Yes, I'm back again, with another guide for people who want to not annoy the crap out of me. What makes me qualified to tell other people what to do? Well, I'm 36, extremely passive-aggressive, related to a long line of women who make being passive-aggressive an art form, and I don't have the guts to ever say anything to people's faces. In addition, I'm not afraid to send annoyed thoughts out into the universe. Talk about credentials.

Anyway, here we go:

One of the ways a person can avoid annoying me is by not trying to sell me anything. I am not the kind of person who is wooed by sales pitches, and I know what kind of purchases I need to make. This also extends to b.s. Don't try to sell me that. I can usually see through it, and while I sometimes decide to just go with it in order to avoid conflict, I will still be annoyed with the person and then I will send little death-ray eye beams at him when his back is turned. Trust me, no one wants that.

Another way to avoid my annoyance is by not asking me stupid questions which could best be answered by a person taking two seconds and reading instructions. If I can fix the problem in less than a minute, everyone is going to feel my wrath. Trust me. I have weapons.

The best way to avoid the massive wall of rage and fury that is my annoyance is by not asking me to do everything twice. Seriously. Do I look as though I'm the sort of person who doesn't know how to do her job? No. I am not. I am a grown up lady, capable of many, many things, on level 15 of Criminal Case on Facebook and proud owner of not one, but TWO unicorn t-shirts. I get stuff done. And when I am asked to do something a second time, especially when the request is accompanied by a sarcastic or condescending tone? It is then ON. Like Donkey Kong.

I don't know exactly what that means, but I've been dying to say it.

Anyway, if one follows this list, my Hulk-like anger can be avoided. If not, then who knows? Maybe someone will go into someone else's office in the morning, create a strange smell and then shut the door and let the other person walk straight into it. You never can tell.

Yep. All of my revenge-for-annoyance plans include farts. I'm that kind of person.

Holy crap. I think the time has come to stop making celebrity the most important thing in the world. Being famous doesn't mean anything anymore. It's not based on talent or dedication or intelligence or hard work. It is just something that happens for no good reason at all. And most of the people who attain fame are raving lunatics.

At any rate, I'm so tired of going to read the news and having half of it be about celebrities, and then talking to people who are worked up about whether or not two famous people are fighting and/or getting divorced and/or joining a religious cult and/or dying of something.

Really? You can't find time to vote in local elections, which are really important because those are the people who have the most to say about the stuff that affects your daily life, like sewers and roads and schools, but you have plenty of time to give a crap about feuds between 19-year-old pop singers? You don't have time to cook your kids real food so they're not constantly inhaling processed junk, but you have time to dump some ice water over your head (but not actually donate any money to the cause, which is probably slightly more helpful to researchers trying to cure diseases)? You don't have time to volunteer a couple of hours a week to sit with an old guy who has no family and probably spends about 23 hours a day just being alone, but you have time to give a crap about Britney Spears?

Blergh.

I weep for the future.

Can't we all just give maybe half a crap about less-advantaged kids in our state? They aren't glamorous, but maybe they won't all constantly try to kill each other if a few of them get some decent parenting (even if it's not by their own parents). I mean, if I hadn't had some people besides my parents giving me the stink eye every now and then, I would be way more of a hoodlum. Also, the old people need somebody to help them out. Maybe mow that old guy's lawn or just let him talk about old guy stuff for like 15 minutes. Seriously.

Or maybe some people could give a crap about kids and old people, and some people could give a crap about running the cities in which they live. I know my town needs some guidance in that arena, and I'd like it if maybe somebody would run for the County Council and actually make the busted-up roads and sidewalks a priority and maybe, I don't know, not re-landscape the main street for the fiftieth time.

And then there's the sad fact that the arts are getting less and less important because we don't care about people's souls; we just want to produce and consume. (Or maybe that's just because I'm a musician and I'm getting awfully tired of comments about how expensive lessons are, especially from parents who buy a new car every year and live in a five-bedroom home and take three or four vacations every year. Some of us went to college, too, guys. Some of us know that creating a beautiful inside is just as important as having a beautiful outside.)

Ugh. It's Monday and I already hate everybody.

At any rate, I don't care if Beyonce and Jay-Z are getting a divorce. I just don't want to hear about it anymore. I'm sure they're both lovely people and they have a lovely family, but come on. Grow some brains and give a crap about things that really should matter to a large group of people, like whether or not my mood is going to improve...because, if not, you're all in for it.

Also, in un-related news, I may have another cup of coffee. That might be a good idea.

Basically, there are two kinds of people: Those who wash their hands after using the toilet, and those who don't. I know some of you don't always wash after a number one, and you think that it's okay, but I am here to tell you what you do to the rest of us when you don't wash your hands after using a toilet, ANY toilet, for ANY reason.

First of all, you were just in poop's inner sanctum. POOP. It lives and breathes in there, plotting and scheming. Some day, there will be a massive poop uprising from all of the unnatural bacteria we're creating in our guts with all of this stress and the chemicals we put in our bodies, and the poop will take over. Does that make you feel as though the bathroom is a very sanitary place? Um, no.

Secondly, you touched the light switch, the toilet lid, the toilet paper holder, and the toilet flusher, even if your hand never actually came into contact with your own hoo-hoo. All of those things have fecal matter on them from someone else who had fecal matter on his or her hands. I'm not worried about the hoo-hoo germs. I know pee is sterile. It's that poop on the surfaces in the bathroom with which I'm concerned. Geez.

Finally, if you're a lady, when you peed, microscopic particles of (what else?) poop splashed up onto your behind when your pee hit the water. So when you wiped your nether regions, your hand probably came into contact with someone else's poop, as well.

Then, after all of this, you came out and touched everything in sight and just spread the feces around while the voices in my head screamed, "I KNOW YOU DIDN'T WASH YOUR HANDS!!!! OH MY GOODNESS, THERE'S POOP EVERYWHERE!!!!" How was I supposed to concentrate with all of that noise?

So is it really too much to ask for 30 seconds of your time?

WASH YOUR DAMN HANDS.

from vanesfirstworldproblems.blogspot.com

Finished my recital. Phew. I feel like it went okay, but there's always this voice in my brain, telling me all of the things that I should've done differently.

However, this voice is there all of the time and I generally ignore it so that's what I'll be doing this time as well.

The only thing I hate is that the pictures...well...have me in them. Can I get some good pictures of me where I'm not included? Like, maybe someone will look like they're laughing at something I just said. That's a way for me to be in the picture without actually being IN the picture.

Also, what is it with light? I think I'm just going to ask the photographer (my Dad, because he's an awesome photographer and I can bully him into Photoshopping the crap out of of stuff) to add the "Doris Day" filter to all of my pictures. Particularly the ones that show...well...all of them, really. 

He sent me an email slide show and I think the neighbors must've wondered if I was dying in here as I clicked through the photos. 

The many assorted noises I made were such favorites as: Dying cow groaning in misery, Dying sheep groaning in misery, Dying elephant groaning in misery...and much, much more.

Yeah, I think I should market myself. I'll record an album of sound effects. The only problem is that albums of people making sounds of animals groaning in pain are less popular than they should be. I think I could change that. That stuff will make any party amazing and will also perk up those romantic interludes with that special man or lady.

Actually, no. If that perks up an interlude for you, you might want to re-consider the person with whom you're about to make nookie. That would be a red flag, I think.

At any rate, I think maybe I should just specify the "Doris Day" filter for all pictures of me. From this point on. Because my wrinkles aren't going to get any better, and the fact that I am built like a lumberjack with a neck like Hulk Hogan doesn't help. Unless I want to become a professional wrestler, which I do not.

But I am done with my big recital and pretty happy about that, even though the turnout was low and I made pretty much no money at all to donate to the food pantry. There will be a whole other post on another day about my feelings about friends who not only don't show up to important things (two years of prep for this, guys), but ignore it and don't even take the time to make up a b.s. excuse about why they can't come. And then don't bother to ask how it went. So it's a little too new, and I'm still a little too hurt. It was like a mass "f*$% you" moment. Seriously.

Ah, well. I accomplished something I didn't know I could, and I proved to myself that even with the new issues with which I'll have to deal for the rest of my life, I can still do a decent job and sing well. And the people that did show up were awesome and I love them. So I will choose to be happy about that for today and ignore the rest.

As long as I can get my filter action.

Welp, tomorrow's the big recital! I haven't barfed yet, but the day's young. Give me time.

I am actually feeling very positive about it, mostly because my last rehearsal went really well, but also because I'm trying to work on my perfectionism and this is the best way to do it. Why?

BECAUSE IT WON'T BE PERFECT.

All caps. Every time.

But, really, it won't be. Music is never perfect. It's not supposed to be. That's the whole point of art. You strive to be better, but never perfect. My ceramics teacher has a Native American legend that she tells every semester about how your pot can never be perfect or Coyote won't be able to get out. Something like that. I am usually thinking about how annoyed I am by someone in the class at this point, so I can't really recall with perfect accuracy. Big shocker.

At any rate, it's not perfect because it's not supposed to be.

So, at least I can have realistic expectations: I will do the best that I can at that moment in time, and regardless of whether it's perfect or not, it will be the best I can do. I have practiced as much as is humanly possible, I have listened to recordings and rehearsed with my accompanist and bought a dress that is WAY outside of my comfort zone and I have even done all of my practicing for the last two weeks in my performance shoes.

I'm ready.

I am.

I swear.

Except that I want it to be perfect.

Oh, well. At least my stomach's behaving. For now.

Well, it's almost time. Time for the nervousness and neuroticism that usually accompany recital time.

Why do I do this? Honestly? I have no idea.

Actually, I do. I get pretty excited about some of the music I work on, then I think, "Oh my goodness...so many people have never heard this!" Then, a huge lightbulb pops up over my head, leading me to decide that I really, really want to put on a fancy dress and shoes and get up and risk horrendous embarrassment in front of fifty people I don't know and another twenty that I do.

That's generally the procedure. There can and will be some variations, but it's pretty much like that every time.

I think I should've been something that didn't require so much "being in front of others" time. Because, seriously, it kills me. I don't like to have everybody looking at me, and I don't have half the sass and self-esteem required for this kind of shindig. I like to hide in the back and watch other people do that part.

Except, I really love the music. I really do.

I suppose that overrules the other stuff, but, boy, the nervousness is going to be amazing. Yesterday, I got so nervous about the likelihood of getting nervous that I actually gave myself a case of the pre-performance stomach issues. Five days early. 


Now that's talent, right there.

I'm trying to convince myself that this time, the nervousness won't happen because I'm just so prepared. 

Except that as time goes by, I'm getting worse and worse at lying to myself. See, I can tell when I'm lying because I make this face...

...or maybe it's because I'm already up in my brain. Yep. That could be it. Anyway, I'm distracting myself with exercise and a Matlock marathon.

Just found Matlock on Amazon Prime and realized I'd never seen it. What? I know. That's crazy talk. I was missing out in the 80s, but I guess it wouldn't have appealed to me too much, seeing as I was eight when it came out. I was too busy being obsessed with My Little Pony and MacGyver (yep, I have always been this weird).

So, we'll see if I can distract myself for the next few days. At any rate, after Saturday's performance, I'll be able to breathe again. Until the next time I have a musically-induced lapse in judgement.

Still, though. Matlock.

from inside pulse.com

I would like to describe my yesterday in terms that even those who don't know me can understand. It was the kind of unspectacular mess that my days so often are, and I think to outsiders that may not seem like a big deal.

It totally is a big deal. Well, to me.

So if you knew me, or had even spent a little time around me, you would know one thing: Having something dirty on my hands doesn't just gross me out, it freaks me out. In a way about which I'm kind of embarrassed, so I don't usually say anything, I just try to pretend I'm normal and unobtrusively look around for a sink. The people who know me, though, know of the inner screaming that is happening. Bonus points if whatever it is is actually visible, extra bonus points if it's sticky. Sticky is just....I can't do sticky.

I also do not enjoy taking about feelings. Not seriously. We can joke around about things, but I really really really don't want to talk about how I feel. Trust me, those things are better left floating in the atmosphere of my brain. So, jokes are okay, but feelings make me hide my head in my shirt until the situation is over.

Anyway, if I had to describe my yesterday, it would be thusly: Imagine me, in the woods with no running water and bugs everywhere. Now imagine that someone just came up to me and shook my hand with his sticky, sweaty hand and is now talking to me, at length, about feelings. And I have his sticky germs on my hand, but no place to go to wash it off. And I have to listen to him talk about feelings, but I can't use my dirty hand to pull up my collar so I can hide my head in my shirt.

That was about how I'd describe yesterday.