Tag Archives: socializing

How to be annoying on Facebook:

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  • Post every random thought or move you make, no matter how mundane.   

1:15pm-”Going to store!”.

1:28pm-”Yeah!  Fish sticks are on sale!”.

1:44pm-”Standing in checkout line.”.

2:02pm-”I used $10 worth of  coupons and made Krogers my bitch!”.

I don’t know what is worse.  The fuckwits that think anyone should care about this random bullshit or the fuckwits that actually do and take the time to comment on this bullshit.  I don’t have a life and you are boring the shit out of me.  Congratulations.  You win at sucking at life.

  • Post cryptic messages (aka “vaguebooking”)

“Done crying!  I am over it!”

-(comment)-”I’m sorry.  You need to talk?”

-(response)-”no.  This is personal.

Okay, fine.  If it is so fucking personal, don’t post it on facebook.  If you are going to put it out there, don’t be surprised when you illicit concern or confusion from your friends who have had this blasted on their news feeds.

  • Post your workout regime and results.  CONSTANTLY.

Do you really think anyone gives a fuck what body parts you worked today or how long you were at the gym or if you are soooo sad that you didn’t make it to the gym today?  I don’t care about how many ounces of bland, boiled chicken you ate and how many calories you consumed and burned.  If this is your only contribution to my news feed, you are most likely going to be hidden, at minimum.

  • Posting love notes to and/or about your significant other all. the. time.

1:23PM  “Hi baby!  I love you so, so, so much!”

3:59 PM “2 weeks, 10 hours and 14 minutes ago, we met and fell in love.  Happy two-week anniversary!  I love you, boo!”

5:32 PM “I have the greatest boyfriend in the entire world.  John Smith, I love you so much.  I can’t wait until you get home from work!  I miss you.”

7:10 PM “We just finished Glee!  I have the most amazing boyfriend.  He got me a bowl of ice cream.  Awwwww!  We are so in love, like Rachel and Finn.”

Who are you trying to convince, me or you?  If you have to constantly validate one another and/or inform the world that you do, in fact, love your boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse, I am probably going to think you are on some pretty shaky ground.  Well, it is either that or you are 14 years old (in which case, it just goes with the territory).  If you can’t go an hour without proclaiming your love for him/her, do us all a favor and put it in an email, mmmmkay? No one is buying this bullshit anyways.

Also, calling your significant other “boo” should stand on its own on this list because that is super annoying too.  What the fuck does that even mean?   I have about 10 people on my friends list that constantly refer to their “boo” and it makes me want to punch them.  “BOO” is said at the climax of a rousing game of “peek a boo” (which is often startling to babies) or something shouted to intentionally scare/startle someone.  At what point did this catch on as a pet name?  Does the sight of your loved one scare or startle you?   It makes no fucking sense but I digress…

  • Ask questions about subjects that can be easily searched

“Someone told me that dogs can’t eat grapes.  Does anyone know if that is true?“

You obviously have internet access but, hey asshole, let me google that for you!  I love it more when you point out that this information is easily found via a quick internet search and they reply “Yeah, I know but I just didn’t feel like taking the time to look it up.”.  Are you fucking kidding me?  In the time that it took you to type that status, you would have had your answer.

  • What’s for dinner?

I don’t remember having Gordon fucking Ramsey on my friends list so why is my news feed clogged daily with descriptions and pictures of what you made/ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner?  I don’t really give a fuck.  You marinated a chicken for 6.5 hours, baked it with (insert spices/herb) and then made some reduction sauce or glaze and you picked peas from your garden, shelled them and steamed them?  Now you want to post those specific details, along with a picture and I am supposed to do what?  Unless you are delivering me a plate, I don’t get the point.  I can forgive the occasional “look at what I made” post but I don’t need to see this every day for every meal.  Entertain me, bitches!

  • I do not want to be your neighbor in Farmville!

If I wanted to play Farmville or Yoville or join your mafia or your sorority, I would have probably accepted your invitation one of the first 50 times you sent it to me.  If I didn’t accept your invitation to play, please don’t send me messages to my inbox or write on my wall telling me that you need this new cow or plant and you could get it if I join.  I don’t give a fuck.  Newsflash:  it isn’t real!  If you want to play, good for you but don’t try to make me give a rat’s ass about your pretend farm or job or mafia.  It won’t work.

  • Having no grasp of the English language and having no shame about that

“Wut iz up?  Iz hangen wit ma peeps n da mall.  Den gona partay at dis club wit ma homeez.”

Shoot me.  Please.  Right in the face.  This shit is like kryptonite to me.  For your sake, for my sanity, for the love of society, please go back to school.

  • Tag me in embarrassing or ugly photos

Yes, we went out Friday and I had more than a couple of jager bombs and it was 100 degrees outside.  I don’t mind that you took pictures of our girls night at the bar but what the fuck would possess you to post them on facebook, much less tag me in them?  If they are funny, horrible, shoot them to me in an email so we can laugh about them.  You’re either an idiot or an asshole.

Just stop it.

Dang, Anything Else?

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I’m hungry!  I’m not hungry!  I’m tired!  I’m not tired!  I’m hot!  I’m cold!  Pick me up!  Put me down!  Fix me some food!  I’m thirsty!  I want ketchup!  I didn’t like it because it had ketchup on it!  I need to potty!  I already pottied!  I peed in my pants!

BREATHE!  1…2…3…4…5…fuck this counting shit.  It only takes me 3.5 seconds to open a bottle of wine.

These three curtain climbers can be the source of my greatest joy and my greatest stress.   I know that there are those sanctimonious martyr mom bitches that say “Children are gifts from heaven.  I like to spend every waking second with my children and any mother that takes two seconds to herself is selfish and she should have thought about that before she had kids.”.  Well, to her, I say: fuck the fuck off.  I love my kids but I don’t have to like my kids 24/7.  Any parent that says they do is either A) Lying or B) Full of shit.  You see, I don’t think admitting that makes me a bad mother.  I would give my life for any of my children and there are days when I feel like my children are trying to kill me themselves, with a plan they have secretly concocted to make my fucking head explode.

My husband works out, pretty much everyday.  Whether he runs or goes to the gym, that is his daily time to blow off some steam.  For some reason, some group of uptight bitches got together and decided that squeezing a kid out of your vagina suddenly rendered women impervious to stress.  These are the same bitches that decided that admitting that being a mother was hard or a mother needing her own personal time out was a sign of failure.  They got the word out and it spread quickly.  Women are so fucking afraid to admit that they aren’t perfect mothers or that they don’t ever feel overwhelmed or that they want to be able to have a little time to themselves.  Well, guess what?  I’m not.  At times, my kids make me want to stand in the middle of the street and scream a steady stream of expletives.  I want to pull my damn hair out!  I think to myself, “I wonder why kennels for kids never caught on?”.  So, I make sure that I get my own “time outs”, at least once or twice a week.  If that means that one or a few of my friends gather on my patio or on one of their patios, as God as our witness, we are going to gather, dammit!  And, there will be wine!  Oh yes!  There will be wine.  It is our therapy.  We bitch and vent and then we end up laughing about all those things that we thought were going to push us over the edge a few hours earlier.  Thankfully, I have surrounded myself with a group of friends that are equally as honest about how imperfect they are as mothers.  There isn’t any judgment, just wine.  You have to have wine! 

I jokingly tell my husband that I am going to the gym when I have plans for a girls’ night in.  Becoming a mother doesn’t make your needs suddenly irrelevant.  It doesn’t mean that you are no longer entitled to or in need of some personal time.  If anything, it makes it even more necessary.  Adults need to interact with adults.  Adults need to have conversations  in which the words Caillou, Sprout, poopy diaper and Toy Story are not brought up.   Adults need to have times when they are not required to break up fights between preschoolers.  Adults need to have friends to drink wine and bitch with because drinking alone is frowned upon.

If you want to hole up in your home and immerse yourself only in your children and their interests and topics of conversation, be my guest.  My money is on your future admission into a mental hospital. Good luck with that.

I love my bitches.

You say I’m a bitch like it’s a bad thing.

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If you want to offend or upset me, calling me a bitch will not accomplish that mission.  The countless times I have been called a bitch have typically been the result of me refusing to permit myself to be subjugated.  Of course, it has also been a term of endearment exchanged between me and my friends, aka “my bitches”, all of whom I adore.  There have been a number of times that my bitches and I have been called “bitches”, collectively, for refusing to acquiesce to the persistent advances from “gentlemen” callers (a term I use very loosely) when enjoying a night out.  Don’t get me wrong, guys, there is nothing sexier than a 40-year-old man, with tufts of back hair protruding from the neckline of your popped up polo collar, stumbling over to a table of women that are minding their own business, enthralled in conversation with one another, and laying such epic lines as “I’m having sex with you tonight, you might as well be there to enjoy it.” or “Roses are red, violets are blue, I suck at poems, nice tits.”, as you attempt to “accidentally” rub the ass nearest to you.   I realize that when exuding such blatant charms, it can come as a shock when every woman within earshot doesn’t drop her panties and throw them directly at you, in a desperate bid to win your undivided attention.   It is completely understandable that you would be taken aback when your chivalrous overtures are met with nothing but total indignation.  The only kinds of women that would fail to recognize the prize that stands before them are BITCHES.

You would think that I would relish every moment of being underestimated and assumed to be unintelligent because I have boobs and a vagina and am not completely hideous.  You might think I even go the extra mile to ensure that no one thinks me capable of intellectual thought by dying my hair blond, wearing makeup and developing an affinity for shoes that inspire imagery of brass poles on poorly lit stages.  I don’t care if you want to assume that I have the IQ of a kitchen sponge but don’t get pissed at start name calling when you discover that I, in fact, am a bit smarter than the average kitchen sponge.  Not much, mind you, but enough to make you think twice about making snap judgments.

I know that some women find it completely flattering, if not a complete turn on,  when taking the dance floor with a girlfriend or two, shaking her ass to the blaring booty chatter bass, to find herself being groped and rubbed on in a surprise dance floor attack from behind.  There really is nothing hotter than a half drunk stranger, who took the time to marinate in an entire bottle of cologne, who expresses his interest in getting to know you better by grabbing you by the waist and firmly gyrating his crotch against your ass (or back, depending on the height difference).  Now she has gone from dancing and enjoying the night with friends, to trying to pry your hands from her waist, while maintaining her balance because you have prioritized rubbing one out on her backside over staying upright and are willing to take her down with you if your balance fails before your mission is complete.  For some odd reason, if she manages to pry herself free and declines to permit you to finish using her ass as a masturbation tool, she is a bitch.  Look in the mirror, asshole.  What does that make you?

Other instances in which I have been considered “bitchy”:

If I am forced to call the customer service department to lodge a complaint, rest assured, I am going to get whatever credit or free shit I am seeking.

If you give me unsolicited advice, it is a possibility.

If you say something shitty to or about my children.  In that case, if I am only bitchy, consider yourself lucky.

If you talk shit about my mother, my sister or any of my friends.  *I* can talk shit about all of the above.  You are only allowed to listen and nod your head, not contribute.

If you state opinions that demonstrate complete ignorance, especially those of a political nature.  If you don’t know what you are talking about, shut the fuck up.  If you are a complete bigot, go crawl under a rock.  I have no tolerance for intolerance.

If being a “bitch” means I won’t roll over, lower my standards or pretend to be a fucking idiot to appease someone else, someone make me a fucking name tag.