Where oh where has my little phone gone!

I lose my phone a lot. Okay, okay I lose a lot of things a lot. But today’s peeve focuses on my phone and how it hates me! I swear when I’m not looking my phone strategies ways to make a fool out of me.  

I wish I had a more loyal cell phone. I want a phone that doesn't bury itself at the bottom of my purse and stops ringing as soon as I dig it out. I want a phone that doesn't leap off tables and out of my hands trying to commit cellicide. A phone that comes with me where ever I go, instead of lazing around the apartment, the car and park benches!

I’m reminded of the (ONE) time I had to buy grocery in high school. The deal was I would buy the groceries and my parents would reimburse me. However the idea that I would have enough money to buy groceries was a ridiculous concept. Back then my debt card was rejected so many times I had to send it to therapy!  Even now it’s starting to show signs of a relapse. 

So I whined and complained my parents into insanity and they gave me the money upfront.  (Perks of being the middle child, my whine makes cheese! Get it…. whine as in wine and cheese as in money…wordplay. Your mom thought it was funny. BURN).  

Test me if you want to. I will write an angry letter!

I suffer from podophobia. Sounds scary right? Not really it’s just an unexplained fear of feet. There are probably many things in my past that triggered this fear, some include my brother’s old habit of leaving his grotesque socks everywhere, or the time we drove from Arkansas to Utah and he kept taking his shoes off therefore producing the foulest odor known to man, mythical creature and fish.

Feet, however is not my peeve. For the most part feet are great. They get you places, and you can decorate them with Jimmy Choos and stevemaddens and Manolo Blahniks.

“Aren’t those shoes?” they ask.

“No Birkenstocks are shoes, these are works of art! “ I answer.

Yes feet are great. Praise God for feet.

The peeve comes from when I tell someone I hate feet.

While I’m saying, “I don’t like feet,” someone else is hearing, “I love feet. Put your feet all over me, and everything I own. What! You just ran a marathon and your feet smell like curdled milk and skunk poo, plus look like they’ve been lynch-mobbed. Well I want to see them and touch them and bottle their scent!”

That’s not what I said you fiend, and just because you found the  glass-encased big red button doesn’t mean you should push it.  Finding someone’s weakness and then exploiting it isn’t funny, unless you’re Bugs Bunny or seven or Ashton Kutcher. But here in the post Punk'd, adult-nonfiction world you simply look like a douche bag and a half.

It’s like being followed by a creepy guy in a bar.

(FAKE SCENARIO)

“Hey shawty, baby girl, let me buy you something to sip on,” the creeper said.

“Sorry I have a boyfriend,” said thoroughly grossed out girl. 

“Doesn’t mean I can’t buy you a drink,” he states, his gold tooth gleaming.

“Did I say boyfriend, I meant girlfriend. I’m a lesbian,” said the girl as she wraps her arms around the first friend she can reach.

“I’ll buy you both a drink.”

“Did I say lesbian, I meant I’m transgender and I have airborne herpes!”

Pause….

“You can still drink, right?”

“Grrr”

(AND SCENE)

Some losers never quit.

Mrs. Clever don't live here anymore!

My second peeve of the blog has to do with household cleaning products. I have nothing against them personally, I mean who doesn't love a little pine scented floor wax or cool mango breeze air fresher. No my beef comes from the idea that because I'm a woman I'm suppose to LOVE domestic products. As if it's built into my DNA. God created the heavens and earth and women with the urge to Swifter. Well sorry folks this lady hates cleaning with a passion. I'll do anything to get out of it. Ask my parents. Seriously they have hours and hours of stories to tell, I'm sure. A small percentage of why I live on my own is so no one will ask me to clean stuff.

I guess my aversion to cleaning comes from it being the only thing in my life I feel I can control. Drug addicts have drug,anorexics have starving themselves and I have allowing my place to look like a CSI crime scene. That being said now that I live on my own cleaning has become my cross to bear.  My carpet is beige so I have to vacuum. My couch is made of fabric so stains must be avoided and blotted out immediately, and the bathroom has to be scrubbed once a week and bleached every two. I can't function in a dirty bathroom.   The hoarder reality shows have also been useful on my road to recovery. First step it admitting that pungent smell is not normal.

But just because I admit the value in cleaning doesn't mean I'm going to breakout my pearls and heels (This is in reference to the title. Love how I pull it all together)

Besides purchasing cleaning supplies gives me anxiety like you wouldn't believe! Rows and rows of cleaning products all promising the same thing staring at me like drug dealers in fluorescent lit alley.
 (Fake scenario begins now)
"Hey girl I've got the stuff that will make your whites brighter, your counters less germier, and will last you put to 30 days guaranteed. Plus I'l give you a money saving coupon. Come on lady pick one, pick one, pick one!"
 (Splat)

"Clean up on aisle 5, a woman has pass out from money back guarantee bargains overload!" And scene.

I want the news not the weather!

In the description I stated that some of my pet peeves are things that people can't help. When reading about a peeve such as these you'll probably be thinking, what wrong with this troll? Well firstly HOW RUDE. And B-ly I know, I'm crazy to have peeves that people can't help but trust, you have many of your know. It can be scientifically and clinically proven using charts and a team of five doctors. One of whom will be a douche and disagree with the results! Never mind him though his bitter and works at a free clinic for carny folk!

Any hootnanny, On to my first peeve of the blog. 

Spit! I hate spit! The quickest way to gross me out is to spit at something, on something, in something or near it! The thought of spit causes me to dry heave, in fact I'm having trouble....writing....this.....post...right...now. 

Why spit you ask? and if you asked nicely, I'll kindly tell you. But remember you asked for it.

When I was younger I was very insecure (Duh weren't we all). It was important for me to hang out with people I perceived as being cool. I just wanted to be liked, and let's face it everyone does. Don't get me wrong I had heeded all the messages about being yourself and avoiding peer pressure, but when your a kid those things tend to go in one ear and pole vault out the other. 

 In order to achieve my goals of being cool, I began to hang out with a group of girls that lived down the street from me. Now at first glance these girls seemed cool. They cursed, talked about sex, watched R rated movies, which for a girl who grew up in Christian home was intriguing. I felt like I was a wildlife surveyor, studying the habits of some dangerous indigenous specie.  I was free to view their carnal ways til the sun went down and the street lights came on.Then my butt had better be back in the house, cause God only knew what would happen if my mama had to come look for me!

Many of the things these girls talked about I didn't know about and considering how old we were, they shouldn't have known about them either. What does this have to do with spiting, you ask? Firstly, way to be rude right in the middle of my story. But I guess I am bird walking a bit. I do that often. My brain just goes off on these wild tangents and it's all I can do to get back on track.