As summer transitions into fall and temperatures start to cool down (yes, in Texas, we are only just now dropping below 80 degrees), the holiday season starts to heat up.  Red holiday cups at Starbucks have made their sassy debut (in case you didn’t know, the internet exploded), certain radio stations have started playing 24-hour Christmas music (it’s November 11th – please calm down), and the panic of what to get everyone on your list has slowly started to creep in.  Winter is (officially) coming, and with it comes the busiest travel day of the year:  The Day Before Thanksgiving, a/k/a, the Air-pocolypse. 

While the Airpocolypse may not involve killer machines waiting to scratch your face off (Skynet-style) or aliens threatening Will Smith and Bill Pullman with total annihilation (a la Independence Day), it’s just as real.  And it’s UPON US.  If you have ever braved the gauntlet that is the airport during the holiday season, you’ve stared death (or a United employee) in the eye, and I salute you, fellow crusaders.  Forget the family drama that occurs once you reach your destination – getting there will take guts, prayers and every ounce of sanity you have. 

What should be the most wonderful time of the year certainly doesn’t seem so cheery when it’s overshadowed by (a) the mad dash to the airport to try to beat other would-be holiday travelers at their own game (like the Amazing Race but with much higher stakes - everyone’s a player, but if I don't win, everybody loses); (b) the zig-zagging security line backed up for over an hour because there is only one lane open; (c) being forced to pray/cross your fingers/perform a ritual sacrifice to ensure that your flight actually takes off on time but refusing to talk of it out of fear of the ever-looming “jinx;” or (d) trying to create some sort of barrier between you and that awful-excuse-for-a-human stranger sitting beside you who either smells, eats loudly or is about to snore in your ear and let his arm creep over the invisible line down the middle of the arm rest into your territory (unfathomable).  BOTTOM LINE:  Holiday travel = death by 1,000 paper cuts.  Why, you might ask?

Because people on a travel day – both travelers and airport "workers" alike – just don’t give a sh*t.  Let's take a look at the mounting evidence:

1.  The scam that is TSA Pre-Check.  Have you heard the one about a mythical shortcut through security where you get to keep your shoes on and bypass all those plebs in the regular line?  HILARIOUS.  That tale is this generation's knock-knock joke.  Think again.  Turns out that even after you go through the interview process, get finger-printed, answer background questions and finally receive a “known traveler number,” oh, and PAY, you aren’t guaranteed to receive pre-check on your flights.  Like EVER.  Joke’s on me, TSA.  I thought when you said I’d get access to pre-check benefits by going through the interview process, I’d actually get access.  LIES.

2.  Trying to get to the airport early to avoid the Home Alone mad dash through the airport?  NEWSFLASH, Walter Cronkite – it’s a losing battle.  And I would know.  I grew up in a family in the travel business.  Getting to the airport 1.5 hours before flight time wasn’t just a rule; it was LIFE.  But even that pearl of wisdom won’t help you make it through the security line any faster.  Why, you might ask?  Because no matter the time of year, no matter what hour in the day, security will no doubt only have one lane open (well, one general lane open – there is always one “special people” lane open, but good luck making that cut (see above)), and the people running it will be in the middle of a “shift change.”  EVERY time.  ALL THE TIME.  And on top of that, there will inevitably be some asshole in front of you who doesn’t realize he still has his belt on until he tries to go through the machine, or some woman who claims she “didn’t know” about the liquids rule (really, Nancy?  It’s been a “thing” since 2006.  Just throw out your Go-gurt and keep it moving).  If people would be people and abide by the social contracts of our time, none of these issues would be issues.  GEEZ.

3.  Cramped seats.  You kids today should know something:  there used to be three glorious more inches of seat room on flights than what you currently have.  Ah, I remember it well:  basking in the glow of 7.62 additional centimeters of room.  I felt like a queen (YAS)!  In the last few years, though, such riche living was ripped from our grasp, and we were forced to cede those precious inches to the growing demand for additional seats on planes.  While we weren’t happy about this, we agreed (eh, agreed, were forced to accept…same thing).  But now the unthinkable is happening – airlines are considering STACKING us on top of each other.  Like sardines.  Literally.  Like someone at the airlines had to hear me, er, someone on a flight complain about being packed in like sardines and think to themselves, “huh, what a great idea!”  Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the future of air travel (Parental Discretion Advised, as this is an atrocity against humanity):

​4.  Dirty planes.  I can’t believe this is even a thing, but it is.  Who hasn’t experienced that true pit of fear that starts to grow in your stomach when you look up and see that the threat of brown liquid dripping on you from what should be an AC vent is real and is directly above your head?!  AIRLINES, I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVE TO SAY THIS, BUT CLEAN YOURSELVES UP.  I’m embarrassed for you.  We’re definitely paying you enough to keep your planes clean, so how about you give those planes a whore’s bath and at the very least spray a little Febreeze around before the next herd of passengers boards.  GAWD.

5.  People smells.  PEOPLE OF EARTH, HEAR ME:  sitting on a dirty plane is bad enough, but sitting next to a smelly person makes it INFINITELY worse.  And don’t pretend like you don’t know you smell.  You KNOW.  You HAVE to know.  Let’s all make a promise to bathe before a flight, mmkay?  If you can’t do that, there is only one other acceptable option:  buy a deodorant (any deodorant) from one of the 87 Hudson News stores in whatever airport you happen to be in, slather it on and then dowse yourself with cologne/perfume, as that smell, though over-powering, is much more preferable than radiating body-stink.

6.  FOOD smells.  I can’t believe I even have to go into this.  If your food smells, leave it off the plane.  I don’t care how good it is, your Panda Express should be eaten before flight time.  And this is coming from someone who hearts Panda Express.   I know some of you out there are saying “But I had to rush from flight to flight and I didn’t have time to eat it!”  If you had time to stop and buy the offending item, you had time to either (a) scarf it down before you got on the plane, or (b) buy a pre-packaged food item that does not smell.  There is no excuse here. If you break this rule, you’re a terrible human being.

7.  Baggage Claim.  This is like last call at a singles bar.  Everyone is hoping not to be the last one standing – waiting in internal angst as they watch the bags slowly come tumbling off the conveyor belt.  You watch the person next to you grab their bag, smile and look around as if to say “I’m a winner, peace out, lowly airport peeps.”  And realizing your bag is the only bag that didn’t make the journey home is a feeling of sadness mixed with rage with a dash of incredulity and persecution dropped in (I mean, you KNOW someone working at the airport decided to make it a personal mission to wreck your day).  You begin the slow trudge to the baggage claim office, knowing immediately that your next 3 hours are going to be ruff.  Ah, the joy of air travel.

AND there you have it.  My list of grievances, in no particular order (though I think we can all agree that smells of any kind take the cake).  Perhaps my biggest grievance, though, is this:  no one has offered me a free wing pin in years.  By my calculation, I’m owned 4,367 of them.  I will humbly accept dollars.

If you know me at all, you know that when I’m not squawking about sharks, I’m pontificating about the unadulterated sexiness that oozes from a man with a beard.  True story.  To me, there is nothing manlier than a man with a face mane.  It shows that he has SO much testosterone that it literally has nowhere else to go but out.  Out of his face.  Like a peacock but with lustrous hair rather than stupid feathers.  Ugh, birds.

ANYWAY, back to the matter at hand.  I am a sucker for a beard.  Now, mind you, I’ve dated some baby-faced men in my time, but those romances were short-lived.  And you know why?  Because they didn’t have beards (or they were crazy…one of the two).  That’s not to say I’ve never been attracted to fresh-faced gentleman, but I can assure you I passive aggressively pressured each and every one of them to grow a beard at some point.

So what is it about this mystical facial growth that draws ladies in like a moth to a flame?  Aside from the distinctive badge of manliness that one wears while sporting a beard?  It’s the fact that a beard-owner is rarely, if ever, found inept at survival skills.  Let’s take a look:

1. Lumberjacks.  Flannel.  Work boots.  Axes.  These sultans of the tree world grow beards for a number of reasons:  a) to protect their faces from the elements, b) to make the trees swoon, thereby eliminating the need for an axe altogether, and c) to mask themselves (Zorro-style) as they steal the hearts of young lasses the world over. 
2. Sea captains (and/or pirates).  Swords.  Sea skills.  Smoldering eyes.  The ability to kill a shark with their bare hands.  Pirates.  Are.  HOT.  Don't believe me??  I dare you to watch Black Sails and argue with that statement.  You can't.  It's a fact.  The thing about pirates is, they live their lives on the edge.  The rules of society don't apply to them.  They're rebels.  Better yet, they are the rebels of the sea.  And they'll for sure take you on an adventure.   I’d trust one of these swarthy gentleman to get me from port to port.  FOR SURE.
3. Ron Swanson.  Woodworking.  Whiskey.  Wooing.  Everything that a man should be.  ‘Nuff said.  Never was there a more manly, beard-sporting specimen than Ron Swanson.  He can win you over with a simple, steely gaze over his whiskers.  And that raspy, deep voice doesn't hurt either.  He may only be a TV character, but the great news is Nick Offerman is REAL.  And he is SPECTACULAR.      

However, the beard “posers” are a totally different story.  If you’re wearing skinny jeans, you probably shouldn’t sport a beard – it sends a conflicting message, as I’m pretty sure you can barely find your way out of said jeans, let alone survive on your pure grit alone in the wild.

I should also note that there is a beard tipping point – a point at which you surpass ruggedness and pure sex and cross over the line to unkempt and likely-smelly.  Sometimes, that line can be blurry.  Like when you’ve hosted a healthy dose of stubble for years and decide to begin growing it out.  I get it – there is a necessary transition window for growing your beard out.  However, I think a fair rule to live by is if your beard is long enough to have its own flair, it is too long.

Think I’m exaggerating?  NOPE.  There’s a whole segment of society out there that celebrates beard flair:

So whether you're only sporting subtle stubble or you're going full on wookiee, I applaud your effort and I tip my hat to you, you bold, bearded pioneer, you.  Also, CALL ME.

Well, Thanksgiving has officially come and gone.  The turkey has been carved, the mashed potatoes devoured and the pumpkin pie has miraculously disappeared.  This holiday is undoubtedly my favorite; THE holiday amongst holidays.  Why, you might ask?  Because it is a day to forget about whatever B.S. might be plaguing your daily life, to remember how wonderful being around family (at least for a few hours) can be and to gorge yourself on the most delicious carb-loaded food around.  Nothing goes together better than biscuits and...more biscuits.  But the one main reason to love this holiday is that it is about pausing to look around yourself and be thankful for what you have and the people with whom you get to share it.  In the immortal words of Ferris Bueller:  "Life moves pretty fast.  If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."  I love Ferris Bueller.  Ipso facto, I love turkey day.

And there's a reason that this holiday is all about thanks:  because starting at 12:01 the following day, the world goes CRAZY.  CRAZY FOR CHRISTMAS.  Meaning Thanksgiving is the last big "push" we give ourselves to hang on to our sanity before holiday traffic, holiday shopping and an abundance of relatives and family drama puts us over the edge.  Serenity now, people.  Serenity now.

It's as though everyone is suddenly panic-stricken that they might miss the next holiday (NOTE:  30-ish days later) if they don't start preparing for it right that second.  WHY must there be such a rush to usher in the next holiday??  Is Thanksgiving not enough??  And odds are this 'Christmas Is Coming' mentality likely started weeks before Thanksgiving.  I know I saw the first holiday lights start showing up at my local Starbucks on November 1st (the day after Halloween), along with the Christmas cups and holiday offerings like eggnog lattes (vomit).  I'm a sucker for a twinkle light, but come on, people - is celebrating Christmas in November really necessary?  I mean, I know we have about a gagillion Christmas movies to show before the Big Day, but I'm pretty sure we're going to flame out early.  Not ideal.

And it's this very specific brand of crazy that always accompanies the holiday onslaught that baffles me:   the obsession with making THIS year's holiday season better than last, the one-upmanship and the refusal to be outdone.  And so I give you the Top Three Holiday Offenders to watch out for this time of year:

1.  The Overly-Excited Office Worker.  We go to the office to do work.  On the sliding scale of office acceptability, mine isn't too bad a place to be, but, as I've said many a time, if they didn't pay me, I wouldn't go.  Which is why this particular offender really grinds my gears.  These are the co-worker who are just SO excited for the holidays that they bust out the holiday sweaters the day after Halloween (usually paired with stretchy pants and sneakers) and start humming the holiday hits "to themselves" but loud enough for those around them to be unable to avoid.  They usually put up decorations in their cubicles, and, by decorations, I mean more than a mere tchotchke or two.  They are usually guilty of making their desks into a holiday destinations, whether with a nativity scene or an elf on shelf or a mini-tree...or, with the worst offenders, a combination of all three AND more!  I'm not a total Grinch - I definitely appreciate the time it took you to turn your work space into a holiday fun land.  But your insistence on making me a part of the bizarro-holiday fun land that is your DESK is simply unacceptable.  I did not sign on to be "Santa's Little Helper" the day I signed my employment contract.  So I will admire your work from afar and will happily join in with the office pot-luck, but asking me to try your eggnog in November and to sing "holiday jams" with you at the water cooler is a non-starter.  If that makes me a Scrooge, call me Bill Murray and sign me up.

2.  Shopping Mecca Traffic Directors.  This might sound like a weird one, but I cannot STAND these guys.  They think they are SO important with their red onesies and giant orange airplane-directing batons.  Oh MAN these dudes roast my potatoes.  And their appearance on the scene is usually the first sign (other than the constant holiday music blaring from the radio) that the Apocalypse, er, I mean, the Holidays are upon us.  So in reality, it is not necessarily the dude in the traffic suit but what he represents that gets to me.  They signal a change in the air, an impending cloud of holiday cheer mixed with over indulgence (cookie-style) and a dash of crazy that is sure to last the entirety of November and December.  Buckle up, kiddos.  It's time to brace yourself for the oncoming holiday onslaught.

3.  The Holiday One-Upper.  All of us should be familiar with this particular offender (NOTE:  If you're not, you probably are one).  These are the jerks who find a way to brag about how awesome they are at Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanza related things and, by comparison, how sucky the rest of us are at them.  These are the humble (but not humble) braggarts who can't help but share about how great they are at gift-giving, or how charitable they are by giving the latest gift, the most expensive coat or their own kidney to someone who needed it.  Things you might hear from a HOU:

• "You mean you haven't gotten any of your gifts yet??  I finished holiday shopping weeks ago.  I just love finding the perfect gifts for the people I love, so doing my holiday shopping was really easy."
• "You mean your holiday meal was store-bought this year?  I couldn't imagine not cooking it myself; slaving away in the kitchen just brings me so much joy."
• "My life is just SO perfect.  Perfect job, perfect relationship, perfect presents, perfect holiday outfits.  I'm just perfect."

Bragging about all the nice things you're doing or have done only goes to show that you're not generous and not doing this out of the goodness of your heart.  So, to sum up, you're not awesome, you're an asshole.  Way to really show us what the spirit of the holidays is truly all about:  making yourself look like the biggest saint to hit the earth since Jesus.  He's not impressed.  So simmer down.

So there you have it, friends.  The holidays are HERE.  Serenity now...insanity later.  Oh, and happy holidays!

It’s officially my favorite time of year:  FALL.  Some of you reading this may think this post is coming in a bit late, as it’s already mid-October, but if you live in Houston, Texas, you know that we are only just now getting our first taste of the fall season. 

It’s been 95+ degrees here since mid-May, which, if you don’t know, actually means that we had a fairly “mild” summer.  That’s right – 100+ degrees for anything less than three full months is a reprieve.  It’s not just the heat, though, that gets you.  It’s the humidity that comes with it here in the H.  The two are a package deal.  If you are not soaking wet within one minute of stepping outside, you are a freak of nature and I wish I had your genes.  

Things you can’t do in Houston in the summer:

1. Stand outside with an iced beverage you actually want to stay iced.
2. Participate in any kind of activity without mandatory hydration breaks.
3. Not sweat.         
   

For months (from May through September), you will hear residents of our fair city lament the heat.  It comes up in every conversation.  Every.  Single.  Conversation.  EVER.  Because who can even think about anything else?!  And for those few months I absolutely forget why I still live here. 

People from other cities are always saying, “Are you kidding??  You’re SO lucky to have so much sun!”  And what I have to explain is that it’s too hot.  Like too hot to swim.  Think about that.  Too hot to get into the water and splash around, because what should be a way to cool off turns into a human crock pot.

What I have discovered about myself over the years is that I have a much lower heat tolerance than normal humans.  Not that other people enjoy sweating.  I mean, who really wants to leak water?  I just hate it the most.  And the thing is, I’m a sweater.  Always have been, always will be.  Which means I am bravely embracing this not-so-pretty shortfall of mine every time I step outside.  Guys, hold your applause; I’m not a hero...yet.  There are a lot of things I can take, but being overly hot without a proper cooling mechanism is not one of them.  And quite honestly, nothing drives me crazier than being hot in a place that should be properly cooled (e.g., restaurants, planes, office buildings, and really any other public place where someone else has control of the temperature).  If you want to see me lose it, put me in a hot place without anyone apologizing.  My normally cool and collected demeanor turns murderous in 0.2 seconds, taking rage to an 11, because really, it’s about injustice.

But on this fateful day, the high dropped below 80, and it was a crisp 55 degrees this morning!  So it is officially fall, and no one loves sweater weather more than me.  NO ONE.

I live for heather grey cable knit.  And red and orange leaves.  And pumpkin ANYTHING.  To me, the smell of pumpkin pie embodies home, happiness and comfort…even though we never had it in my home growing up (hi mom), and I really only eat it once a year.  And, irony of ironies, I am NOT a fan of pumpkin spice lattes.  I mean, I’m not against the idea of them per se.  I just don’t like that everyone else likes them.

But nothing says fall happiness more than making it rain with a big pile of leaves in 60 degree weather.  Or slutty Halloween costumes.  Or Thanksgiving dinner.  I’m going to save my Thanksgiving gush for, well, Thanksgiving.  But for now, FALL.

The time has come for every summer grumpkin to throw open those doors and rejoin society, to take their football viewing to the streets (or to a restaurant patio) and to do it all with a smile.  What I mean is, when fall finally hits, you see every office and cubicle worker longingly looking out of their office windows and considering taking a Ferris Bueller style ditch day (NOTE:  I didn’t include high school students here – you jerks JUST got back from summer vacation, so stop complaining…and stay in school for as long as you can.  TRUST me.).  You see people that would otherwise be in a huff over humanity in general and the oppressive heat suddenly melt from within and start smiling at each other.  That’s what fall is really about - uniting cultures.  Just ask the pilgrims.

So fall, welcome to Texas.  We could not be more thrilled to host you.  Please stay as long as you like...or forever <giggle, giggle>.  But SERIOUSLY.

I know some of you saw this title and immediately rolled your eyes and thought “oh boo-hoo for you, GOD I wish I was tall.”  You (a) are obviously average height or shorter; (b) have probably never hit your head on a ceiling or wall hanging; and (c) are clearly speaking from an unenlightened perspective. 

Well, I’ve been in the 95th percentile of height for my age group since I was 5, and I can tell you this:  being tall ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.  As Kermit the Frog once lamented the harsh realities of going through life green, we “Talls” of the world have been bombarded with our own unique set of obstacles and commentary.

If you’ve ever been asked “how’s the weather up there,” this post is for you.  If you’ve ever gotten the “I bet you played basketball in school” comment, I feel your pain…and high five, since we probably played against each other at some point.  And, finally, if you’ve ever heard the dreaded “can you stand in the back for this photo so you don’t block anyone,” I share your murderous rage.

Shorties out there, here’s something you don’t get – being tall is great, functionally, but it’s a pain in the ass when it comes to socializing.  

1. It’s easy to find your friends in a crowded room because, well, you can see over the heads of many.
2. It’s easy for your friends to find you because giants tend to stand out.  See Big Tex.
3. People sometimes think you’re a famous athlete for, like, half a second.  Sometimes.
   
4. You can reach things other people can’t without a ladder.
   
5. You have go-go-Gadget arms and can win almost any tickle-fight.
   

AND that’s it.  See, the list really isn’t long.  NOW let’s look at the Cons:

    1.    You never, EVER, get to be in the front for a photo, meaning you probably shouldn’t worry about wearing a cute outfit because, when future historians of the world look back at those photos (I know the paps are constantly snapping photos of me - you too, right?), no one will be able to tell.          

    2.    Tall guys NEVER want to date tall girls.  Ever.  Like never ever.  Tall men appear to have an aversion to tall women.  They avoid them like the plague.  Rather, they seem drawn to the shorties of the world.  Perhaps that’s because men LIKE to feel like giants any time they can, as opposed to most tall women I know, who want to stand tall, but not necessarily tower.  Now, on the other side of the coin:               

     3.      Small guys ALWAYS want to date tall girls.  I don’t know what it is, but shorter men are drawn to tall girls like moths to a flame – it’s like their DNA realizes that it needs to merge with some taller DNA for the sake of their would-be-children.  That’s not a bad thing, EXCEPT:  Most tall girls want to date guys their height or taller.                      

• Most girls want to feel safe in a relationship, both physically and emotionally, and being with someone “bigger” than us can give us that feeling (or at least the illusion) of physical security.  Basically, I just want to know that if someone steps to me in da club, I’m with someone who will step back.  Now, that doesn’t necessarily mean you have to be physically bigger than me, but, if not, your personality and confidence level need to make you 10 feet tall.                  
• Friends always try to set us up with shrimps.  They’ve always got “the perfect guy,” who, they’ll say, is tall (generally).  This is equivalent to being “kinda tall, with hair.”  NOTE:  If anyone ever says that to you, be ready to be set up with someone at least 5 inches shorter than you are.  It’s a given.      

     4.     You’re more accident prone (at least, tallness is what I’m blaming it on).  It may be because our center of gravity is off, or maybe it’s just that we’re in closer proximity to things that can jump out of nowhere (like wildlife…or walls), but tall girls suffer from chronic clumsiness.  True story.  Let’s just take a look at some of the many “accidents” I’ve had to deal with:

• Being hit in the head with a baseball bat at a professional baseball game because I couldn’t duck down far enough for it to miss me; 
• Constantly hitting door frames with shoulders, toes and other appendages;
• Cutting my chin open by tripping over the dog in my youth (every tall person I know has a scar under his or her chin due to the same/similar injury);
  
• Getting caught between two booths at a restaurant when I tried to scoot out and got tangled in my limbs;
• Falling in my office because my daddy long legs got caught in my computer cords;
  
• Feeling like I was trapped in a clown car when my friends made me sit in the back of their two-door vehicles.  Worst offender:  The Ford Mustang; AND
  
• A bird flying into my head and trying to pull a piece of my hair out for use in its nest (NOTE:  This actually happened to another tall friend of mine and not me personally, but it holds up).  Also, see Birds v. Bats: The Great "Hand" Debate for further information on the awfulness of birds.

     5.    Street performers always ALWAYS single us out as the people to mess with.  They never go for people of average height, and you know why??  Because average height people don’t bring in the laughs.  Think I’m wrong?  Just look at Kramer.

     6.     You can never find long enough pants.  No explanation needed.  

AND there you have it.  The plight of “Talls” the world over.  So don’t ask us how the weather is “up there,” because you know what, jackass?  It’s just f*cking peachy.

So I'm a bit of a Type A personality.  I think we have rules for a reason, and that if people abide by said rules, things tend to run smoothly.  However, there are many unspoken rules just as important as the official ones, rules that provide us with a code when it comes to interacting with others.  Why many among us have never learned those rules is a mystery to me, but those people exist, and they make it impossible for we orderly folk to get through a single weekday unscathed.  I give you the four worst code-breaking offenders (in order of appearance):

Starbucks Newbies.  First of all, how is this your first time at a Starbucks?!  How could you have gone over twenty years (yes, the chain has been around that long) without ever having stepped foot in a Starbucks?  You would think that, even if you didn’t love coffee, you would have at least ducked into one to see what all the fuss was about.  Well, mon frere, I can tell you this:  those of us who DO frequent the ‘Bux on a daily basis are not sympathetic to the fact that you don’t know what you’re doing.  Lucky for you, the baristas as Starbucks don’t operate under a Soup Nazi mentality, but those of us that need caffeine to kick-start our mornings surely do.  So the fact that you have chosen a weekday morning, pre 9:00 am, as your first Starbucks experience is both baffling and unacceptable.  First, you are the lone obstacle standing between a line full of caffeine addicts and their drug of choice, and you are taking WAY too long to get out of the way.  Of all the days you could have picked to visit a Starbucks, you picked a weekday MORNING, at a time when those that do have a morning routine are rushing to get their coffee and get into the office, so you are clearly an inconsiderate person with no ability to recognize human suffering.  And second, do you REALLY need the barista to explain why they call a small a tall and a medium a grande?  Who CARES???  That’s just the way it is, so order your stupid mocha frappucino at 8 am (which we know is what you’re going to pick, since it’s the “safe” first-Starbucks-experience choice) and GET. OUT. OF. THE. WAY.  Thx.

Drivers Bucking The Turn Signal.  Oh man.  OH MAN.  These people are the WORST.  I once heard Louis C. K. explain that he was the worst version of himself in his car, and I am, too.  My road rage knows no bounds.  I’m definitely not a perfect driver, but I take issue with what I consider to be unacceptable driver etiquette.  For example, seeing a long line of cars in an exit lane on the freeway and trying to cut into that lane at the last minute pretending you didn’t see the line of cars (it's the pretending that gets me - like you "didn't know" that all those cars were in line to exit.  Thank GOD I don’t have to get on a freeway to get to work, or there would be way more murder.), or pulling in front of someone going pretty fast only to then go slow when there was no one behind the person you cut off and you could have easily waited the two extra seconds, considering you’re clearly in no hurry to get anywhere.  But I will relegate myself to discussing only those jerks who refuse to use a blinker when turning and/or switching lanes.  Those turn signals exist for a reason.  They are not there to turn your dashboard a party; they are there to give other drivers out there the benefit and courtesy of a heads up when you’ll be making a decision that affects their own driving.  God said “let there be turn signals,” and car manufacturers everywhere obeyed...let's not go against God, mmkay?  If you’re not using your signal, there can be only three possible explanations:

1. Your turn signal is broken.  That’s fair, and pretty much the only acceptable reason not to use a turn signal.  But unless it broke just a few minutes ago when you left your house, you shouldn’t be driving your defective vehicle. 
2. You think you’re better than everyone.  News flash, Walter Cronkite:  You AREN'T.  
3. You’re an idiot.  Odds are you fall into category No. 3, and I hate you.

Bathroom Gossip Queens (as distinguished from ‘Gossip Queens, General’).  Here’s the deal – I totally understand your love of all things gossip, I really do.  I myself have been known to partake in a saucy discussion or two about the activities of people I know (both real and “fictional,” a la The Real Housewives of [fill in any city in America]) and am definitely curious to hear about you-know-who doing you-won’t-believe-what in front of you-guessed-it.  But I’m pretty sure there are places to discuss those happenings other than in a workplace bathroom.  And I KNOW for a fact they definitely aren’t interesting enough to warrant discussing across bathroom stalls when a) you know there is someone else in the bathroom and b) having heard the discussion, it is definitely not so important that it couldn’t wait the 3-5 minutes it would take you to do your business, wash your hands (please PLEASE wash your hands) and exit the scene.  The fact that you are literally sitting on a toilet jibber-jabbering to someone two stalls down is both disgusting and unbelievable.  There is no need to talk to anyone at that time.  Focus on what you're doing and make a quick exit.  Besides, wouldn’t you much rather discuss those happenings over a bottle of wine and a cheese plate?  That’s what wine bars are for.  I know, I just blew your minds.  You’re welcome.

The Grocery Sloth.  Unlike real sloths (which are sugar and spice and everything nice), the grocery sloth is a bottom feeder, scum-of-the-earth type.  To me, these individuals can be viewed as nothing more than blob-like, bumbling objects standing between me and my couch after a long, LONG day at the office, which I can only liken to some dummy deliberately inserting himself between a bear and its cave:  if you don’t move in an orderly fashion and quit blocking my exit, I will cut you.  If you are in the grocery store, and in no hurry to get home, I ask only that you not stand in the direct middle of any isle, so as not to block the paths of other would-be passers-by.  There is a way to go about your business without interrupting that of another person, and for those of you who understand this, I applaud you.  But there is definitely a particular segment of society (i.e., the Grocery Sloth population) with a callous disregard for the time and patience of the people around them and who appear to actually go out of their way to treat the grocery store like a) their own personal fiefdom, where anything goes and the world revolves around them, or b) the Global Guts arena – I get that you're only out for No. 1, but the rules say you don’t win by slowing me down with your obstacles, and you surely don’t win by getting to the last greek yogurt before I do, because while you may get to take that trophy home, I have a feeling my claws in your back might make it a little less enjoyable. 

So there you have it - the four people making the fantasy of a stress-free weekday unobtainable.  How can you yourself help prevent such atrocities?  Simple:  in every situation you encounter, simply ask yourself "what would a human do," and just do that.  Note:  If you have to ask yourself this question, odds are you are one of the above offenders, but it's never to late to turn your life around.  I believe in you!  

Cucumbers are quite simply the worst thing that has happened to food since, well, disease.  Strong stance?  Yes, but 100% ACCURATE and undeniable.  In short, cucumbers are to main courses what lemon is to dessert:  an uninvited guest whose very presence makes you want to shake your fist in outrage.

They add nothing to food.  In fact, they make food worse.  Like WAY worse.  Like "I'll-pass-on-food-forever-rather-than-eat-this" worse.  And if they weren't bad enough on their own, they are made infinitely worse by the fact that they are constantly being snuck into other, perfectly acceptable foods.  That's really the main problem with these horrible beasts - they assault you at every turn.  Let's call it what it is:  food torture.

Some of you are reading this thinking to yourselves, "C'mon, they're not that bad; you hardly notice them."  WRONG.  They are everywhere.  And they taste awful.  You DO notice them, and you know how I know??  Because they make every food I like taste disgusting.  

And the REAL problem is you can't get away from them.  Trying to tell a waiter not to put cucumber in your meal makes you feel like an old man trying to send back soup at a deli:  no one is listening to you, and even if they are, they think you're crazy.  So, to combat this problem, we few but strong-willed cucumber-hating pioneers are often forced tell those handling our food that we are allergic to them.  BUT here's the rub:  apparently, it is nearly impossible to be allergic to cucumbers.  They are over 90% water (the remaining 10% consists of a combination of dirt, murdered dreams and wet dog smells, obviously).  Which means that these plants have us caught between a rock and a hard place:  we're forced to either swallow our pride, along with the cucumbers, or be unfairly deemed high-maintenance liars by waiters the world over.   

While I could opine on this subject for hours, I will narrow my focus down to the top three foods cucumbers ruin for me on a daily basis:

Sushi.  Over the years, sushi has become a regular in my food lineup.  The best part about sushi is that it comes in a variety of flavors (much like ice cream but without the calories).  Can't decide what type of fish you want for dinner?  No problem - sushi, if you're unfamiliar with it, allows you to blend spices, flavor profiles and various types of proteins into bite-sized pieces of deliciousness that you can eat without ever really feeling full.  So, in a word, sushi is spectacular.  That is, sushi was spectacular.  Until the day some bozo trying to make a name for himself starting telling everyone how much better sushi could be by adding some hideous, flavor-sucking vegetable to it (a la, The Emperor's New Clothes).  Now these terrible things are used in sushi rolls to a) "cut" the spicy flavors or, what I now believe, b) preemptively ward off the run on sushi restaurants that would inevitably occur if cucumber was nowhere to be found.

Pickles.  For those of you that don't know, pickles are actually gussied up cucumbers.  However, and I can't stress this enough, they are not the same thing.  They taste nothing alike, they look nothing alike and you certainly never hear of someone seeking out a cucumber at a state fair (Note:  If you haven't been, state fairs are where everything delicious comes to play.  Get thee to a state fair immediately...and bring me back a corn dog).  Rather, pickles are cucumbers' hot cousins.  They are briny, crunchy and could kick a cucumber's ass if they happened upon one in a dark alley.  But the fact that they come from cucumbers truly ruins them for me.  To steal a line from a well-known pontificator, learning that pickles actually come from cucumbers is like learning that the main singer in UB40 is just an old white guy.  Once you learn that fact, there's really no going back. 

Water.  Yep.  I said WATER.  Do you have any idea what it's like to be insanely thirsty and have only cucumber water as a drinking option??  I do.  And I was hungover when it happened.  True story.  Spas are the worst offenders - they take something as pure and simple as water and, by adding a single ingredient to it, turn it into an assault on the senses.  Yes, senses.  Plural.  Not only do I have to taste my water now, I also have to smell the offensive odor that emanates from these wretched veggies.  Gross.  When you think of water, you think of a babbling brook, or an ocean, or a river.  All places where cucumbers are nowhere to be found.  So putting them into water is certainly not natural.  And rather then send me into spa-like serenity, the presence of a cucumber in what would otherwise be the purest beverage on the planet sends me into a frothy rage of (warranted) hostility.

Boom.  Case closed.  Cucumbers = Death.  The guy who wrote Little Shop of Horrors gets it.  You try telling me this man-eating plant doesn't have a cucumber as an ancestor somewhere in the family tree:

It's not even the shoe itself that's my issue:  it's the decision to buy Crocs over any other shoe.  Seriously.  ANY other shoe.  I'm even OK'ing Tevas here, people.  You had to make the conscious decision to walk into a store, see the entire shoe selection (which, I'm going to assume, included more than just Crocs) and voluntarily choose a shoe made entirely of a synthetic, polyurethane-like substance, with a strap on the back to hold your foot in place when it starts sweating (as it will obviously do as a result of being made of such material) and HOLES so that when your foot inevitably sweats, some cool open air can flow in and dry it off.

I mean, are we savages??  For those of you reading this and saying to yourselves, "I mean, I don't think Crocs are so terrible," you are obviously a Wearer of Crocs (WOC) and may not understand the offensive effect that they have on others.  Let me say this, there are only three acceptable occasions for a WOC to wear Crocs:

1. Someone comes to your house and holds a gun to your head (though, if I were you, I would do my homework and make sure the gun was loaded before I agreed).
2. You are participating in water sports/activities and Aqua Socks are not available (yes, Aqua Socks are preferable to Crocs any day of the week and twice on Sundays).
3. You are a baby.  NOTE:  You must be an actual baby (i.e., a child under the age of five) to fall under this exception.  And you only fall under this exception because you're not old enough to make your own decisions as to clothes and/or divorce your parents for bad taste.

If you are reading this post, you probably don't fall under any of these exceptions, as a) you are probably old enough to use the Internet, b) if someone is holding a loaded gun to your head you've got things other than reading 'Idle Minded' on your mind, and c) Aqua Socks are always available.

So, to sum up, be a human and wear real shoes, not shoe substitutes.