over to the food table.  Where…wait for it…there were 4 other lemon meringue pies.  Four.  Since his parents were watching, I said with a smile on my face but in a ventriloquist’s voice:  “What the fuck?  Why didn’t you tell me there were going to be other people making this same pie?”  M replied:  “I didn’t check.”  Now, if that’s not grounds for an attack, I truly don’t know what is.  Anyhoot, I got grandpa a piece of MY freaking pie (I had pushed the others to the side and hid them behind the 5 tubs of potato salad 🤨) and he picked up his fork in his sweet, age-spotted, trembly hand and ate a bite.  He said it was great and I waited for him to take another bite, but he pushed it aside.  I asked M, once again under my breath: “What the hell?”  And M said:  “Grandpa can’t eat hardly anything anymore and his taste buds are about gone.”  Go figure.

*Side Note:  Grandpa was truly a sweetie though, and he hugged me after the party and told me I was his favorite grand-daughter in law.  Of course, M and I weren’t married and I was doubtful I’d ever talk to him again, and the only other grandson, M’s brother, was 15.  But I was the favorite! 😊

So obviously, baking is not my thing.  But neither is ‘cooking’.  Hubby 3’s mom  was a GREAT cook, and her meatloaf was the best.  I heard, time and time again, how much R liked it so I was bound and determined to make one even better.  No mother in law was going to out-do me!  I think I must have made dozens of meatloafs, using a different recipe every time, and each one was worse than the last.  I don’t know if it’s a curse or what, but it doesn’t matter what the recipe is, mine are horrible.  When I would tell R we were having meatloaf that night for dinner because I had a new recipe, he would groan (literally) and when he’d come home from work on those evenings, I always thought I smelled a Big Mac on his breath, but who knows.   

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Very similar to what my meat-lump looked like.

Anyway, R finally put his foot down.  My last meatloaf was so bad, he told me: “Kristi, I will leave you if you ever attempt to turn perfectly good ground beef into a loaf again.”  He called my last attempt a ‘meat-lump’ and then this happened:  R gave Dottie, our little dog who has always loved to eat her own poop, a piece.  Dottie went over to the bowl with her backside wagging.  She sniffed it, licked it, her tail dropped and she walked away.  From meat.  Let me rephrase:  MY DOG WHO EATS POOP WOULDN’T EAT MY MEAT- LUMP.  I never tried again.

R is in an outlaw motorcycle club and every time the guys had a big party, us ‘ole ladies’ would cook.  The first time I did this, I was scared to death.  Here I am a prissy professor, and I was going to cook for 50 big, tough looking bikers with names like Snake and Igor.   So, I made pulled pork:  I put a pork butt in a big cooker…mashed it up…and poured BBQ sauce all over it.  When it was time for the party, I put the cooker in R’s van to schlep it to the clubhouse where hungry bikers were awaiting their only ‘meat dish’.

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Photo credit: motorcyclegearhub and this guy looks very much like ‘Killer’

I pulled up and a guy, at least 6’6″ and covered with leather and tattoos, was waiting for the food.  His name was Killer (I’m not lying…you can’t make this stuff up…😳) and I said I could handle getting it (I am woman, hear me roar).  I was shaking because these guys scared me (at first but then I got to know them and they treated me like gold) and I spilled the entire fucking cooker of sticky, BBQ pork in R’s van.  EVERY last bit.  I burst out bawling and Killer hugged me to him (he smelled very yummy…I wonder if he’s still single…or alive…hmmmm…) and said it was OK.  He scraped it up from the van floor (which was filthy since R literally transported Harleys in the back of it) with his hands, which had previously been holding a beer and cigarette, and plopped it back into the cooker.  He winked at me, told me it was our secret, and those guys ate every last bit of it that night.  I think part of my success with this cooking foray was that all of these bikers were either drunk or high.  

So, in answer to my neighbor’s question:  No, I’m not ever ever ever going to be featured in a cookbook.  Ever.  I have a better chance of winning the lottery or meeting Prince Charming than I do that.  However, I did come across a meatloaf recipe the other day…fail proof it said…and if you’re hungry just come on by.  I’m sure it will be a culinary experience you’ll never forget.  

Kristi xoxo

“Embarrassment and awkward situations are not foreign things to me.” ~ Paul Rudd

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So, yesterday I was in ACE Hardware which is close to my house and where I go all of the time.  Since I’m in a bit of a manic phase, I’ve been traipsing over there even more to get my painting supplies and other what-nots.  Anyhoot, I know the store like the back of my hand but for some reason, I could not find the lightbulbs yesterday.  This store is locally owned and the people who walk the floor to give you that old-fashioned service are mostly older, retired men (who are simply adorbs with their pants up to their nipples 😉).  After wandering through the dozen or so aisles, I was asked if I needed help and I said: “Sure, I just can’t find the lightbulbs…I guess they must have been moved.”  His deadpan reply was:  “No ma’am…they are right here where they’ve always been…turn around.”  And yes, there they were, 4″ from my face.

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THEN, I had to buy a couple of screws  and was filling out the little paper sack with the screw price (shutty…I know I could have worded this better 🙄) and trying to calculate the total (very difficult:  price x quantity).  I was secretly using my fingers and must have looked perplexed because grandpa came up to me again and asked, AGAIN, if I needed help.  I said I was just having a little problem with my calculation and he looked at my sack and said, “Well, ma’am, you have 6 screws at $.09 each.  That would be $.54.  6 x 9 = 54.”  I tittered and said:  “Would you believe I’m a college professor?”  And this old geezer (who was married…I checked…🙄), said:  “No.”  Then, he walked away shaking his head.

OK.  Gotta admit this was pretty embarrassing.  I looked like a complete twit and wondered how I’ve managed to get along so well in life thus far since I’m obviously incapable of seeing objects and multiplying single digit numbers.  Then, it got me to thinking about other embarrassing times in my life, and unfortunately, there are a lot of ’em.

So, I play the flute and am mediocre at best.  Or, to be honest, I’m probably a few steps down from that.  But my best friend in high school played the flute VERY well (she’s actually freaking amazing on it 😀) and I wanted to sit by her in band and be 2nd chair so I decided to take lessons with the same guy she studied with.  His name was Mr. P and I had a HUGE crush on him.  He had traveled all around the world and was very cosmopolitan.  He’d play the piano along with my fluting and tell jokes I loved hearing.  I’d spend hours in front of the mirror before I rode my 10 speed to his house, just to make sure my hair was ‘feathered’ right and I had my strawberry Bonne Bell lip gloss on just so.  One afternoon, he was trying to broaden my range and had me play really high notes.  I worked and worked at playing a high C and when it finally happened, something else happened too.  I farted.  Or pooted.  Or passed gas.  Use whatever term you prefer but I wanted the floor to open up so I could fall in and never be heard from again.  The worst part?  He didn’t acknowledge this case of the ‘vapors’ but I’m the type to laugh when I’m nervous, so I started giggling like a lunatic (yes, big shocker there).  He, being a gentleman, tried to ignore this too, which made me more nervous, which made me more gassy, which made me more giggly.  Long story short?  He left town not much later, gave up teaching flute, and embarked on a figure skating career.  If he ever would have won a gold medal, I was going to take the credit for it.

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Newman Theatre

As some of you know, I’ve got the grandiose delusion that I actually have Oscar winning acting abilities if I could simply be discovered (my family disagrees, but what do they know?  Their last name isn’t Spielberg…just sayin’).  Of course, this began when I first saw Jodi Foster (btw, my big girl crush) and knew I could be just like her.  Anyhoot, I was always too shy to try out for plays in high school since that was for the popular folk (no-talent boobs who are still bitchy…get over yourselves already, please) that I was much too intimidated by to be around.  But one day an opportunity presented itself:  during Jr. year, my English Lit class was reading “The Glass Menagerie” by Tennessee Williams, and I was playing Laura that day.  She is physically and emotionally impaired with a lot of mental fragility (wonder why I was chosen?), and her mom was desperate to find her a husband (once again, this part fit me like a glove).  Anyhoot, I was excited to read this part because it would show the snotty seniors in my class how much they needed me in their plays.  There’s a part of the play where the horn of a glass unicorn is broken off and Laura yells:  “My GLASS MENAGERIE!”  Menagerie is pronounced ‘men-aj-er-ee’ but I SCREECHED ‘man-a-jer-aw’.  The class started cracking up and I was horrified!  My big chance at a movie career (actors from my Illinois high school often make it to Hollywood) ended and I was humiliated.  Bye bye, Tinseltown.

Another embarrassing moment happened when I was getting ready to start my Jr. year in college.  I went to community college my first 2 years (and now teach at the same college 😃) and was so so so excited to be the first in my family to go on to university.  As hard as it is to believe, I was a bit smug about this.  Anyhoot, Hubby 1 and I were dating at the time and we were at “Cousin Fred’s”.  I kid you not…there was a store where I live actually called this.  It was a great store and one of those where you could find about anything you need, but it was a bit dumpy.  So we were checking out and I was wearing a shirt from my new college and the cashier said:  “Are you going to that university?”  I thought: “How cute…this guy, a cashier at Cousin Fred’s (!), wants to know if smart, academically motivated Kristi is going to a big, scary university.  Bless his heart!”  I say, in a pretty snotty voice now that I think back to it, “Yes…I’m going to be a junior.”  It sounded like I was saying, “Why yes, I’m queen of the freaking world.”  The guy said:  “Cool.  I just got my Masters there.”  Hubby 1 started cracking up!  After looking at this guy dumbfounded that out of all the people who have asked me about college, I had to be snotty towards the 1 who actually had his graduate degree, I kinda mumbled something like “Good for you!” and moseyed out of the store.  Yes, this put me in my place.  Yes, I have never bragged about anything again.  And yes, I sorta lied on that last one.

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Best White Shorts Ever!

Once, I was at another store in my town called Venture that was also a bit of this and a bit of that.  I was wearing white shorts and as I was meandering the aisles, I noticed a lot of people admiring my butt.  I was 17 and thought WOW, I must be looking good!  Whispers followed me and my confidence was growing and I started smiling at these guys who ‘wanted me’ and the women who ‘wanted to be me.’  I glided through the check-out, sashayed my way to the parking lot, and when I got home I looked in my full-length body mirror to see my amazing ass.  What I saw was thin white shorts that showed my dark brown underwear perfectly.  Yes, dark brown underwear was a thing in the 80’s and I was too stupid to think they would show through THIN white shorts.  These guys weren’t admiring my behiner…they were laughing at me!  From this day on, I never…ever…ever…leave the house without looking at my backside first.  Just in case.

There are so many times I’ve tripped in front of people (and always look at the floor like there was a spill or something), waved to someone who wasn’t waving to me, said hello to someone who had no idea who the hell I was, talked to someone with a huge piece of food stuck in my teeth, got caught smelling my armpits, argued about something ad nauseam and then realized I was wrong, wasn’t able to get an easy word out, couldn’t complete a high five and having my palm just swat the air, said “That’s great” when I couldn’t hear someone and then realized what an inappropriate remark this was, gone out in my greasy face and lank hair to run a quick errand and then seeing a dozen people I know, and the list goes on.

Isn’t it funny how we think our families are embarrassing or we see embarrassing things on YouTube and we thank our lucky stars that it wasn’t us?  It’s so easy to point out other people’s moments and so hard to face our own mortifications.  I probably embarrass myself at least a dozen times a week…I’m clumsy, awkward, and have the tendency to say and act before thinking about it which can set me up for a lot of humiliating situations.  But I can laugh at them now.  Out of all the things I face having this fucking (first time in this post, ma &#128516) bipolar disease, being embarrassed is the least of my worries.  You know, I learned not long ago that if you can laugh at yourself, it’s one less time you cry.  And believe me…for those of us with mental illnesses, laughing can feel pretty damn good.

Kristi xoxo