Libera nos a malo.

We all have hangups.

When my dad was in first grade, he couldn't unbutton his peacoat and it was one of the most embarrassing moments in his life. To this day, he refuses to wear that style of coat.

I think we all have a 'peacoat' in our lives. Some have more than others. I have many. Well...I wouldn't call them peacoats. I just have pretty basic hangups.

Automatic carwashes scare the bejesus out of me. I don't know what it is; the loud sounds, the slapping against the car, the inability to see...ugh. Just thinking about it gives me the willies. I feel like I'm in the Bronx and fifteen million homeless drug addicts are trying to wash my car with spit and hankies - simultaneously.

Bugs. The real reason I don't kill bugs isn't because I'm a Buddhist; it's because I'm crazy-afraid I'll miss the squish and they'll jump directly into my mouth. When I was younger, the reason I didn't kill them was because I was terrified they'd bite me through my shoe. Now, obviously, I know better.

Oatmeal-raisin cookies. Whenever I see a plate of cookies, I am always highly suspicious of the 'chocolate chip' ones. I have bitten into more oatmeal raisin cookies with excited anticipation, thinking they were chocolate chip than the Duggar family has kids. I hate them. They piss me off. (I'm back to the cookies...not the Duggars) And I will not let down my guard again. Ever.

Thunder. For as tough as I try to be for the dog, I want to pee my pants and hide under the sheets whenever there's a thunder storm. Every time there is a flash, I start counting so I know how close it is. And I always think it's too close. Always.

And finally, my # 1 hang-up has got to be flushing toilets in other people's houses. When I was little, I would be at a friend's house and use their toilet, and never flush. I was afraid it wouldn't flush, or that it would overflow. So, to avoid that fear, I just wouldn't flush at all. Problem solved. To this day, whenever I'm over someone's house and I use their bathroom, I get really twitchy at that final moment. I get that little argument inside my head - "flush...don't flush. Go ahead, flush it. No, no, I can't." Most times, Adult Me reasons it's fine, people do it all the time...and I flush. But every once in awhile, maybe one out of every 11 times, I leave a little DNA gift for the homeowner. No need to send a thank you. You're welcome.

There's a bag of Skittles in the kitchen with my name on it. And my new name is "Skittles."

Hope you all enjoyed the long weekend!

I went for a bike ride on Saturday. Well, I went Friday and today, too, but Saturday was memorable. I rode approx. 40 miles roundtrip (translated into 4 hours). GO ME. But that's not what this blog is about. (I was just bragging) I saw things on that ride that would make God cry. Like the 400 lb man on his bike. He was so huge, his body consumed the bike. It was like he was riding on air. Now while I can appreciate his awareness for the need to exercise, OUCH. I know how my "taint" feels after just a 10-mile ride. I can't even begin to imagine adding another 270 pounds and testicles to that mix.

Somewhere around the 15-mile mark, I rode past a white-trash picnic. They were in their early twenties, had a banged up Red Rider wagon (probably stolen), a boom box blasting (I think) Kid Rock's greatest hit, and a dirty blanket that they were setting up shop on. And no, that's not a typo. Kid Rock only had one hit.

The guy: Too pale, too skinny, wearing a white(ish) t-shirt with the short sleaves ripped off. The girl: I didn't catch her face; she was about to lay down on the blanket, but what I did see was a tube top, acid washed jeans and shoulder tattoos that appeared to be done by a blind prison inmate. It's that time of year: Love is in the air.

I eventually make it home: Legs shot, covered in dirt, and stinkin' on ice.

To celebrate my awesome ride, I went to Famous Dave's BBQ. Personally, I don't think he's that famous; I never heard of him before. But I was told Dave has more BBQ sauce choices than IHOP has syrup options, so I'm there.

Now, let me preface this with a little known fact about myself: I used to waitress. Poorly. Which is why I don't do it anymore. Which is why I get doubly pissed off when I get a waitress who sucks. I understand it's a hard job; but it's not "difficult." Obligatory tips should not exist. If you choose to suck at a job that pays $1.75 an hour, you deserve to make $1.75 an hour. Period.

My waitress was Bonnie. I'm guessing that back in the day (roughly sometime in the mid 1930's) she was one cute chicky who got passed around the school yard. But now? Gross.

When I ordered my BBQ pork sandwich with melted Jack cheese, she repeated, "American cheese?" No, dumbass. Jack. J-A-Yourandidiot-C-K. Then I finished my lemonade. I nonchalantly moved it to the edge of the table. Bonnie walked by, tapped the table with her Lee Press-On nail, said, "Everythingokay?Good!" in one breath and kept walking. Allow me to loop back at this point - I never got cheese on my sandwich.

Now again, I understand it's hard being 95 and a waitress, especially when you have to constantly adjust your apron so your Parliaments don't fall out. And I typically allow one mistake per dining experience. No cheese? Fine. Ignoring the fact I'm parched? Not cool. When she finally realized I needed a drink, she said, "Sure hon, I'll get you more water." I was like, "It was LEMONADE." Being a special kind of stupid? Priceless. Literally. No tip for you.

I don't even know why I was upset. It wasn't like it was a classy place. They had a chandelier made out of deer antlers and rolls of paper towels on each table for use as "napkins." What was I expecting? I don't think I'm being unreasonable; I just expect a certain level of "know how to do your freakin' job" when I go to an establishment - I don't care which one. I think we all do. But my tolerance is definitely lower than most when it comes to mediocre servers.

"I went to a restaurant that serves 'breakfast at any time.' So I ordered French toast during the Renaissance."

— Steven Wright

Don't promise "forever" when tomorrow never comes.

I've been starting this blog in my head for WEEKS. It's been a whole month since my last blog, which is horrible, because that blog wasn't even that good. Unlike pizza, even if it's bad, it's still...pretty bad.

On my way into work this morning the radio DJ announced the name of the chick who will be the next contestant on the 13th season of The Bachelorette. I almost drove over a bus stop curb packed with kids. Thirteenth?? Whaaa? Really?!?

I'll excuse the fact that everyone and their mother has a reality TV show. Okay-no-I-won't. What is that all about? "Rock of Love." "Daisy of Love." "Homeless Love." Even rip off's have spin-offs. The Real World bore Road Rules then VH1 stole it and set up I Love Money but that wasn't good enough, so now we've got I Love Money, Two.

Which brings me back to The Bachelorette. We're inching into the 13th season? Like the rip-off to that show, "The Cougar," couldn't nip that in the bud? And the Cougar...sweet Christ. Where do I begin?

A 45-year-old hot, single mom is thrown into a house with a bunch of meathead 21-27 year old guys, most of whom are younger than her own daughter (who I'm sure is mortified that her mom is on this show). Instead of handing out a rose to the 'chosen ones,' each episode ends with a kiss-thing. She says, "Kiss me." If she gives her cheek, he's off. If she puts her mouth on him, he gets to stay. The catch is, (aside from spreading oral herpes), if you're not the first chosen dude in line, you get sloppy thirds, fourths, fifths, etc.

I don't get these shows at all. There are thousands of fathers out there who deserve a good smack in the face. Would it have killed them to hug their kids just a few more times? Maybe say a quick "Congrats" when they graduated 8th grade? Even just poke their heads into the first 10 minutes on one dance recital. Just one. Ten minutes!! That's all. It doesn't take much to keep your kid from being a loser, and it only takes a little bit more to keep them from advertising it on national TV.

So to all you parents out there, here's some sage advice from a gal without kids:

HUG THEM. Remember their names. Don't talk to them only when you need them to run downstairs to grab your reading glasses. And for Christ's sake, when your 16-year-old daughter starts dressing like a hooker or your 15-year-old son starts wearing black nail polish, DO SOMETHING... Preferably, an ass-kicking, but with the law as it reads, try going back to that hugging thing. The cancelled reality show you could create may be your own.