absolutangel64

I just got a call from an ex-boyfriend who was looking for some advice. I normally wouldn’t answer the phone, but the caller I.D. showed that the number was “unknown”–which is the same thing I get whenever someone from my doctor’s office calls. And it just so happens that I was expecting a call from my doctor regarding a prescription, and answered my cell thinking it was her. But instead of having a pleasant chat with my super-nice physician, I ended up having a conversation with an ex I hadn’t spoken to since we broke up years ago (yeah, my number is pretty old).

While I don’t believe in keeping in touch with former flames, I can’t say I regret accidentally answering my phone. I actually found our brief tête-à-tête rather amusing–in fact, it was so amusing that I wanted to share it with you! Plus, I think the ex said something like “you better not blog about this,” which I automatically interpreted to mean “you should definitely blog about this.” Seriously, if there is one thing I hate more than anything else, it’s when people–not just exes–lecture me on what not to write about. I can deal with others telling me to conform my actions to certain social standards or whatever it is they think is appropriate conduct, but that sh*t doesn’t apply once I hit up my Xanga. This is my little text-based sanctuary, so leave your ideals at the door–or, better yet, you should shove them up your ass. That’d be way more productive than trying to get me to listen because honestly, the latter is never going to happen.

What was I talking about again? Oh right, the conversation I had with the ex!

Just kidding: I don’t have a civil harassment restraining order against anyone…maybe.

To hear him say that his other ex-girlfriends had told him that they had a problem with his inability to accept criticism was rather funny because coincidentally, that’s the first thing I thought of when he said he wanted to know what I disliked about him. This guy used to get mad whenever any criticism was directed at him. And I mean any. When his professor gave him negative feedback on a term paper, he blew up and started ranting that it was the professor who was wrong for not being able to read properly. When his parents told him he needed to be more responsible with his money, he flew into a rage and claimed his spending habits were his mom and dad’s fault because by helping him pay off his bills, he never learned to be afraid of falling into debt (I don’t understand the logic either). And when I suggested he should reconsider changing his major a fourth time because it would mean he’d be in college for 7 years before getting his degree, he threw a fit and said I was unsupportive and trying to pressure him into marriage. That was definitely not the case–especially the part about marriage because I broke up with him shortly thereafter. I’m sure he somehow managed to convince himself that our relationship ended because I was–I don’t know–acting on some kind of menstrual-induced impulse or something.

But regardless of how things were between us back then, many years had gone by and I’d moved on to better things. And it was clear that he had too: he found a girl he deeply cared about, and genuinely wanted help in saving his relationship with her. And if you’re at the point where you have to call your exes and basically ask them to bad-mouth you–a person would have to be pretty damn heartless and cruel to kick you down when you’re already knee-deep in desperation.

So I decided to tell him what he wanted to know, i.e., what I didn’t like about him when we were dating, i.e., that he couldn’t handle criticism without turning into a little b*tch. But I said it nicely, of course.

And you know, for someone who had apparently already heard the same thing from his other exes, he didn’t take my answer particularly well.

Ugh…the “you implied it” argument. It’s the tool of tools…

I think it’s funny that he asked for constructive criticism, but then got mad when he received it. What makes it even funnier is that his reaction was the very thing the exes and I didn’t like about him. What’s the point of asking when you don’t even want to hear the answer?

Man…some people are just meant to be single.

The weird thing about the “you’re selfish” argument is that sometimes the person making the accusation is himself being selfish.

For example:

And freeze.

I can understand Walnut’s rationale for calling Turnip selfish. They both like canned cat food, but she won’t get to eat any because her brother ate most of it. The way Walnut sees it, Turnip should have taken her into consideration before devouring the entire can of “Friskies”–especially when it was the “Turkey and Giblets Dinner” flavor!

But…isn’t Walnut’s basis for calling Turnip selfish also somewhat selfish? She was upset that he didn’t leave enough canned food–not for Pepper or me–but for her. As in herself. As in selfish.

…Right? Kind of?

Anyway, because I can’t leave this on a cliffhanger, here is the rest of the story:

Note: I don’t know why, but Turnip always wakes up in the middle of the night and starts acting crazy. He knocks things off my desk, chews my wires, and jumps on my stomach while I’m trying to sleep. I seriously think he does it on purpose because he knows I’ll end up buying his good behavior with canned cat food.

This would never happen in real life though because (1) Turnip and Walnut have their own food dishes, and (2) cats can’t talk.

Up until now, I’ve been pretty tolerant of the world’s obsession with vampires—not the easiest thing to do considering the way things are nowadays. Despite being suffocated under the ever-growing pile of steaming crap that is “Twilight,” and the cheesy human/vampire “Romeo and Juliet”-esque television shows that seem to multiply every season, the fine line between indifference and insanity had not yet been crossed. It wasn’t crossed when “Blade” became a television series, or when I saw a 40+ year-old woman wearing a two-sizes-too-small “Edward Cullen” T-shirt…even seeing snapshots Alicia Silverstone trying to salvage her career by starring in a movie about a vampire living in New York City wasn’t enough to push me over the edge.

I honestly started to think that maybe—just maybe—I was immune to the vampire hype…that maybe I could actually live the rest of my life on the “indifference” side of the line…that maybe I’d be able to survive these dark times with my sanity intact.

But then I saw this: “Fox Sets ‘Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter’ For 2012”

And this:

…which is apparently about this: “President Lincoln’s mother is killed by a supernatural creature, which fuels his passion to crush vampires and their slave-owning helpers.”

What…what the hell…? Are you serious? Are you f*cking serious?! “Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter”?!?!?!?! The line has officially been crossed! (But you’ve got to give them credit for including the part about crushing the “slave-owning helpers”…that must be their shout-out to the “Emancipation Proclamation.”)

I get it: vampires are the big money-makers these days, and anything involving attractive 20-somethings with fake fangs and pasty skin is pretty much guaranteed to be successful. But a movie about Honest Abe hunting vampires? Is the entertainment industry just green-lighting any project as long as a vampire shows up somewhere? I know you guys are racing to make as much money as you can while the vampire fad is still hot, but it’s starting to look like a cluster f*ck. I mean, seriously—we don’t need another movie, T.V. show, novel, comic book, play, puppet routine, etc. etc. about sexy-yet-moody vampires dating sexy-yet-moody humans!

And where did this sexy-yet-moody vampire crap even come from anyway? The old-school movies featured vampires that were raggedy as hell, and you won’t find anyone who will tell you Count Chocula is a sexy beast.

I don’t know where the concept of “sexy vampire” came from, but it’s now as much a part of the vampire culture as blood-sucking. And that really sucks (no pun intended) because as more and more crap about sexy vampires comes out, the more people start to wish they were vampires. And out of that group of wishful wannabes, there are a handful of dumbasses that start calling themselves real-life vampires.

The world does not need more fake vampires, okay? Have you seen one of those documentaries about people who claim to be real-life vampires? They are aired every now and then on the “Discovery” or “National Geographic” channels—you’ll probably be able to see a few when another “Twilight” movie comes out. And if you’re ever lucky enough to catch one on television, I suggest you unplug your phones, take a sick day, cancel your appointments, and cut off all your friends and family members because that sh*t is something you must watch! I’ve watched a few, and they were the most awesomely awesome showcase of human f*ckery I’ve ever seen.

First of all, you’ve got these adults—not teenagers or kids dressed up for Halloween—but actual adults claiming to be vampires because they own a lot of dark clothing, wear those contact lenses that turn their irises white, and have an aversion sunlight.

Since when does that make you a real-life vampire, you dumbass? You’re just a goth kid who turned 30 and realized you couldn’t call yourself “goth” without looking like a retarded asshat, so now you call yourself a vampire. Good for you! You’re totally de-asshatified because being a 30-year-old vampire doesn’t sound as ridiculous as being a 30-year-old goth kid.

Once you’re introduced to some old-ass former goths claiming to be vampires, you are then given an opportunity to see how these sh*t blood suckers survive in modern times. And I have to say, despite all the advances we’ve made since Louis and Lestat first walked the Earth, these guys have managed to stay true to the vampirism code by doing all the things a real vampire would do. They live with their parents, soak their fangs in denture cleaner, stay indoors when the sun’s out because they don’t have day jobs…or night jobs…or any jobs, and then go to raves at night. You know…run-of-the-mill vampire activities.

The day-in-the-life segment shows that modern-day vampires are really busy…and with such hectic schedules, you know they must be expending a ton of energy every night. But while we lowly humans can rely on things like fruits and vegetables to get us through the day, vampires need blood to survive…and (depending on which movie you get your facts from) some of them are, like, hegans, i.e., vampires who can only consume human blood.

Since the blood thing is one of the classic characteristics of a vampire, the obvious question that is inevitably posed is whether these real-life vampires drink blood. This is my favorite part of the documentary because it tests the limits of these losers. We all know they aren’t vampires, and we therefore also know they don’t drink blood. Sure, some of these nut bags claim they have to fight off major cravings for real Bloody Marys, but I’m betting the only time they’ve ever consumed blood was when they cut their lips while removing their fake fangs.

Anyway, when the topic turns to blood consumption, that’s when the real BS starts flowing. In one of the documentaries I watched, the “vampire” actually admitted that he didn’t drink blood. I thought, “Ah ha! I knew you didn’t drink blood, you fraudy doot pile, because you’re not a vampire!” No one would push the vampire act far enough to drink blood when there is stuff like hepatitis and AIDS floating around…not to mention the fact that blood tastes like metallic ass.

But AIDS/hepatitis wasn’t the reason why the “vampire” abstained from blood. Instead, according to him, “Vampires don’t drink blood because it is illegal.” Under what, you ask? The Vampire Bible. Yes, there is a freaking Vampire Bible that says vampires are not allowed to drink blood. That’s like passing a law that makes it a crime for people to breathe air! What kind of vampire can survive without drinking blood? Oh, I know! A fake one.

I thought this was enough to kill this guy’s claim of being a real-life vampire, but of course the douche had an answer to cover his ass. Instead of drinking blood, he and his fellow “vampires” consumed emotional energy or something. I guess he was referring to chi, but I might be wrong; he was spewing so much BS that my brain became too clogged to process any more. I do, however, vaguely remember him saying something about how you can tell a vampire has fed on your energy because you’re suddenly left feeling tired and depressed. Isn’t that the same feeling people experience when they are around asshats? I’m just saying…

As long as this vampire fad continues, you can expect to see more and more vampire-related garbage being put out there. And with more of that garbage comes more fake vampires—and ultimately more BS about crap like vampire bibles and chi-sucking. And that’s a lot of BS.

You know what, though? Even though I’m anti-vampire, I might watch “Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter” anyway. Not because I’m interested in the storyline or anything; my only motivation is to see how the director is going to turn Honest Abe into an ass-kicker—which can’t be an easy task. Abraham Lincoln doesn’t exactly fit the image of an action movie star. President? Yes, but vampire hunter? Definitely not.

Besides, we’re talking about Hollywood here. It’s all about sex and beauty in that industry, so I think the director is going to end up casting a hot man to play Abraham Lincoln. But what is he going to do about Abe’s signature Amish-style beard? I don’t care who you put that on; it’s not a sexy look.

See? Not sexy!

Hmm…do you think John Wilkes Booth is going to make an appearance? Maybe as the king of the vampires? That might not be the best idea since we all know how that one is going to play out…and it’s not good.

…Unless it’s like this:

Abraham Lincoln manages to track down John Wilkes Booth, the king of the vampires, at Ford’s Theatre. Armed with garlic, a wooden stake, and some serious bad assness, he is ready to put an end to this hunt and avenge his mother’s death.

Just as Abe makes it to the state box, John Wilkes Booth appears behind him with a gun and fires a fatal shot:

Abe is mortally wounded, and as a result of his rapidly weakening state, begins to lose control over his body. His physical features sudden begin to change. Large ears, a tail, sharp claws…OMG! Abraham Lincoln was a werewolf! I didn’t know M. Night Shyamalan was directing this movie!

And before Abe dies, he leaves Booth with a frightening foreshadowing of things to come:

More “Underworld” movies?! Noooooooo!!!!!!!

One day I was watching television with my sister when a yogurt commercial came on. It was pretty typical: actors describing the brand’s delicious variety of fancy flavors, close-up shots of fruit, and an emphasis on how this yogurt had “less calories” than other yogurt brands:

I couldn’t really explain it, but I knew “less calories” was grammatically incorrect because a sh*tty feeling had come over me even though I didn’t have to take a dump. A sh*tty feeling without a bowel movement? That could only mean one thing: constipation my Sh*tty Sense was tingling!

That’s right: my Sh*tty Sense tingles whenever I encounter sketchy grammar. It goes off when I hear things like “Bob and me are going to the store,” or when I find “your really funny” or “its mine” written in a published article. I actually just came across a piece that included this freshly laid turd: “they’re office is a post office.” Right—as in: they are office is a post office.

This conversation with my sister happened about one or two years ago. I wanted to write a post about it back then, but by the time I got around to it the commercial had long stopped airing. It wouldn’t have made sense to blog about a 30-second spot most people probably had already forgotten about, and I wasn’t going to write a post just in case another commercial with the same grammatical error showed up on television because that day was not going to come. I figured, “Hey, isn’t learning how to properly use “less” and “fewer” something kids are taught before they graduate from high school?” It’s one of the most basic rules of grammar—no, of nature. And considering how anal companies tended to be about maintaining the quality of their brands’ images, I assumed there wasn’t a possibility that any of them were going to let something as egregious as “less calories” make it past the editing phase. As for the yogurt commercial I’d seen with my sister—it was probably just a one-time thing…you know, some kind of anomaly. What I saw was most likely the unedited bad-grammar version that was accidentally shown instead of the final good-grammar cut. Yes, that had to be it…so no need to write about it.

Of course, since I’m blogging about this now, it’s pretty obvious that I was wrong and should have written this post back then. If I had, I could have just posted it immediately after I saw a “Colgate” toothpaste commercial that had this:

“See? A lot less germs, and I brushed at 7 a.m.”

And just like the time when my sister and I were watching television, my Sh*tty Sense started going off.

Seriously, seeing one commercial use “less” when it should have used “fewer” was bad enough—but two? What the hell happened there? Is substituting “less” for “fewer” some kind of marketing strategy? Maybe “fewer germs” doesn’t emphasize the toothpaste’s germ-fighting power as strongly as “less germs”…? Or, maybe there was a hidden message in the commercial: the germ-fighting power is so extreme it can even fight off proper grammar rules!

…Or maybe “Colgate” intended its target audience to only include consumers who did not get through elementary school! After all, those people tend to have poor dental hygiene…their gums are just teeming with microscopic life!

But it doesn’t stop at the “Colgate” ad! I just saw an “Airborne” commercial where that creepy cartoon man brags about “Airborne” having “less calories” than orange juice…and now my Sh*tty Sense is in overdrive because that commercial was beyond sh*tty. First, there was the “less calories” bit. Secondly, of all the things “Airborne” could have compared itself to, why the hell did it choose orange juice? Orange juice has, what, like 120 calories a glass or something? And why does that even matter anyway? I mean, when my immune system has gone to sh*t, the last thing I’m worrying about is whether a jug of “Tropicana” is going to make me fat. It could have a “KFC Double Down” blended into it and I’d still chug a few gallons if it helped boost my immune system.

As a semi-grammar fiend, I find the misuse of “less” and “fewer” rather disgusting. And even if purposely doing so helps a company sell more toothpaste, yogurt, or fake health supplements, that doesn’t make it any less sh*tty.

What bothers me more is that maybe the “less vs. fewer” atrocity was not done intentionally—i.e., the people who created these commercials actually believed their grammar was correct, and are now spreading this disease-of-the-dumbasses through their televised advertisements. This is a sin against nature, and probably why the polar ice caps are melting! And if we don’t stop this now, our future will be filled with more of those really, really sad polar bear conservation commercials! Have you ever watched one in its entirety? They will make you cry your eyes out!

Having said all that, here’s the part where I’d give a short lecture on when to use “less” or “fewer.” Unfortunately, I don’t know how to explain it; the only reason why I’m even able to figure out which one to use is because of my Sh*tty Sense–something you do not want to see in Paint-picture form.

But! I do have “The Elements of Style,” and it lays out the rule for “less” versus “fewer”: “less refers to quantity, fewer to number.” And it has an example: “‘His troubles are fewer than mine’ means ‘His troubles are not so numerous as mine.’” Umm…yeah. I didn’t really understand that one. Let’s start over again…

But! I do know how to use the internet, and have found helpful rules to remember when figuring out whether to use “less” or “fewer.”

The clearest explanations were those provided by “Grammar Girl: Quick and Dirty Tips” and the “Oxford Dictionary.” “Grammar Girl” says to “use less with mass nouns and fewer with count nouns. A count noun is just something you can count…Mass nouns are just things that you can’t count individually.” She also notes that there are exceptions to this rule: “…it is customary to use the word less to describe time, money, and distance.”

The “Oxford Dictionary” phrases the rule as: “Use fewer if you’re referring to people or things in the plural…Use less when you’re referring to something that can’t be counted or doesn’t have a plural.” It also mentions the exceptions: “Less is also used with numbers when they are on their own and with expressions of measurement or time.”

Count nouns, mass nouns, plurals, no plurals—what both explanations seem to boil down to is this: if you’re not sure whether the thing you are referring to should be paired with “less” or “fewer,” ask yourself, “Is it possible for someone to have 21 of these things?” If it is, use “fewer;” if not, go with “less.”

So for example, let’s say you want to stage an intervention because I am addicted to adopting kittens. Should you tell me, “Sylvia, you should adopt less kittens,” or “Sylvia, you should adopt fewer kittens”? To figure out which one to choose, ask yourself: Is it possible to have 21 kittens? Hells yes! It is very, very possible! And you totally know it is, which is why you’re organizing an intervention where you will tell me I should adopt fewer kittens.

This stuff is pretty easy to understand, right? So how the hell does crap like “less germs” and “less calories” make it onto television?!

Germs and calories can be counted individually! They have plural forms! They aren’t measurements of time or distance, or used as currency! And if you went to go a crowded library and started counting germs or calories while shouting through a bullhorn—yes, you’d probably look crazy and be wrestled to the ground by a security guard or two—but at least everyone would know you could count properly! Think how douchie you’d look if you tried to count douchiness. “One douchie, two douchies, three douchies…” That sounds retarded! And if you went to the library and started shouting “one douchie, two douchies, three douchies…” through a bullhorn, you’d definitely look crazy and be wrestled to the ground by security guards…and then tased (tazed?) by police officers…and while you’re on the ground, a seeing-eye dog will come by and take a crap on your face…and then the library patrons will all point and laugh at your dumb ass. Hey, I think I just described my fantasy library trip!

The “less vs. fewer” rules are simple and a lot more reliable than a Sh*tty Sense—but that doesn’t mean they’ll always lead you to the right choice. Language is constantly evolving, and that means grammar rules do too. What might be considered proper prose today could easily become the opposite tomorrow. It’s not realistic to expect perfection, but you’ll get pretty close to it if you just follow basic steps.

A good friend was on “Facebook” one day and saw that a former classmate of ours swamp donkey had posted this status update:

“My cat and I are eating Cocoa Puffs!”

If you’ve had a dog or cat before, then you’re aware that chocolate is something they’re not supposed to eat. Then again, even if you’ve never owned a pet at all, you probably know this anyway. This isn’t newly discovered information, or knowledge you only acquire upon raising an animal. Pet owners and many non-pet owners know that there is something about chocolate that is dangerous to cats and dogs.

So when my friend told me what Swamp Donkey had posted, I didn’t believe him at first. Sure, this girl had an unfounded elitist attitude, an awful personality, and a reputation for talking trash about her own best friends—thus making her one of the most disliked members of the student body—but she couldn’t be so irresponsible that she would wind up poisoning her own cat. Her cat is probably the only thing on this planet that doesn’t hate her.

I couldn’t verify this myself because I didn’t have access to Swamp Donkey’s page. I am not her friend, and have no intention of ever “friending” her. My friend, likewise, had not “friended” her either, but was able to see the status updates because they were both in our law school’s “Facebook” group—a group I’ve refrained from joining for two reasons: (1) I don’t care about “Facebook” enough to bother doing stuff like that, and (2) several of my professors were members of the group. The latter is a bigger factor because, from what I understand, once you join a group all the other members have access to your site regardless of whether or not they are on your “Friends” list. Thus, if I joined my law school’s group, my professors would be able to view my page—and there is something really uncomfortable about that. I don’t have any incriminating photos, controversial postings, or anything else that would reflect negatively on me (that stuff is reserved for Xanga)—but still, there is something weird about professors and students having access to each other’s sites. A professor is a student’s superior, and you typically wouldn’t interact with your professor the same way you do when you’re with your friends. Another way of phrasing it: you are one version of yourself in front of your professor—or any other superior—and another in front of your peers. Blurring the two makes things weird in a way I can’t really explain, but that’s what you’re doing when you let your professors access your “Facebook” page, and vice-versa.

Anyway…

I couldn’t see Swamp Donkey’s status update on my own, so my friend showed me his laptop screen. And sure enough, she had indeed been eating “Cocoa Puffs” with her cat.

Someone had the sense to respond with, “Umm…I don’t think chocolate is good for cats.” This probably wasn’t forceful enough to get the point across because Swamp Donkey’s reply was, “But he loves Cocoa Puffs!”

Perhaps she thought the only bad thing about giving her cat chocolate was that he might gain weight…I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I know is she pissed off the cat lady in me, and now I’m going to have to do something about it.

So I’ve decided to b*tch slap some information into Swamp Donkey–and what better way to do it than through the magic of “Paint”? I might be wrong, but I think you can post pictures and stuff on a person’s wall. If that’s the case, I’m going to join my school’s “Facebook” group so I can gain access to Swamp Donkey’s page, and then post the pictures there.

Here’s what I’ve got so far:

And then I’m going to throw in a reminder at the end–kind of like a mini review so she won’t forget this important lesson.

I can’t decide which one I should use, though. Should I go with this one:

Or this one:

I’m also open to any suggestions you might have.

I hope this works. I tried my best to make is coherent, but we are talking about a swamp donkey here.

If Father Time came up to me and said:

I would have to say:

It’s not because I went through any traumatizing hardships or suffered a lot of misery (although, the demise of “Crystal Pepsi” was pretty depressing for me). Far from it. I have the greatest parents in the world, a sister who is also my best friend, a loving extended family, amazingly awesome friends, 3 adorable cats and, of course, all of you wonderful Xangans who have inspired and supported me through the years. I can say without any hesitation that the 28 years I’ve lived so far have been worth every second—ups, downs, and everything in between.

But if my life was so great, shouldn’t I take Father Time up on his offer? I’d be able to experience all those fun memories a second time around–living it up “Double Mint” style…you know, “double the pleasure, double the fun” (but minus Chris Brown because he’d turn it into “double the b*tch slaps”).

And yet, that isn’t enough to make me want to relive my life from the beginning. It’s not even remotely tempting to me. You want to know why? I’ll tell you why:

Okay, maybe calling Father Time a “putrid old fart” doesn’t seem like the best way to go–and maybe my reason for refusing the chance to start my life over again is weak. But honestly, you’d react the same way if your baby teeth fell out the way mine did.

I vividly remember the day I lost my first tooth. It was back in kindergarten, and I was really excited when I discovered I could make a tooth dance with my tongue. Not only was it entertaining, it also meant I was officially part of the cool club. Back then, a kid who had a loose tooth was automatically awesome because she could show off her wiggly tooth to the rest of the class, leaving the rest of us impressed by her talent…and also secretively jealous. After all, everyone knew about the Tooth Fairy: she gave kids quarters for every tooth they put under their pillows. Can you believe it?! A quarter! And not even one of those fake quarters that have chocolate inside them. The Tooth Fairy gave out real quarters! You could probably buy, like, a million “Easy Bake Ovens” with that much money!

So a kid who had a loose tooth was not only cool, she was also on her way to becoming a billionaire. And everyone wanted to be just like her…not me, though, because thanks to my loose tooth, I was her.

Being able to put a tooth under your pillow is a rite of passage every child looks forward to, so of course, I was beyond ecstatic when I learned my turn had finally come. The rest of the day just came and went, seemingly whisked away by the excitement of becoming 25 cents richer. And before I knew it, another day of kindergarten had ended and it was now snack time at the school’s after-school care program. The snack that day was apple slices with a small dollop of peanut butter on the side—one of my favorites.

I thought “Today is turning into the best day ever! First mama tells me I’m getting my tooth pulled out tomorrow, and now I’m eating apple slices and peanut butter!”

I took a greedy bite of apple and was surprised–this apple slice was oddly warm and salty.

I’d had nose bleeds before, so I knew that what I was tasting was blood. I then ran my tongue over my loose tooth and found that it had been replaced by a gap…and more blood.

I ran over to a teacher to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. And to this day, I can still remember the look on her face when I showed her my mouth–it was a twisted mix of shock and disgust.

I just stood there for a few seconds. So I really am bleeding…

And then:

Ahh…my first delayed reaction!

I really don’t know why I started crying. I mean, I knew my tooth fell out and my mouth was bleeding because of it, yet I wasn’t crying then. But when my teacher confirmed what I already knew, that’s when I started bawling hysterically. It was so Pavlovian, except instead of a dog salivating at the sound of a bell, you had a little girl crying after being told that this gap between her teeth was bleeding.

In the middle of my fit, something suddenly occurred to me: where was the tooth?! I was so freaked out by the thought of blood in my mouth that I didn’t bother to put the tooth in a safe place. Oh no…did I just lose my lost tooth?!

I had to find it. If I didn’t, some evil kid with all his teeth intact might take it and put it under his own pillow! And then the Tooth Fairy would give him the quarter that was meant for me, and then he’d be able to buy a million “Easy Bake Ovens!”

I ran back to my seat and tried to crawl under the table because I thought my tooth was on the ground. There actually wasn’t anything there, but I didn’t know that because my tears had made my vision blurry. Not like it mattered anyway because before I could do any searching, the teacher picked me up and led me away:

She gave me a bag of ice to put to my mouth, and another teacher came over and handed me a small plastic bag. Inside, carefully wrapped in some paper towels was my tooth…and the apple slice I’d bitten into earlier.

Ugh…the memories still make me uncomfortable.

After that awful day, I vowed to stay away from apples the next time I had a loose tooth. And it was because I had made such a resolution that my second tooth stayed in place long enough for my mom to remove it.

Since this was the first tooth my mom would be pulling out (the first attempt having been thwarted by evil fruit), I didn’t know what to expect. I just figured that because she was using my grandmother’s method, everything was going to be okay.

And then my mom tied a piece of thread around my loose tooth.

And then:

Bam! She hit the top of my head with one hand and pulled my tooth out with the other.

And that’s how the rest of my baby teeth came out–one actually required two attempts because the string came undone. Thus, did my baby-teeth-losing phase come to pass: miserably, and without a single “Easy Bake Oven” or “Happy Meal” to show for it.

Do you now see why would called Father Time a putrid old fart? And you know you’d all do the same!

Just like with toilet paper rolls, there are certain unspoken rules we all must abide by when riding in elevators, such as:

            1. Don’t fart in an elevator;

            2. Don’t press (or let someone else press) every button on the control panel;

            3. If you see someone pushing every button on the control panel, you have the privilege duty to chuck the offender off the highest floor of the building. Doesn’t matter if that is the second or the twenty-second floor—that person must be chucked;

            4. If you see someone carrying groceries from Costco, don’t do this:

Are plastic-wrapped trays of bell peppers really so intriguing? Because Old Man River almost poked a hole through the wrapper.

…and, of course,

            5. Hold the elevator doors open for stragglers.

The tricky part about the fifth rule is figuring out which stragglers give rise to this obligation. You’d obviously hold the doors open for those who were waiting for the elevator at the same time you were, but what about the people who are still walking towards the lobby by the time you’ve already gotten into the elevator?

That’s where the Elevator Rider Zone, or ERZ, comes in to save the day. The ERZ is the zone around an elevator lobby that a person must be within in order for Rule 5 to kick in. Every elevator has its own ERZ, the radius of which is determined by the community of users. For example, at my apartment complex, the ERZ appears to be based on the time it takes the elevator doors to close: if you are within the lobby by the time the doors start closing, then whoever is in the elevator must hold the doors open for you. And if you are walking towards the elevator and you notice that someone behind you is also headed in that direction, then you have to hold the elevator doors open for that person if he makes it into the lobby when the doors start closing.

Most of my fellow residents are Rule 5-abiding people. I’d like to say “all of my fellow residents” instead, but I can’t because of this:

One day, I was taking the elevator down to the garage:

I had barely taken two steps out of the elevator when this guy suddenly pushed me aside, and rushed in:

It wasn’t a forceful push, but it was enough to make me turn around and give him an evil, frigid b*tch glare (that’s about the extent of my throw-down repertoire).

I started evilly staring at him, but it was quickly apparent that my efforts were going to waste because the guy wasn’t even paying attention to me.

He was instead staring over me and into the parking lot. He was also mashing the “close door” button—not that I could see which key he was pressing since I was already outside of the elevator, but I am pretty sure that’s the button he was going off on because the doors started closing way sooner than they normally would have.

As the doors were coming together, a woman walked into the lobby and towards the elevator. But the doors didn’t open—they ended up shutting right in her face!

As far-fetched as this may sound, I seriously believe the guy was trying to avoid having to wait for the woman by closing the doors before Rule 5 kicked in. That, or she was actually an axe murderer trying to kill him…maybe because he had closed the elevator doors on her face before…? Hmm…

That guy was trying to avoid being a Rule 5 benefactor, but what about someone who is trying to be a Rule 5 beneficiary, even though she’s not within the ERZ? That’s the question I’m stuck at.

Here’s what happened:

I was in the elevator:

I love Costco, okay? I mean, I’d live there if I could—and then I could have a giant chicken pot pie every single day!

There wasn’t anyone near the lobby when the elevator doors started closing, so I didn’t have to do any obligatory Rule 5 waiting. But, just when the doors were about to completely shut, I sudden heard:

I threw my hands between the doors, and they opened up again. But when I looked outside, I didn’t see anyone in the lobby. Did I have to pee so badly that I was now hearing things? Or maybe it was those damned UTI-causing bacteria trying to prevent me from killing their colonization dreams!

It turned out to be neither. Instead, I looked towards the garage and I saw this abomination:

Yes, this tanned-to-a-crisp leather monster with bleached-out hair and eyebrows (and most likely carpet, if she had any) was the one who had bellowed out “Wait! Wait!” I don’t even know why she needed me to hold the elevator for her when she was at the far end of the parking lot, way outside the ERZ.

Plus, the elevator isn’t slow, and it only has to service 6 floors. Why couldn’t she just wait for it to come back down?

It really doesn’t matter; she shouted, I heard her, and now I was holding the elevator for her as she slowly made her way towards the lobby. She probably could have walked a bit faster, but she was too busy typing on her cell phone to bother with being considerate to me and my increasingly unhappy bladder.

By the way: my bladder speaks with a British accent.

The elevator here has an alarm that goes off whenever the doors are held open for too long—roughly 60 seconds or so. The sound is piercing and so loud that you can hear it even though you’re not anywhere near the elevator. I think the alarm was programmed that way to shame whoever is holding things up. And on that day, the shamed person was supposed to be me:

The blaring “BEEP” was putting more stress on my bladder which, in turn, heightened my own distress. I was hoping that the girl would hear the alarm and move a bit faster, but she didn’t. And I know it she heard it, because she looked up at me when it started:

…And then went back to texting!

I’d had enough. I was on the verge of becoming a bad “Depends” commercial, and my hearing was deteriorating with each passing second. I had to choose between breaking Rule 5 or bursting my bladder, and I chose the first option. That girl was a rude, leathery, ass monster who was going to just have to wait for the elevator to come back down after it dropped me off.

I think I was pretty justified in closing the elevator on the girl in that situation, but I am left wondering: if I didn’t have to pee badly, and if the leather monster wasn’t an inconsiderate b*tch, would I have been obligated to hold the elevator for her? I know she was out of the ERZ, but she made it known that she was approaching, and had requested that I wait for her. Are you supposed to then wait for someone under those circumstances?

I’m serious: what’s the elevator etiquette on this one?