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I promise I will continue with vacation tales my next post, but before I do, I have a tale to tell you about my weekend and my Valentine's Day and to also give you this news flash: I am peeved by many sorts of people.

Once there was a girl, who grew very sad this weekend because her new baby Macbook Pro got sick and had to go to the Mac hospital.

Everything was working splendidly until last week when my trackpad stopped making an audible click. It still worked, it just didn't make the clicky sound. But then on Friday, I was busy reading TMZ  writing when suddenly the trackpad decided it didn't want to do what I told it to do. It was freaky, really. I'd direct the cursor one way, it would go another, opening new windows, minimizing and enlarging things, just totally acting like my kids and not listening to a word I say.

And I thought to myself, "What the hell? There really are little geek dudes living in my computer, just jacking me up for the hell of it!"

But then I googled trackpad issues, or at least I tried to google trackpad issues. It took me about one million attempts to get there. I'm sure the geeks in my computer were having a BALL in between bouts of beer pong and bong hits, saying "Take THAT! You're not googling crap! You're going to Clay Aiken's website, beyatch."

So the Baby had to go to the Apple store.

I called to make an appointment—which have I told you how much I love those hipster folks at Apple? I really do. They're all so nice and laid back and they say things like "wicked cool." And it doesn't matter how big the crowd gets in their store, (and trust me, it looks like the Million Man March on just a normal day there), they are never stressed.

The hipsters just stroll around the store with their iPads and their mini portable wi fi's registers shoved into the back pocket of their corduroys, giving people a head nod and a "Wassup?" (If you've never been in an Apple store, there are no cash registers, just the hipsters with their mini registers in their pants)

I'm thinking they must keep the vending machine stocked with magic brownies. It's the only explanation.

So anyway, I called them up and got a stoner/employee and after he took my vitals, he said, "So, wussup?"

I said, "Well, I think my trackpad needs an exorcism."

And he was all, "Ahhhh, the trackpad."

And I was like, "Yeah, I figured you knew about the trackpad."

And he said, "Totally."

So he set me up with a Genius Bar appointment for that evening.

My hubs and I entered the mall through our gigantatroid sporting goods store entrance.

And here's where I tell you about certain people and their ability to piss me off.

I am like an 80-year-old crotchety man with my pet peeves.

And I put people in categories, categories that peeve me.

Here, I'll give you an example.

As we tried to walk into the store, there was a woman blocking the entrance/exit. She was just standing there, totally immersed in her stupid cell phone, texting right in the middle of the doorway. No one could get around her.

This really pisses me off.

I don't understand how people can be that clueless. It happens everywhere, people just standing there immobile in the middle of a major hub, like the walkway of an airport or the crowded sidewalks of Disney World or the grocery store aisle or moving walkways or a busy city sidewalk or the SMACK DAB MIDDLE of the entrance/exit to one of the busiest stores in the mall. Please! Energize some of your limited brain cells and stand to the damn side. How hard is that?

And even though I get quite peeved at people, I am not a confrontational person. So, what did I do? I sighed very dramatically. Because a dramatic sigh is a good way to handle things. It's just enough to get your point across without people getting too ticked off. No one will confront a dramatic sigh. In all of my years of dramatic sighing, I've never had anyone say to me, "Are you sighing at me?"

And as soon as this imbecile heard my dramatic sigh, she scurried out of the way, like it had never occurred to her that blocking the damn entrance could be a problem.

I classify these people who peeve me as clusterf***ers.

The clusterf***ers might just piss me off the most.

Although, The Moronic Drivers and The Assbags Who Wear Leggings As Pants, come in a very close second.

And just for a clarification, because people seem to be confused especially my dear reader, Duffy Lou, who is most certainly not an assbag, I'm talking when you wear your leggings like this:
This is a fashion don't.

As is this.

And this is a fashion super don't.

So, after I sighed the clusterf***er out of the way, we ambled over to the Apple store which was super packed.

I checked in while my hubby fondled Mac products.

While I was waiting for my Genius, I ignored all the computerly gadgets because my radar for all things Lovely and Fashionable honed in on something on the accessory wall. There in the middle of all the laptop sleeves and briefcases was this exquisite pinky-pink, so utterly girlie laptop bag made by the one and only Marc Jacobs. I fell in love instantly with its pinkness and the little bow knots tied at the corners of its handles and then! Then! As if it wasn't simply exquisite enough, the inside was layered in Mark's trademark kissy lip prints and I was all, "I MUST HAVE THIS BAG!' Oh, I loved it so much.

And I am in need of a new laptop bag, because I'm rather tough on my laptop carriers and the straps on my current leather briefcase are fraying like mad.

Sadly, I cannot find this Marc Jacobs bag's image on Google, but trust me when I say it was just perfect in its pink splendor.

And so, that is why I didn't hear the Genius calling my name because I was in the corner falling in love with a pink laptop bag.

Also because my Genius was pronouncing my name, "Jo Un. Jo Un. Jo Un."

It wasn't until my hubby blasted into my reverie, yelling from across the Apple store where he was busy fondling something Mac, with "HEY! JOANN! They're calling you!"

And so I regretfully put away the Marc Jacobs bit of gorgeousness and headed over to the Genius Bar.

And as it always goes in my world.

Guess who I got?

Not the dude with the plugs in his ears and his big head of fro pulled back by a headband.

And not the other genius with the hipster glasses and the khaki pants that were falling off his flat ass.

No.

I walked up to the Genius with the thick auburn hair and ice blue eyes who said, "Hellow Jo Un. How may I be of service to you today?"

I got the refined English accent Genius. And I'm not talking the, "Ello Govna." I'm talking the polished accent that says, "Yes, I am Prince William's third cousin and my family home is a castle where we spend the weekends fox hunting and having high tea."

Oh and he was just lovely, almost as lovely as that Mark Jacobs bag.

After I finished stuttering like Colin Firth, I told him my trackpad was having a life of its own.

And so he opened up my newest baby and plugged away and the sensory overload from the combination of his blue eyes, his English accent and that Mark Jacobs bag made everything just fly out of my head.

And so when he said, "What's your password, Luv?"

I went, "Uhhhhh. My password. Uhhhh."

I have the same password for everything. It's a word I have branded across my heart. The word that is engrained in me, as intrinsic as Bono's birthdate which is May 10th, 1960, by the way. And don't think if you're trying to break into my life and steal my identity that my password has anything to do with Bono because it doesn't.
Don't we make the cutest couple?

I had to yell to my hubby who was still fondling Mac gizmos and ask him my password. He gave me the same look as the time I closed my head in the trunk of the car.

And don't ask for that story. I thought my head was out of the way. It wasn't. I am an imbecile. End of story.

My Hubby looked at me with a mixture of fright and astonishment and gave the English Genius my password.

I was all, "Yeah, that's it."

And as I stood there, I managed to say, "I guess these new Macbook pros have trackpad issues."

And my lovely English Genius said, "Really? I haven't heard of any."

I immediately regained my composure and said, "Welllll, the dude on the phone knew exactly what I was talking about and it's all over the Mac forums."

And that's when the English Genius lost quite a bit of luster in my eyes.

He said in his beautiful English accent which I cannot mimic on paper so just imagine it if you will, "You can go on the Mac forums and find just about anything you want to hear. If someone has some weird issue with their D button,  you can find enough people to make it a 'D button issue.'" And yes, he did air quote it.

Loyal To A Fault Corporate D Bags. Another pet peeve category of mine.

Really? Is Apple paying you that much money Mr. Genius that you feel the need to lie to me? Are you Steve Jobs's bestie? What?

I mumbled, "Well this is not a 'D Button Issue'. This is a real issue." I wanted to add, "You're the D button." But I didn't.

I signed the release papers, very annoyed and as he took my little Mac girl away, I said, "Bye Baby."

The English Genius did make up a little for his D Buttonness then by winking at me. (Man, I love it when a man winks. Not a creeper kind of wink from some gnarly guy who shouldn't be legally allowed to wink, but a sexy wink from a guy who knows exactly what he's doing.) So he gave me a sexy wink and said, "Want to give it a kiss before it goes?"

And I laughed but I deferred the kiss because I have my weirdness limits.

After I'd made up with the English Genius, I grabbed the Marc Jacobs bag and went in search of my hubs. I found him, get this, on a computer watching some gun video. The man is addicted to gun videos. Anything gun. Shooting, loading, assembling, whatever. Gun videos are his porn.

I interrupted his gun porn to show him this delightful bag. I mentioned Valentine's Day because I've learned to tell him where to buy my gifts and what to buy.

Because I don't need any more bustiers. I could supply a whole tribe of pirate girls with my gifts of bustiers.

And as I showed him the bag, he got that crinkled up expression, like he's smelling a rotting corpse, the same look he gets whenever I show him anything pink or bedazzled or I start talking about feelings.

He said, "That's the worst laptop bag I've ever seen."

And I was all, "Hush! It's beautiful and pink and full of lip kiss prints and it's Marc Jacobs."

And he was like, "It's made out of cloth and has no padding. Your laptop will get smashed the first time you use that, since you swing your briefcase around like it's a football and drop it constantly. (I could not argue with this true fact.) You need something stronger like mine."

His briefcase is this obnoxious thing on wheels with an extended luggage handle with about 4 quatrillion sections to it. And it's black and utilitarian looking with no lip prints whatsoever. It is Ugly with a capital U.

I was like, "But it's so pretty and it's . . . " At that point, I checked the price tag and even me, with my lack of sensibility when it comes to pretty and pink, was a little surprised.

I said casually "Just 358 bucks."

My hubby's crinkled gaze got even crinklier and it was in THAT, THAT very moment when the dude sitting at the computer next to my hubby's snorted and saaaaiiid . . . Are you ready?

"Yeah, he's not going to buy that for you."

This stranger. This FAT stranger was meddling in my business, my Marc Jacobs business!

I gave the fat guy my bitchiest glare as my hubs and he chortled in unified shock over "a piece of pink cloth, ridiculous rip off."

I now have a new number one category. Eavesdropping Ass Bags Who Meddle In My Business.

And because I am non-confrontational, even though I was infuriated, I simply huffed at the two of them, shot that stupid fatty the nastiest look I've got in my repertoire of dirty looks, whirled around and stomped off.

My hubs knew.

He came right after me and said, "Sorry. That guy was dumb. If you want the Marc Harmon bag we'll get it."

I said, "First of all, Mark Harmon is currently a pretend crime fighter and before that he was a pretend doctor. He has never made bags. And no, it's okay. You're right. It's not made for me and my klutzy ways. Besides, I'd rather have the one I already told you to buy for Valentine's Day."

He then looked at me and said, "What are you talking about?"

And that's when I remembered my fatal flaw. I sent him the link to the laptop bag in an email.

He doesn't open up my emails.

He's afraid of what he might find because usually, it's me, writing about my feelings.

And if there's one thing he hates more than talking about feelings, it is me writing about feelings.

After our Apple visit, we left the mall and went to dinner.

I didn't think we could possibly run into any more of my pet peeves categories because we weren't going to the movies where I would run into movie talkers and there wouldn't be a lot of gum snappers because hopefully, gum snappers take their gum out while eating dinner.

Unfortunately, I was wrong. Not about the gum chewers, thank God, because that would have been a whole new category.

We had a bit of a wait at the restaurant, so my hubs and I had a cocktail at the bar. When the hostess came to get us, I followed her to our table while my hubs settled the bill.

As soon as I sat down, the woman at the table next to me laughed and it went through me like a bolt of lightning. Shrill and all cackle.

I figured somebody had just told a rip roaring funny joke.

But then she started talking or rather YELLING.

It went like this, "AND I TOLD HIS MOTHER THERE WAS NO WAY IN HELL MY BRIDESMAIDS WERE WEARING COBALT. IT'S SAGE OR THEY'RE GONNA BE NAKED."

And I thought, Who calls them cobalt and sage? It's effin' blue and green. I hate people who are smug with their colors.

I looked over at this obnoxious, smug-color chick. Her, what I assumed to be fiancee, was rubbing his face and most certainly thinking, "Dear God, this is the voice I have to wake up to every day of the rest of my eternal life."

Her two girlfriends were quietly answering her and it was almost like they were trying to lead by example.

She didn't get their example.

It was about that time my hubs showed up. I didn't say a word, hoping he wouldn't notice. Because he's the kind of guy who has no problem saying, "Hey, can you keep it down?"

I choked on my cocktail at that gem.

My hubs turned and stared in complete horror and said, "What in the hell is THAT?"
We both looked over at the loudmouth and that's when I realized she was wearing brick-red matte lipstick, way too dark for her fair skin. This girl could not offend me more if she tried. If it turned out that she was wearing leggings as pants, I was going to have to go over to her table and slap her, just for existing.

Thankfully, she was in a skirt.

She then informed her friends and the entire restaurant, 'WE'RE GETTING MARRIED IN SANFORD FLORIDA. YOU KNOW, LIKE SANFORD AND SONS."

When she started cackling, my hubs closed his eyes and said, "I can't do this."

Our waitress appeared then and we very politely asked her if we could be moved.

We sat at the other side of this restaurant where thankfully people were not cackling and yelling.

At one point during the conversation I noticed my hubby's eyes traveling up to my forehead.

He finally said, "You know your hair is crooked."

I was all, "My hair is crooked?"

And he said, "The hair in the front. What is that called?"

And I shot him his signature crinkled look and said, "My bangs?"

And he was like, "Yeah, your bangs are crooked. They're not straight across. They're . . . choppy."

I had just gotten my hair done that day.

I shook my head at my clueless husband and said, "They're supposed to be choppy. It's a pixie cut. It's all about the choppy."

And he was like, "But bangs are supposed to be straight and I would think for 200 bucks your hair should be straight."

This has and will always be a point of contention in our marriage.

My hubby thinks that shoes need to be sensible, laptop bags should be ugly and made by TV actors, I should be able to get ready in ten minutes just like him and haircuts should border around the ten buck range, because that's how he does it.

He speaks of sacrilege.

My hairdresser is one of the most important relationships in my life. She completes me.

She has special magic. Not only does she cut a kick-ass choppy pixie, keeping me light years away from the standard helmet-head mom cut. She also is the only one in the world who can make my hair this perfect cream, platinum color. I know this, because she got married and moved to Australia for a few years. I spent those years wandering the earth with a golden not cream, helmet head.

But she is back and the world is right again.

And for the record, my haircut is not 200 bucks but my Hubby likes to inflate everything to make it more dramatical, even though I constantly remind him that it is a mere 130 bucks for this kind of wonderful magic and no, I am not supposed to look like this:

After I schooled him on haircuts, the manager came over and asked us if this table was any better. I insisted that we're not picky people, even if we have expensive, crooked hair and that usually we don't complain.

And that's when he told me we were the second table who'd asked to be move away from her yelling.

Can you imagine? How can you go your whole life without anyone telling you, "You know, you've really got to learn how to speak instead of yell."

I know my hubs would have no problem telling me this.

Fortunately, I encountered no more pet peevey people for the rest of the night.

Yesterday was Valentines Day.

My hubs sent me an email.

It said, "I love you, crooked hair and all." Because he doesn't believe in cards. That would take up too much time and energy, plus it would cost him about three bucks. He could get half a haircut for that.

So he sent me this email along with an attachment—a receipt for my new laptop bag. The attachment he'd never opened. He'd also put this in the note, "It's no Mark Harmon, but it'll keep your laptop safe when you vault it across the car."

And then he came home and we had grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches, because Valentine's Day is the ONE day out the year we don't go out to eat. We leave that to the amateurs. And because nothing says love better than bacon.

The End.

Today's Definite Download: I don't watch the Grammy's because the Grammy's are bogus and it pisses me off. I'm pretty sure the Grammy voting panel is made up of prepubescent girls and senior citizens. Seriously. Every year, the winners astound me and not in a good way. I thought I'd made the right decision when my home news page showed Lady GaGa being carried in, inside a giant, translucent egg. I thought the Grammy's had hit a new low.

But I was wrong, only Lady GaGa had hit a new low.

I should have watched because this year, for the most part, the Grammy's got it right.

The amazing Arcade Fire shocked everyone by winning Best Album in a major upset.

It wasn't a major upset to me. That album was beautiful and so layered and so full of extraordinary music.

And then the brilliant and I do mean brilliant Esperanza Spalding beat out the Bieber for Best New Artist.

And shrieking girls around the world were outraged and lost their collective minds, sending death threats? to the poor Esperanza.

These girls are confused, this wasn't a Best Hair contest, it was a Best New Artist competition.

I don't listen to a lot of jazz even though I'm a big fan of that genre. But when I do, I listen to Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong, all the late greats. Except for Esperanza. I heard Esperanza last year for the first time when a friend turned me on to her.

Esperanza is only twenty something years old, a musical prodigy who self taught herself several instruments before she'd made it to kindergarten. She prefers the double bass, not something most women artists play.

Her voice soars, velvet loveliness as she strums her giant bass and gets lost in her world of music.

Here, just take a look for yourself. 


"Baby, Baby, Baby Oh..." or Esperanza singing "Tell Him."

The Grammy's got it right.