The dental assistant who fitted me for the wrong kind of mouth guard yesterday, who had to call me today and tell me to take another hour and a half out of my life to come get fitted again. (Though she kindly told me they “wouldn’t charge me” for the second office visit. She’s very lucky she got my voice mail—I don’t think she would have liked my response.)
The guy on the Metro this evening who made me practically crawl around him to get to the only open spot, then stood there leaning against the only pole within reach. And when I did grab on, wedging my fingers in between the pole and his back, he didn’t budge. I did my best to twist my knuckles into him, shifting them occasionally for maximum effect. When he looked back at me, I gave him one of those “you wanna try me?” looks. You know the one: slightly raised eyebrows, bland expression. The worst part was, this asshole was a Metro employee, neon orange vest and all. I was incensed. I even thought about writing Metro to complain.
The lady that got onto the escalator on the left side, in front of me, but didn’t walk up. (We DC commuters can get a bit militant about these things.)
Whoever it was that peed in the Metro station under my office two weeks ago, making it smell so pungent I want to hurl every time I go down there. (DC Metro is cleaner than most city subways, so I’m not used to this. Ugh.)
The guy in front of me at the metal detector this morning, who didn’t seem to realize that “metal detector” means that all METAL needs to come out of his pockets. It took him three tries to get it right. Where do these people come from? I go through two to three metal detectors a day. How is it this guy has never experienced even one?
The guy in the office next to mine who freaks out every time I call the building manager to complain that it’s so cold that I’m getting frostbite. It’s 80 degrees outside, and I need gloves in my office. (And when it’s hot, this guy always comes in and asks to borrow my second fan. Even when I have explicitly told him that I did not want to lend it to him any more, because then when it gets hotter in the afternoon and I want two fans––which is my god-given right because they are both MINE––I feel bad about taking it back, and that I would not lend it to him anymore, and that he really needs to buy his own fan. Seriously, this guy borrowed my fan again last week, after a winter of fighting with me over it. Who the fuck does he think he is? Any normal person would be embarrassed to even think about it, let alone try it again. Sheesh, the government is full of freaks.) I spent the day huddled under two sweaters with my space heater mucking up the air, cursing his name. Asshole.
My husband, for not being here to make me less crazy. (And who, when he’s here, I sometimes want to kill because I am so crazy.)
Those too-rabid Red Sox fans who bought all the tickets (translation: all the tickets under $45) to the Red Sox / Orioles game at Camden Yards on the day I had planned to go see my beloved Sox. Creeps.
My across-the-street neighbor, who has a perfect lawn, while I seem capable of growing only clover, dandelions, and some prickly abomination that literally spits seeds up in the air if you so much as breathe on it (that fucking weed is too clever by half—how am I supposed to fight that?).
The writers of Grey’s Anatomy, who have ruined an incredibly soothing soapy-but-my-husband-will-still-watch-it show in the course of just one season.
My mother-in-law, who, when I went to visit on Mother’s Day, promptly asked me for my sister’s e-mail address so she could send her a Mother’s Day e-card.
The guy who invented estrogen (in pill form, I know a GUY didn’t invent the actual hormone), and then progesterone, and then thought it would be fun to put the two together and stick them in a 36-year-old, just to see what would happen.
Oh, and pregnant women. Every one of them.
So? Anyone else out there grooving on their own hormone-cocktail? Who do YOU hate?