The 98% humorous musings of M. Lizabeth Currain

Tag: America

Royal Baby


People (I’m talking about Americans) who get unreasonably annoyed that the coverage of the royal baby being born are just as annoying as those who get unreasonably excited about. Different sides of the same coin. 

What are you so upset about?! Conversely, what are you so excited about?!

In conclusion: shut up about not caring about this baby! And shut up about how excited you are! 

It’s the little things

At work today, I had the wonderful task of working behind our donations counter, which also serves as our bag check area. I really don’t like working there. Mostly because people donate garbage and I have to sort through it. They are also liars when they are filling out their donor forms for their taxes. Five used bras, a torn book, and a dirty plate do not equal: Five Designer tops, autographed Stephen King Novel (Hardcover), and Tiffany’s Vase; all to be valued at $1800. Assholes. They are all assholes. I hope they get audited. I also don’t like working donations/bag check because I hate having to making people check their bags. Sometimes I don’t want to touch their grimy personal belongings. It’s bad enough I’m sorting through trash, but now I have to guard someone’s dog carrier that has no dog, but a syringe (true story).

However, the main reason I don’t like working donations/bag check is because when someone comes over to the counter with an item I always have to ask, “Checking your bag? Or is it a donation?” Because the fury that would come down on me if I donated their tattered bath and body works bag with a week old newspaper and VHS copy of Kiss Me Guido (sort of true story, details have been changed) is not worth it, trust me. So, I would say that 95% of the time that I ask this question, “Bag check or donation”, I get the response: “Yes”.  I hope the people that are reading this blog, are the kind of people that see something wrong with that answer. They are two. separate. questions. Saying “yes” to both of them, doesn’t specify to me, the person who is working this shit job, what you want me to do with your g.d. items. You either want to donate them, or you want to check them, so I can guard them with my life. All I’m asking is for a little specification, which really isn’t asking all that much. It would take them literally almost no effort at all to say, “Yes, donations” or “Yes, bag check”. NO EFFORT.

I think this is somewhat similar to the the “Paper or Plastic” post, but I wouldn’t need to reiterate this problem, if people weren’t such morons. The assistant manager was at donations a few minutes after this whole ordeal happened for the millionth time, and I brought it up and she said, “You let the little things get to you.”  I don’t. This is not a little thing. This is a major problem facing America; the world, right now. People have stopped f’ing listening. You ask two different questions and they just say “Yes.” The people that I deal with on a daily basis are incredible idiots. INCREDIBLE. “This tag says, ‘not for sale’, does that mean that it’s not for sale?” Really? “It says furniture is 25% off, does that include clothes?” Really? I am not even exaggerating. These stop being little things when it happens every day, countless times a day. It turns in to one giant problem that is not going to be resolved unless these people magically stop being idiots. Which I doubt. Because the world doesn’t work like that. 

I am counting the days until I blow that popsicle stand! Only 3 months left!


First off, I must apologize for my absence, but sometimes, a girl has other plans. Last Tuesday, I saw Barack Obama kick John McCain’s ass in the election. It was very emotional and had me in tears that night and the next morning when I watched his speech again. Then I also watched Maya Angelou be interviewed and was in tears again. However, why do I feel like Harry was doing his best impression of Will Ferrell doing an impression of James Lipton? I think it was a very emotional time for the whole country and I just can’t believe the election is finally over and the outcome is in favor of all American’s and not those who don’t have humanity’s best interests in mind. I was glad to be in the company of like minded people–even if there were some awkward moments that ensued; perhaps at a later date I will share them with you, when we know each other a little bit better. Then over the weekend, I was reunited with my friend Sara from college. It was like old times; we hardly missed a beat. We attended two concerts–one being great. Fran Healy from Travis did a solo performance for the organization that I work for and it was awesome. The other, Creaky Boards, was good, but I think we both could have done without their obnoxious fan base the consisted of bad hair and stupid hats (see, also).

Before I go on, I must also say, that wordpress provides blog stats, where you are able to see how many people visit a day, how they are finding you, etc. The most traffic this blog gets is from people searching the interwebs for Jocelyn Wildenstein. The woman has not lost it. She is as popular as ever. It’s kind of amazing that she still has that sort of draw. In the past two days, 16 people have visited this humble blog via searching for Jocelyn. It’s mind boggling. Perhaps they are people who are given the name by their plastic surgeons and told to “Google” her, in order to persuade them to lay off the ol’ nip/tuck. She is something to marvel at–the idea that this woman has become part of our lexicon to describe or be a portrait of plastic surgery gone wrong, is an accomplishment all on it’s own. It doesn’t matter what this woman did or is doing, all people care about is how scary her face is and if it will get any worse.

On to Fiddlesticks. Fiddlesticks is this terrible restaurant that ate at in Greenwich Village a long while ago, but has remained with me for sometime. Let me tell you why. It was a spring afternoon, and I was with my pal Victor. We had been walking around for a while, and decided it was time to get lunch. We happened upon Fiddlesticks and decided, since they had lunch specials, we would just settle and eat there, instead of trekking onwards in search of perhaps, better food. Victor was wise and went with a turkey burger; I decided to be adventurous and order Penne ala vodka from an Irish Pub. UNWISE.

After lunch, we ventured on, walking the streets of SoHo, making fun of people, looking at things we couldn’t afford. I started getting an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, and as the minutes ticked on, that uncomfortable feeling began making it’s way through my lower GI. I had this bad feeling. I told Victor that we needed to find a bathroom. Unfortunately, we were in SoHo, and nary is a bathroom to be found, because those rich folk do not have bowels. The feeling kept getting worse. Plus, it was a very sunny and warm day, which was adding to my pain. Luckily, Victor, at the time lived in the West Village. He suggested that we go to his apartment and I could use his bathroom. I would have jumped at the chance if this hadn’t of been the first visit I was making to his apartment. What an awful way to introduce yourself into someone’s home space. But I had no choice, because this feeling was only getting worse, and one wrong step or relaxation of a muscle could have ended what has turned out to be, a hilarious friendship.

Imagine a speed walker–because that is what I looked like walking through SoHo to the West Village. Luckily, Victor was a good sport through this seemingly long walk, because he has a sensitive stomach and pretty much anything that he eats upsets his stomach. This walk was probably the longest of my life. People kept getting in my way and the sun kept getting hotter; it was terrible. When we finally got to his apartment, I had to walk up 5 flights of stairs. Five flights is bad enough when aren’t about to crap your pants, but it’s even worse when you are clenching every muscle that you have. Lets just say, when the moment finally came, it was something like this.

I know this is all very graphic and some might consider it an over share, but I am only sharing because I know everyone has been in this situation at least once. I am just trying to help take some of the shame out of it. I personally hate using public restrooms for such business, but sometimes you have no choice and from the times that I have been in Barnes and Noble in Union Square, I know a lot of other people feel the same way. Sometimes, it just happens. I worked with a woman that actually crapped her pants on the train. So, you know, it could always be worse.

Out of this horrible incident came the most useful term to describe such a situation: fiddlesticks. Now, whenever you eat something, and you get that feeling in your bowels, just say that you are having a fiddlesticks moment; if your friend is any sort of friend at all, they will totally help you find the nearest bathroom.

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