An Open Letter to the Biggby Coffee Girl

Dear Biggby Coffee girl,
Listen. It's not that I don't enjoy our chats. Even though you've asked me twenty times whether I'm having a girl or a boy, and whether I'm going to have the epidural (which, just for future reference, is a weird and slightly invasive question), I'm still fine with it. But today you took it a step too far. The comments "You're getting bigger every day" (...thanks?), and "You've got three months left? Are you worried your stomach is going to get really huge?" (Well, I wasn't.. but now I'll go home and cry about it. My husband is going to love you.)? Well, they were a bit much.
I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but we don't know each other. Yes, I know your name. I even know how it's spelled, which brings me to the subject of phonetics and how they failed you, but that's a blog for another day. And yes, you've told me ALLLLLLL about your pregnancy, even went so far as to tell me how you found out you were pregnant (missed period.. usually a tell-tale sign). The truth is, I think you would be shocked by how many women get pregnant every year. It's actually not just you and me. This is the way the world repopulates itself, which leads to coffee drinkers, which is why you're employed, which is why you live another day to haunt me with your terrifying questions. But if you feel that your connection with me has to do with the fact that we've both experienced pregnancy, let me tell you, you've got a connection with a lot of other people. What I'm getting at is, I do not want to have confessional time with you simply for this reason.
What you might also not know is that I avoid you. Constantly. Luckily for me, there are about five Biggbys in this town, and I'll often drive out of my way to go to another one. The only way that I go to yours is if I am almost directly in front of it and a mini-sized Al Gore is sitting on my shoulder telling me that wasting gas to avoid you is WRONG WRONG WRONG, Earth-killer Laura! You're really driving business away. A lot of business, as I drink a lot of coffee. Decaf, unfortunately. Remember that time that I came through the drive thru and, even after you gave me my coffee, I sat there for three extra minutes while you told me about your due date, while a line of cars piled up behind me? You should know that, after I finally escaped, my husband, sitting next to me in the car, said "What the hell was that?" And that, Biggby Girl, is when I knew I wasn't insane. That in fact it was YOU who is insane.
In conclusion, I won't be coming in anymore. Based on the trend of more personal questions each visit, I'm afraid that you're going to eventually ask to deliver my baby. I'm uncomfortable with that. It was interesting knowing you. Maybe just stick to brewing the coffee.
Best,
Laura

All About the Grocery Store

I've discovered my #1 pet peeve of all time. It is this:
If you are one of those people who pick up a refrigerated or frozen item, say milk or cheese, then decide later on in the store that you no longer want said item, but you're too lazy to return it to it's refrigerated environment, and so you just drop it on any old shelf, maybe between the Frosted Mini-Wheats and Cheerios... well.. then I hate you.
Sorry, no two ways about it.
People, that is RUDE. Whatever you just put down is RUINED because you're LAZY. Sometimes I pick up after you! This week I returned a poor, scared thawing bag of frozen corn to my grocer's freezer because someone traded it out for CANNED corn (yes, I can follow your evil little thought patterns, depraved members of society.) First of all- really? Canned corn over frozen corn?? Glad I don't live in your house. Canned corn is salty and discolored. Secondly, RUDE! The canned corn aisle is only two or three away from the frozen vegetable aisle!! I'm sure you're busy and all. So busy you probably shouldn't even be grocery shopping. Also, you're probably missing Jerry Springer. Go home.

In Addition:

Why does all of America feel that it's okay to air marital disputes in the grocery store? I kid you not, if you want to see the scary state of marriages in this country, you should just go to Meijer.
Dear fighters:
I CAN STILL HEAR YOU.
EVERYONE can hear you.
Why don't you tell him what a lousy bastard he is in your six inch voice?
I have a lot of personal space issues, so I guarantee you, I am more than six inches away.
Listen, I'm not talking about a little healthy debate. Personally, I like to debate pretty much everything Rob says to me. Keeps him on his toes. I'm talking PROFANITY and LOUD NOISES!
After careful research: The two aisles that seem to produce the most domestic strife:
1. The beer/wine/mixer aisle
2. And, inexplicably, the frozen food aisle (I don't know..maybe because people are cold in that aisle? I, for one, get much crankier when I'm cold)
3. Honorable mention: There's often a ruckus in the cheese/milk/yogurt aisle.
Hopefully this will help you to avoid some confrontations.

Really, though, please stop. You're making people feel weird. Sometimes, I walk into an aisle where people are fighting and for a second I start to turn around, like I accidentally walked in on something. Then I remember that I'm in a GROCERY STORE. Go fight in an aisle where I'm not shopping. For instance, automotive. I'm never in the automotive aisle. Or, the aisle with all the fish tanks. I hate fish.

Also.
Why do the condoms have to be by the toothpaste in Meijer? Because, see, it makes me feel weird about buying toothpaste. It kind of makes me avoid buying toothpaste, actually. Because the condom/toothpaste/pregnancy test aisle are all in the same far corner of my Meijer, and if you're heading that way, it's kind of assumed where you're going. Look, I get it. I'm 27. I should be over it. For God's sake, I'm pregnant, I should REALLY be over it. Buuuuutttt.. I'm not. And I don't want to sue Meijer for my cavities. So let's move the toothpaste over by the body wash, shall we?

And, in conclusion:
Me: I've been spending a lot of time in the grocery store lately.
Rob: That's because you're finally learning your place, baby.

F.u.n.n.y.

In Bed the Other Night...

Me: What's on your mind?
Rob: ..dramatic pause.. *sigh*..John Leguizamo
Me:.....why?
Rob: I hope he's alright...

silence.

Laura's New Years Resolutions

1. I will cease blatantly staying in the fast lane to piss off the asshole who is riding my bumper, despite the fact that I'm clipping along at 5 miles over the speed limit, as my mom recently pointed out that it could lead to me being run off the road and killed in some unseemly manner. Moms: so smart, so right.

2. I will return library books on time. Or, if they're late, I will have at least cracked the cover, considering I'll be paying the fine.

3. I will mop my kitchen floor more often.

4. [this is the space where I promise not to buy coffee every morning, but I'm taking it out already, since I know it's not going to happen.]

5. I will stop doing things like blogging about New Years resolutions in order to avoid school work or writing.

6. I will stop doing things specifically to irritate my sister, such as saving all the dog trading cards out of Penny's dog food and mailing them to her as if she's collecting them.

7. I will charge my phone.

8. I will try to respect the fact that Rob is a vampire and wants the curtains closed at all hours of the day.

9. I will stop being so anti-social, and I'll make an attempt at not being so sarcastic, but it won't work.

10. I will stop letting Facebook consume my every waking hour. I will stop letting Facebook consume my every waking hour. I will stop letting Facebook consume my every waking hour.

I'm Anti-Social and Things I've Grown Tired Of

About the anti-social thing...
Last week I get this idea. I will make cookie trays as Christmas presents. I don't have an money, and we can give them to our neighbors too and blah blah blah. Apparently I was feeling both jolly and domestic. So I make the trays. I make O Henry bars and mint fudge and butter cookies and these.. other cookies. Then I cut them up and put them on plates and put little bows on them and nametags and they look nice. Then I realize that, to hand them out, I'll have to go talk to people. If you don't know why this is a problem yet, you maybe don't know me that well. I don't like talking to people. It has nothing to do with them. It's 100% me and my hermity self. Unfortunately, Rob is also kind of anti-social. I tell him "Go drop off the cookies Rob, I did all the baking." You see I really do want them to have the cookies, I just want them to have them without me talking to anyone in the process. If it were no unbelievably weird, I would stick the plates in their mailboxes. But it is.
Rob and I stand there in the kitchen, making deals. Here's what happens. I eventually have to bribe him. I promise to take him to Qdoba for lunch if he'll take the cookie trays, though I don't really even win that much, because he'll only do it with me, not for me.
And next year everyone will be getting Christmas cards instead.


And things I've grown tired of...

Here was my plan. When I found out I was pregnant, I did some reading up. According to my internet sources, caffeine is pretty much a no-go in the quantities that I drink it. Meaning no more espresso drinks. Okay. But wine.. according to most of the places I went, after the first trimester wine is okay if you drink it in small amounts infrequently. So I look forward to this. I look forward to this for three months as I am drinking absolutely no wine. I am also no longer running, which means that all of my favorite de-stressing things (caffeine, wine, running) are no longer allowed. But then the second trimester arrives. Beautiful, beautiful second trimester. So I start having one glass of wine per week. This is wonderful and satisfying until my doctor says, in no uncertain terms, no. Actually, despite what I've read to the contrary, on the internet and elsewhere, Dr. Doom tries to make it sound like one glass a week is going to result in a retarded baby. So, I stop. No more wine for me. I won't lie to you, it sucks.
But you know what sucks even more than missing all of those things? Coming across articles on pregnancy websites that say ridiculous things like "Instead of having a glass of wine at night, try to find some relaxing alternatives. For instance, take a warm bath or listen to some relaxing music."
I get it. I can't have any wine, or espresso, and I can't do my half marathon training this year. I'm not debating these facts. I'm not even trying to get around them, which is completely unlike me. I've come to grips with it. But don't tell me to go take a #$%^ing bath instead. Really? Have you had caffeine or wine? Have you then, in your little, tiny, full-of-suggestions mind, compared this to taking a bath? One of these things is not like the other, my friend. Your suggestions make me want to punch you. After I punch you, instead of punching me back or seeking medical attention, maybe you could take a nice warm bath. Or listen to some relaxing music. Won't that be nice?
Fool.

Fools!
(Things irritating me this week...)

1. I'd like to preface this by saying that VH1 is the only reasonable thing on the TV channels at the gym. Today while I was on the treadmill, "Real Chance at Love"(?) was on. What the hell is this? Have you SEEN this? It's so dumb that its existence actually pisses me off. GIRLS! Why are you after those two? They're not hot! And one of them is REALLY STUPID. Like you're really in love with them? DO SOMETHING WITH YOUR LIFE.

2. On the way out of the gym today, I looked in the Toys for Tots box. Someone put a water noodle in there. I want you to think about that. A water noodle. A pool toy. What are the chances that a child receiving something from Toys for Tots has a swimming pool? I sure as hell didn't have a swimming pool growing up. Which means that, if they don't have a swimming pool, you just gave them a large piece of FOAM for Christmas.

Dear Owners of Restaurants Named "Blimpie's", "Chubby's", "Tubby's", "Fat City" or the Like-

I think you're missing a crucial truth. People don't want to feel fat. Pretty much ever. Even if we know we're making a poor food choice, we like to somehow delude ourselves. But when you name your restaurant something that reminds us that we are in fact eating something with the potential to pack on a few pounds, we avoid you. Like the plague. We go to places like Subway or Panera or even McDonald's; places where the food is just as bad, if not worse, for us. But at least it's not being thrown in our faces. At least we can enjoy our cheeseburger while we're eating it and feel bad about it later. Not so much with you.
I want you to think about your logic here. I like second hand stores. But I don't think I'd name it "Someone Else's Old Stuff they Didn't Want". That would be a bad idea. It's a tad too real. Where's the flowery delusion?
Consider it. Come find me when you've come to a decision. I'll be at Panera. Which sounds French or something, you may have noticed. Makes me feel all exclusive and multi-cultural.
Love,
Laura