If you’ve noticed it’s been awhile since I took a moment to bitch about my fellow man, wait no further! The day is upon us. Happy Easter.

This past week we had what I can only hope is the final snowfall of the year. While it wasn’t in the class of the big dump of a few weeks ago (mental images welcome), it was more than we needed or cared for; probably 5″ or so here, a little more to the south of us. It was the final opportunity for lazy-asses to drive around with their cars buried in snow, and everyone with that propensity was on the road. It’s to those people I have to say:

What the hell is so difficult about clearing your windows of snow? Are you really so damned goofy as to think that clearing a hole the size of your head right in front of the driver’s seat is all the vision you need to drive a car? Do you drive with blinders on the rest of the year? Do you ever check your mirrors to see the traffic around you?

Look, I can understand being caught in October by a freak early storm before you’ve had a chance to toss the snow brush in your car. I can even see it in November if we’ve had an unusually long Autumn. BUT IT’S FUCKING MARCH. YOU’VE HAD YOUR SNOW BRUSH IN YOUR CAR FOR FIVE MONTHS. I don’t care if you were an idiot this morning, leaving the house in flimsy shoes and a light jacket. WALK YOUR ASS AROUND YOUR CAR AND WIPE THE SNOW OFF WITH YOUR SLEEVE IF YOU HAVE TO.

I don’t need you merging into me because you’re such a loser. Go run yourself into a tree, but STOP ENDANGERING THE REST OF US.

Amen.

I’m watching “Medium” right now on NBC. If Patricia Arquette doesn’t win a Golden Globe for Worst Actress in a Lousy Drama, something is really wrong with the world. The worst part about the show (besides the goofy reluctant-psychic-solves-crime schtick) is the whininess of Arquette’s character. Tonight, they figured out a way to make her whinier; they made her deaf (Oh my God, I’m deaf! I can’t hear you! I love my girls! I love my husband! I know what happened to your daughter, but I can’t hear! Waaaaaah!). Oh my God, please, make this episode end.

It’s been a helluva five days.

Thursday night we came home from Joey’s Xmas concert to a fantastic discovery: the basement had flooded. Again. It’s that damned crock and sump pump, as it always is. This time it happened because the pipe the water runs through was clogged with leaves right by the drain in the back yard. Because of that clog, the water was backing up to the downspouts where it geysered out the top of the pipes to flood the backyard and to roll back down along the outside of the basement wall and back into the drain tiles, creating an endless loop. Thousands of gallons of water circulated out and back in again until the 11-year old pump finally burned out.

Thankfully, we already had a new pump waiting in the wings, and with Bruno’s help we had it installed before going to bed Thursday night. All that remained was the job of cleaning the carpet for the third time in less than two years. We used our carpet shampooing machine to suck out as much water as we could, but it really needed the pro treatment.

Our regular carpet cleaning guy couldn’t make it out until today (Monday), and we couldn’t fathom letting the water fester down there until now, so we rented a machine from the hardware store. We spent over six hours on Saturday running that thing back and forth across the floor. The smell is much improved, so the crisis is mostly past us; but it’ll be a long time - if ever - before we trust we’re not going to flood again.

Then there’s this morning. I arrived at the office to discover it’s only marginally warmer inside than out. The burner in the furnace isn’t working. I tried getting something done while working in my hat and coat, but pretty soon (despite wearing thermal socks) my feet were freezing. So here I am in Arabica, not getting anything done while waiting for the guy from Ferrato’s Heating to show up and fix the damn furnace.

And people wonder why I don’t like Decembers. I’m telling you, this month has a vendetta against me.

I really really hate the damn TSA. And O’Hare.
There, I got that out of the way.

I was at O’Hare on Sunday, catching a United flight back from my visit at Jim’s. We went to see Rush and it was suddenly 1987 again. But that’s another story.

Anyway, I arrived an hour and forty-five minutes early for my flight. No baggage to check, it didn’t seem unreasonable to chop fifteen minutes off the two-hour window “they” tell us we need at the airport. Turns out, for the first time, that “they” were right. Whoever they are, “they” must have written the rules while waiting at checkpoint 2 in the United terminal at ORD.

We (by we, I mean me and all the other cattle who don’t warrant the Special Status that gets a person through the Express Lane) all had the extreme pleasure of standing in a long-ass serpentine line just to get to the scanners. This alone took over an hour, during which I read a good portion of the paperback I was saving for the inevitable wait on the tarmac (this being O’Hare) and flight. The fun really began when we reached the end of the serpentine.

Yolanda stood there at the end serpentine, telling us sheep which scanner to go to. At this particular checkpoint, there are five scanner stations. The fucking geniuses that run that airport had two - yes, only two - of them open. On a Sunday afternoon. At O’Hare. Did I mention I hate O’Hare yet?

Now for some reason Yolanda and her sidekick, Betty Lou, weren’t distributing us to the strip search in anything that approached an even manner. No. To my right was a very short line, serving five travelers at a time. That’s all the TSA bozo on that station would take. The station to our left had 40…yes, FORTY…people waiting. I know, because I counted twice.

When I reached the end of the hellish serpentine, Yolanda waved desultorily at me to come on through. I took a couple of steps to the right, heading to the station with only two people waiting. She let me know in no uncertain terms that I was to head left to the looooong line. I gave her a little grief, which was met with a sneer. Look, Yolanda: I don’t give a shit if you hate your job and white people. Take the stick out of your ass and act professional.

While I stood there fuming along with the rest of the prisoners, I witnessed three women (who weren’t traveling together) point out to Betty Lou that they would be missing their flights because of the way the line was being handled. Betty Lou all but told them to go fuck themselves.

Anyway, I made it to my gate with about five minutes to spare. I’d hoped to grab a quick bite or relax for a few minutes before getting squeezed into the plane, but the TSA had other plans. A top-secret plan to see how many people they can piss off and how many people they can make miss their flights for No Reason Whatsoever.

I’m about to get snarky and mean, so don’t read this if you don’t want to hear it. This is a note to everyone who uses the self-scan registers at grocery stores:

Hey, halfwit: if you routinely have a hard time remembering which side of the toothbrush to use, perhaps you shouldn’t be scanning your own groceries. If you lack the intelligence to use your TV remote, stop fucking using the scanner at Giant Eagle.

There’s the moron who pulls every item out of her cart, looks at it for ten seconds as if wondering how it got in the cart, then s-l-o-w-l-y rotates the item back and forth and over and over 8 or 9 inches away from the glass, wondering why it won’t read.

There’s the woman who, instead of punching in the code on the sticker that’s stuck to the produce or, failing that, using the handy on-screen buttons WITH PICTURES OF THE DAMN FRUIT to tell the scale what to expect next…turns 180° to LOOK BEHIND HER AT A PIECE OF PAPER WITH 300 LINES OF 3 POINT TYPE to find the code to punch in. Because THAT’S the most efficient way of getting this done, Mabel! By squinting through your trifocals at tiny type! The only thing that should have been punched by the time she got to her fifth produce item was HER VACUOUS EMPTY HEAD.

Also, there is the dynamic mother-daughter team we watched yesterday. First, the daughter, all 300 lbs. of fun, starts checking out her groceries. Looking at her overstuffed cart full of frozen meals and moon pies, I decided that with any luck I’ll hear her aorta explode some time before the end of June. BUT NOT BEFORE I GET TO WATCH HER SCAN SLOWER THAN THE TWO BOZOS I’VE DESCRIBED ABOVE. Now to add to this she also had the annoying habit of scanning four items, waddling to the far end of the conveyor belt to stack them neatly (WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT? PUT THEM IN A DAMN BAG WHILE YOU’RE DOWN THERE!), then waddling back up to the scanner to start the process over again. During all this, her mother stood there and watched, guarding her own meager purchases instead of doing something useful like, I dunno….PACKING HER DAUGHTER’S SHIT.

Now, some of you may suggest that we should go ahead and move to another line. Ah, dear reader, we would if we could. If it’d make any difference. But this was Sunday around noon, when everyone decides that this is the only possible time all week that they could take advantage of the GREAT SAVINGS offered by the flyer in their Sunday paper. Of the 14 checkout counters, 12 were open. One cashier lane was down, as was one of the hellish self-scan checkouts. People were lined six deep at every one.

And of course there was a cherry on this sundae: by the time we got to the scanner, it was tired. Worn down. Or maybe it was just being bitchy. I got all our stuff scanned, save the last four items, then the scanner decided it just didn’t want to do the one thing it is designed for. So I had to endure the gyrations of the cashier ’supervisor’ as she tried lamely to figure out what to do. Turns out there’s a reset button right there on the thing, and if you tap your supervisor’s card on the scanner glass enough times *tap*tap*tap*tap*tap*TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP*
TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP*TAP in a random and frantic manner, you’ll accidentally knock up against it and the damned thing will work again. Just an FYI.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is: Fuck going to Giant Eagle on Sundays.