Okay, not really. But my birthday was last week, reinforcing the fact of my own increasingly rapid physical deterioration. To celebrate this continued decay, my family bought me sapphire jewelry and the first two Hunger Games books.

I have already read the entire trilogy, and my eldest has started to read the first book. I am thrilled beyond belief, because the dystopic view of the future presented in the story will help prepare her for adult life. I also hope it will inspire her to take up archery and thereby provide food for the family when I inevitably collapse into a useless, depressed heap in the corner of my hovel just like the mom in the book.

It's a bit of a survival manual, actually.

As you can tell, I am brimming with optimism.

So, how's the job, you may be asking. At least, that's what you would be compelled to ask if we were at some sort of forced social gathering where people engage in inane, meaningless conversations and eat dips on crunchy starchy things while waiting for the sweet, sweet alcohol to dim our senses. But something meaningful DID happen the other day -- I saved someone's life.

Well, gave the appearance of it, anyways. My desk is closest to the kitchen, and one of the coworkers still filled with youth and promise was choking on a Dayquil. So I kinda sorta gave him the Heimlich maneuver, and then another taller, stronger, more capable guy gave him the Heimlich maneuver, and he survived. So I actually did something of real value at work one day, which I did NOT see coming.

Mostly, I do things like order supplies, which resulted in the following conversation one day:

(ring)
Me: "Good afternoon, [Ubermilf's Employer]"
Some Guy: "Yeah, someone there ordered some supplies online yesterday."
Me: "Yes?"
Some Guy: "You ordered the [supplier brand] paper."
Me: "Yes?"
Some Guy: "You can't do that."
Me, irritated and snarky: "Why? What happens?"
Some Guy, surprised at the question, and also irritated at my ignorance/irreverent attitude toward copy paper: "It's stored in the LOCAL warehouse, and doesn't get shipped from the same place as the other stuff."

I am thinking two things simultaneously. One, the website says nothing about this. Two, why the fuck do I care what warehouse they keep things? Just give me my damn paper!

Me: "What are you going to do about it?"
Some Guy, amazed at my impertinence, snaps:"I'll give you another brand!"
Me, snapping back: "Then, do that then!"

I'm thinking I made a mistake, going back to the workplace. My temper is not suited for the office environment. Paying bills on time is overrated.

Before I begin to complain about the things I came here to complain about, I would like to complain about my local paper -- there were three important port-a-potty related incidents in the print version of the Downers Grove Reporter, yet only one appears on the website. What gives, Reporter? The people have a right to know about exploding portable toilets!

But that concern is minor compared to the disgusting woman who sat next to me on the train during this morning's commute. I can forgive her for eating breakfast on the train, even if it was a crumb cake that made a mess while she slurped her chocolate milk (seriously, what is she, five years old?). I can even look past her putting her big ugly yellow purse on the seat next to her in a vain attempt to keep me from sitting there (did you pay for two seats?). But what was inexcusable was her picking at her face and then flinging the particles on the ground or wiping them on her pants.

I didn't want to stare (which in retrospect seems a bit odd; I was worried about appearing rude to someone who smears her secretions around and sets her skin flakes afloat in the enclosed shared atmosphere of a train compartment?), but I couldn't help but notice part of her "grooming" regimen involved her eyebrows. What, praytell, do you dig out and dislodge from your eyebrow and throw on the floor? On second thought, don't tell me.

I have another complaint.

Because life is a series of cruel ironic punishments, I am forced to interact with other humans in the course of my job. Specifically, I answer the phones and forward on calls to the people who actually work here. Inevitably, I get at least a call or two a day that goes something like this:

Caller: "Could I speak to (insert important person) here?"

Me: "I'm sorry; she's (in a meeting, on a call, at lunch). Would you like her voice mail or would you like me to take a message?"

Caller: "That's okay; I'll just send her an email."

What I want to say: "Then why didn't you do that in the FIRST PLACE, instead of fucking calling here and fucking interrupting my very important letter typing or mail opening or Facebook checking or whatever the hell else I SHOULD have been doing while you WASTED my FUCKING TIME with your USELESS FUCKING PHONE CALL you stupid lazy ASSHOLE?"

What I actually say, in my syruppy, chirpy, cheerful business persona: "Okay, then. Have a good day!"

So, in essence, I'm complaining that I'm forced to be nice to other people. It's really rather grating.

Not you guys, though. I LOVE you guys.

Okay, then. Have a good day!

I've been ordered to blog by one of the vice presidents here at work, and to angrify me she suggested I rip on Whole Foods. But I haven't been to Whole Foods lately, so I won't and she can't make me.

There has been blog fodder around, mind you. I can't believe that another Downers Grove pervert in the news failed to bring me 'round. "Hey baby, bring me some blog."

I blame my failure to retool this blog to better reflect my current circumstances; I'll work on that later. But right now I will tell you an asshole story. It's about an asshole.

The Ubergirls, Dilf and I recently attended the Downers Grove Fourth of July Parade. We had an extra sittin' blanket, so when I saw a wee girl of 3 or 4 sitting with her bare legs on the hot concrete sidewalk next to us as we sat along the parade route, I offered her our extra blanket. Her dad thanked us, then proceeded to set up camp on our blanket. The parade started.

And they started throwing shit. Like candy. Or in the inexplicable case of Congresswoman Judy Biggert, sponges. Because she sponges off the taxpayers? Good job being honest for once, Bigot. (That's what my dad calls her.)

Anyways.

Allstate comes by throwing Frisbees out to the crowd, and UberYounger holds her little arms up and joyfully squeaks, "Here! Frisbee!" The insurance agent tosses one to her, but it slips through her fingers and lands next to her.

Where the guy to whom I generously offered a blanket STEPPED ON IT and WOULDN'T GIVE IT BACK. UberYounger began to well up with tears, not just because she wanted the Frisbee, but because she couldn't understand why an adult would do that to her.

I guess a Frisbee is a pretty cheap price to pay for life knowledge like that -- some guys are just dicks.

I turned to Dilf and said, "That was a dick move." (Hence the title of this post) I'm actually surprised Dilf didn't say something to the guy. He normally would. But I think he was nearly dead from heat exhaustion at the time, combined with the fact he didn't feel we needed another piece of plastic crap cluttering up the garage. Although, oddly, we really don't have a frisbee.

So, wherever you are, Mr. Dick Move, I hope you're enjoying the frisbee, even if it's not jammed horizontally up your ass like I would like it to be.

Today's WXRT Flashback year is 1993, and it's dredging up some long dormant thoughts and feelings. Specifically, a Nirvana song reminded me of how I can't get behind moral absolutism, brought into focus by Kurt Cobain's suicide.

At the time, I was working for a fire district, planning special events and writing newsletters and press releases and other impertinent stuff. When Cobain killed himself, a disgusted firefighter/paramedic remarked that suicide is the most selfish thing a person could do.

And I understood why he said that. He had to clean up the aftermath, to see the anguished family members and friends leftbehind, to witness the pain and mess that resulted from a suicide. So, what he said wasn't "wrong."

But I also understood why somebody would do something like that. I understood how the pain of living could be so excruciating that a person couldn't bear it any longer. So, I could sympathize with Cobain as well.

At the time, I found it difficult to fathom that the firefighter didn't understand why Cobain did it. We all knew Cobain was a heroin addict; didn't he see how that was self-medication? Didn't the firefighter deal with that level of pain? Didn't everyone? It didn't occur to me that a person could be content, to not feel a stabbing pain every day, that for some people life didn't consist of swallowing degradations and having pieces of your soul ripped away on a daily basis? At the time I assumed everyone felt the way I did.

What amazed me about myself today, is that I could remember those days without either reopening wounds or re-immersing myself in that sea of pain. I could think about it without wallowing or forcing myself to look away to avoid wallowing.

I'm glad I could remember without re-living, because now I can empathize with a person like that without succumbing to the same feelings. I've always wanted to help people in the situation I had been in, to give back because people helped me when I needed it. But I never could before, because if I tried, I knew I'd start drowning along with the people I was trying to help. But now, maybe I'm finally healed enough to do it.

It's something to think about. And finally, thinking about it doesn't send me back to where I was.

I would like to declare from the outset that I am baseball-neutral. I will weakly root for a Chicago team over a non-Chicago team out of civic responsibility, but I don’t get bent out of shape about it.

What I DOES get me bent out of shape is when someone (actually a group of someones) steals my parking spot, is incapable of operating the parking garage kiosk, fills the Metra train to capacity so that I have to stand, blocks foot traffic, stops in the middle of a heavily-traveled bridge to take a picture, and otherwise disrupts my morning compute with their incompetent jack-assery.

In short, I hate Cub fans on opening day.

Oh, I hate Sox fans, too, in all their mulleted, gnarled-tooth, senselessly-violent glory. But they get plenty of derision hurled their way without me adding to it, and they also didn’t get in my fucking way today. So I’m not going to rail against them. It’s all about Cub fans for me right now.

It all started when I pulled into the public parking garage near the train station where I park every work day. I consistently park in the same spot, and it’s always available because it’s a little out of the way and nobody wants it but me; I like it because it’s number 551, which I remember by singing it to the tune of “Bye Bye Love.”

But today, TODAY, I had to park in number 549 which has absolutely no pneumonic properties to it whatsoever, because a CUB FAN parked in MY SPACE. I should be able to have his car towed away, but the Obama administration is anti-freedom Socialist Commies, and say the parking garage is “Public Property.” I bet Sarah Palin would let me shoot out all their windows and leave a bloody moose head in the back seat.

Then, at the kiosk where you key in your parking space and insert your payment, there was a line where there normally is no line, because Cub Fans are illiterate. Or, they can’t read digital screens. Maybe if a teeny tiny little man was inside, manually changing the letters, they would have had an easier time. Also, if the kiosk was covered with pretty ivy.

THEN, there were no seats on the train. I had to stand in the vestibule with the people who ALWAYS stand in the vestibule (I call them Vesties. Nick was a Vestie.) They smiled politely at me, but they knew I didn’t belong there. I was the licorice cow of the vestibule, and I stood by myself trying not to eavesdrop on their private conversations.

AND THEN, when the train got to the station, the assorted maturity-stunted ex-frat boys and stodgy, thick-calved early retirees in their Cub regalia impeded the natural flow out of the station by standing still trying to figure out how to get out of the station, or which exit they should choose, or should they buy a Cinnabon, or some such nonsense. I neither know nor care WHY they were frozen in place; all I know is they were fucking ANNOYING. Also: no stopping on the bridge to take pictures during rush hour, assholes!

In conclusion, Cub fans need to stay out of my fucking way. Plus, adding the suffix “-ies” onto your team name is ridiculous and wrong. Does anyone say “The Bearsies” or “The Bullsies” or “The Hawksies” or “The Soxies?” No. Fuck you and your “Cubbies.”

I need more coffee.

Okay, clearly there's been a backup -- not a sewage backup, but the comparison is certainly apt. No, this has been a backup in blog posts since I no longer have the free time to spew my ill-conceived and baseless opinions out into the world, whining and grumbling like a slightly younger and less eyebrow-laden Andy Rooney. With boobs.

So, the thoughty thought I am releasing today actually came to me on March 20 at a post-St. Patrick's Day party, where I met a nice Lithuanian man whose parents had immigrated to the U.S. just as the Soviets were taking over their country.

He said, "My dad told me that when the Russians came in, they didn't haul away the political leaders, the people who were 'in charge' at the time. They took away the teachers, the engineers, and the doctors."

So, tea partiers may look at that and say, "See? SEE?? Obama wants to take over! He wants to control health care and public works and education, JUST LIKE THOSE DAMN RUSSKIES! I TOLD YOU he's a Communist!"

But, I look at it differently. This health care bill is the first inch away from privatization and corporate takeover of formerly public services since St. Ronnie Reagan came to town and saved us all from all evil. This move away from corporate control, however slow or incomplete, was met with such a shrieking and wailing and gnashing of teeth from the would-be overlords that it's making me re-think my disappointment in Obama. If he can make them THIS MAD, he must be doing something right.

Now he should focus on education and getting our teachers back.

Volume 12, Issue 386. Or something.

Commuting has aroused an entirely new set of passionate, irrational dislikes in me. Would you like to hear about them? Of COURSE you would!

In no particular order, I hate:

• Skinny, bow-legged women in leggings or black polyester pants. They're seemingly everywhere and I always seem to be walking behind them.
• 
  
  The guy who wears so much cologne I can smell him from a block away.  Now, that sounds like a figure of speech, but I mean literally FROM A BLOCK AWAY.
  
  
• The construction workers building that one building near the train station.  I don't like those big scary metal rods they carry around.  Rebar?  Is that what's it called?  I don't like it. It's all wiggly and floppy and dangerous looking and those guys don't look too responsible.
  
  
  
  
  
• This frilly raincoat this one woman who rides my train wears. She also wears flats with big floppy bows on them. Also, the way she wears her hair irritates me. She's not 12 years old! She's in her 50's or something. She thinks she's the prissy English cousin from the "Patty Duke Show."
  
  
  
• Anyone who sits next to me.
  
  
  
• People who walk too slowly, especially when they walk two abreast so they can chatter inanely to one another while blocking the sidewalk with their big butts. Because people who plod along and talk usually have big butts.
  
  
  
• People who stand in the middle of the sidewalk.
  
  
  
• People who are too afraid to cross the street.
  
  
  
• People who block the crosswalk with their big stupid cars. When the "walk signal" is on, it's not your fucking turn! Encroachment would result in dings from my briefcase, if I had one. Damn this soft tote bag!
  
  
  
• The intersection of Ohio/Orleans.
  
  
  
• Wind.
  
  
  
• The profound lack of bakeries on my route.
  
  
  
  

I'm sure I have more but that's all for now.