Rock Walls

One of my favorite things about Connecticut is the rock walls.  Apparently, hundreds of years ago, instead of building fences to separate properties, people built rock walls.  Because Connecticut is such a rocky place, I don’t imagine they had to have a business come in and bring them rocks to use.  I think they had so many rocks on the property, they figured, might as well make use of them.  The result?  Beautiful walls around everyone’s property.  

People that have dogs, either have electric fences, or train their dogs to stay in their yard.  I will say, yards are much different in Connecticut.  Houses aren’t built on top of each other.  Instead of having 150 houses in a subdivision, you have 15 houses on a street...all taking up about two acres of land each.  The yards are beautiful, and our street backs up to the woods on both sides.  So if you are standing in any of our neighbors homes, you would look out the backyard straight into woods.  

This is my street.

This is my home.

I with Chief and Little Man in Connecticut a few weeks ago, and we had a blast riding the four-wheelers in the woods behind the house.  There are paths cut out, and we can ride all over the place back there.  It is an absolute exhilarating experience, and makes me feel like a kid again.  We always ride over to the orchard, picture below.

I feel for just a quick moment that I am in Italy, looking over hundreds of acres of grapevines.  Again, something Connecticut has over Texas...BEAUTY.  I’m lucky I don’t have to go anywhere to see it.  

Back to the rock walls.  I have taken pictures within a few miles of my home of rock walls that I especially love.  Here they are, hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Aren't they beautiful??  

God's sense of humor...

Did you know God has a sense of humor?  I love my Frisco church.  I love going, despite the fact I don’t know anyone.  I walk in, and I feel this instant relief.  I immediately feel his presence and his arms surrounding me.  There is one thing that I detest about church....the 60 second greet-your-neighbor time.  Why does every church require this 60 seconds of pure agony?  I would rather pluck my eyelashes out one by one with salad tongs then sit through this 60 seconds every Sunday.  When you are a member, this is the time when you walk around and greet your friends.  When you aren’t a member, this is the time that you shake the hands of the people in front of you, and the people behind you, then stand there like an idiot for the next 55 seconds.  Just to make matters even more interesting, my church puts the 60 second count down on the screen for everyone to see.  A majority of the people don’t even notice it.  Then you have me.  I stand there and watch the stupid number tick down to one, praying that someone would just come up and knock me out of my misery with a four pound bible.  You know how you feel when you are in middle school and it is time to pick teams?  Each kid is picked one by one until only you and a girl with a bum leg are left.  The team captain lets out the sign and calls your name.  It is middle school all over.  No one picks me to say hello to, so I just stand there, like an idiot...and wait.     

A few Sundays ago, I was running late.  Surprisingly, I wasn’t stressed at all because I know that the first five minutes are singing, then the 60 seconds of hell, then back to another 20 minutes of singing, then the preaching starts.  I was running about ten minutes behind, and knew it would be perfect timing to miss the 60 seconds of stand-there-like-an-idiot time.  I got in my vehicle (actually Blond BFF’s vehicle that I use while I am in Texas), and started the 15 minute trip to the church.  Of course I hit every red light.  Now my ten minutes of lateness has stretched into 16 minutes of being late.  I was starting to get frustrated.  When I hit the last red light, closest to the church, I threw up my hands and said, “Seriously, God?  I am trying to do right by going to church, and you are going to make me hit every red light?  I don’t want to miss the sermon!”  As the light turned green, I floored it all the way to the parking lot where I sped into the “visitors” spot.  Why join a church when you get to park up front as a visitor?  So I all but run into the church.  When I walk into the foyer, I don’t hear music.  I silently cursed myself because I didn’t want to be THAT late.  As I opened the door to the sanctuary, I realized they were doing announcements.  As I sighed with relief, I made my way towards the front of the church (I like to sit up front where I don’t have distractions).  I slide into a seat on the end, four rows back and sit down.  I reach into my purse for my bible just as the announcer says, “Now, everyone stand up and take a minute to greet those around you.” 

Hairless Rat

I wasn’t going to blog about my airplane experience on this last trip, but it has been eating at me since I bolted off the plane.  We already know that: a. I HATE flying  b. I am terrified of getting stuck sitting next to someone unpleasant, and c. I HATE flying.  My plane ride going TO Connecticut was pretty uneventful (thank God).  I had stupidly assumed the way back to Texas would be the same, and my bad luck of flying had disappeared (to remind you, my last flight I asked a woman when her baby was due...only to find out she wasn’t pregnant).  So, here I am with my Chai Tea from Dunkin’ Donuts, sitting on an outside seat, not making eye contact with anyone.  (Remember, making eye contact might be mistaken for inviting someone to sit next to you).  So I am looking down, Chai in one hand, Kindle in the other, and I hear a woman say, “Excuse me, can my husband and I sit there?”  I get up, without responding and let the old man in, with his wife behind him.  I notice they have a couple large bags, and wonder how they are going to get them to fit under the seat (remember, rule FOLLOWER here).  I decide I will give them time (three minutes tops) to do the right thing (put their shit in the overhead), before I start with my flight attendant speech about how all baggage needs to be secured in the overhead bin, or tucked tightly under the seat in front of them (I’m thinking my true calling is an air police aka flight attendant).  I sit calmly and look at my watch, noting the time because I want to be fair and give them the benefit of doubt.  Then magically, they fit all the crap under the seats in front of them. I am secretly a little sad, because I like to get people in trouble (back to my “teachers pet” mentality).  I go back to reading my Kindle while the plane loads with screaming babies, grandparents, and young couples dressed as if they just rolled out of bed.

Fifteen minutes later, we are safely up in the air, floating above the clouds.  I pull out my laptop after we get the “okay,” and am starting to write a blog.  Then I hear this high pitch bark!  Initially it scared me, because it was so close to me.  It was unexpected, and I tend to be a little jumpy when I am focused on something other than my surroundings.  About three and a half barks in, I realize the obnoxious sound is coming from the area of my feet.  I look at the couple, and they are both reading a magazine.  You can only imagine the disgust on my face, when I realize not only am I going to have to listen to this, but the owners aren’t even phased by it.  

*Side note: This reminds me of a time I was at my sisters house.  Little man was probably five, and he was sitting at one of those kiddy tables with his cousins, my niece, also five at the time, and my twin nephews who were three.  I am standing at the kitchen counter with my sister and mom, and my sister lets out this loud piercing scream at one of the kids.  Little Man jumps in the air about a mile, and turns to my niece and says, “Didn’t that scare you?”  My niece responds, “Did what scare me?”

This situation reminds me of that.  These people have learned to tune out barking, like my niece and nephews tune out their mom’s scream.  I realize if that isn’t the case then these bastards have simply turned their hearing aides down so they can’t hear anything, including the rats anxious scream for help (again, under five pounds is a rat, not a dog).  Unfortunately, I am not able to do the same thing.  I have a few choices here: 1. do my very best at ignoring it   2. move  3. Ask the guy in front of me, if I can borrow his sound proof head phones or 4. kick the carrier until the rat stops barking...and moving.  I decide to go the with number one.  I close my eyes and say a prayer, thanking God for everything he has done for me, and promising him I would go to church every Sunday for the rest of the year if he shuts the rat up.  I slowly open my eyes and try to focus on my computer screen.  Then something miraculous happens.  It stops.  The rat stops barking.  There is movement coming from the carrier, but it is no longer barking.  I secretly curse myself wishing I had made a much simpler promise to God...like once a month visit to a church, instead of once a week.  Then it begins again.  I quickly back track in my head: Okay, Okay, once a week it is, God.  Then it stops again.  I don’t test the waters, and accept the once a week church agreement.  

I go about my typing.  About an hour later, Grandma decides she wants to check to make sure the rat is still breathing.  She bends over, and moves the carrier to her lap.  I had to refrain from screaming, “Don’t wake the beast!!”  She is sitting beside me, so now the rat is not only in her lap, but in my face.  Those of you that know me, know how allergic to dogs I am.  Of course, because this is just how lucky I am, she unzips the carrier and pulls the tiny rat out.  I sigh a relief because I think it has a total of two hairs on it.  At least it won’t kick up my allergies.  That ugly, little hairless rat starts wiggling like crazy in her hands.  She is laughing and holding it up to her face.  Why would any person put a rodent against their skin?  Again, I want to remind you, I love dogs (dogs are big), but I am extremely allergic to them.  So if I am where I have access to a sink, I will venture to petting them.  If I don’t have access to immediate soap and water, I avoid them.  My arms will break out in hives if I pet them without immediately following it up with boiling soap and water.  I immediately close my laptop and lean over to the isle as far away as possible from the rat and woman.  I am also facing the isle because I don’t want to inhale all the dander that is flying through the air from the wiggly creature.  About four or five minutes and I can feel my throat start to itch.  Now I don’t know what I am going to do.  Two minutes later, the sneezing starts.  Excellent, just when I thought I was going to have an uneventful trip home.  

Exactly 13 sneezes later, I turned to the woman and asked if she could please put her dog up.  She looked at my oddly, and I said, “I am terribly allergic.”  Without saying a word, she bent down for the carrier, and put the dog in it.  After situating the dog on the floor under the seat in front of her, the barking started up again.  Deal’s off, God, I said to myself.  I knew at this point, I was going to need to find another seat.  I stood up, and looked behind me.  I must have looked completely pathetic, because the flight attendant approached me and said, “Can I help you?”  I explained to her that I was allergic to dogs and that I needed a new seat.  She told me it was a full flight, but she would do what she could.  She walked to the back of the plane and found me another seat.  I thanked the person that switched with me, and walked down the isle to my new seat in the back of the plane.

Here is the deal.  If a person has a peanut allergy they don’t serve peanuts to anyone on the plane.  What if a person has a dog allergy?  Tough luck?  How is that fair?  Are people really allowed to take their pets out of the carrier?  Think of how unsanitary that is!  I am so happy I didn’t request a drink.  I am sounding like a dog hater here, and I want to make it clear that I am not.  I love dogs, I do, however, hate rodents.  Anything under five pounds is a rodent.  Luckily, an hour later, my airway had cleared back up, and I was happily back to my blogging.  Just a thought though (directed to Southwest Airlines), if you are going to hide the peanuts, I suggest you hide the rats too.  Below, a picture of the hairless rat...

Okay, Okay.  It COULD have been the hairless rat though!!  Below is the REAL hairless rat.  

Don't let this face fool you.  This rat...I mean dog, was a tiny terrorist.

Short trip to Connecticut...

There is something about riding on the back of a motorcycle that makes me feel like life is a gift.  I spent a wonderful weekend in Connecticut with Chief, Little Man, and my mom.  I arrived on Saturday afternoon.  Keep in mind, we are in October.  In Connecticut, October is like a January in Texas....with an exception of this weekend.  The Chief said he made a few phone calls, and made arrangement for the weather to be perfect for me.  I think it was 90 degrees all weekend.  It was a record high for Connecticut.  Mom always says, “God will only give you, what he knows you can handle.”  I think God knew if I spent the weekend with 20 degree weather, that I may have flown back to Texas and never returned.  I have prayed hard that God will change my heart and make Connecticut feel like home.  

So I arrived on Saturday and we enjoyed an agreeable dinner, then we went home to relax.  I, of course, got to cuddle on the couch with Chief (one of the things I have missed the most).  Sunday, we woke up, and Mom told me to go and enjoy a day with Chief.  So we did just that; leaving Little Man behind with Mom.  We took the motorcycle to Newport (an island in Rhode Island).  Instead of taking the highway, we took the scenic route.  I closed my eyes and let the sun pour down on my bare shoulders and legs.  I couldn’t have felt better at that moment.  Having my legs pressed up against Chief’s, with the warmth of the sun, and the breeze of the ocean on my face....it was a wonderful moment that I wish I could have frozen. Here is the bridge we went over, and under it a view from the bridge:

       Connecticut is beautiful.  As much as I love the busyness of Frisco, Texas, the state I live in is breathtakingly beautiful.  The leaves are starting to turn with a mixture of brown, orange, and yellow.  There is no way a famous painter could capture God’s handiwork.  Here are fall pictures of the state I live in...

Once we got there, we parked and walked up and down the main strip of this quaint little town.  We stopped for lunch and of course received horrendous service, but it couldn’t ruin an amazing day.  We sauntered hand in hand, and just enjoyed each other.  I felt like we were newlyweds!  I love the Chief with every inch of my being.  When I am with him, I want to touch him.  His presence gives me an instant feeling of safety and love.  His voice calms me, and I hang on to his every word.  I pray that I never lose this feeling when I am with him.  I see couples all the time, and I feel like they don’t have what we have.  I see the way women act with their spouses, and I feel lucky Chief and I are on a different level.  I feel as though I have known him my whole life.  I know God meant for us to be together.  He made Chief for me, and he made me for Chief.  Of course our marriage isn’t that of a fairy tale.  We fight about the same things any other couple fights about...kids, money, and in-laws.  Despite our fights, we still end up in the same room each night, with our arms wrapped around each other, falling asleep to the rhythm of the others breathing.  Upchuck if you want, but this is how I feel.  

Ending a spectacular day, we hopped back on the motorcycle, and took off for the house.  In Texas, a motorcycle ride is fun, but by no means does it take your breath away; I don’t care how beautiful the day is.  In Connecticut, if you close your eyes for even a moment, you are missing out.  The smell of the ocean is better than any smell you can ever take in.  With its aroma of salt, fish, and freshness, it makes you want to live IN it.  Sailboats making their way away from the coast and into the deep blue, leaving behind a current of short waves.... miniature islands with trees coating them... houses stacked against the edge of the water with their own private beaches... sand that sparkles as if there are miniscule pieces of gold tossed in... trees with radiant colors, bursting from every empty hole, towering over the houses in a protective manner.... and the hills, that bring the whole site together and forces the life in your face...  THAT is something I can’t get in Texas.  

The day was magical.  Then it was over.  The short trip, also over.  That quick.  For the first time, I was sad leaving Connecticut.  I am still not ready to call it “home,” but at least I have a start.   

Hold the bacon

So, I have come to realize, my eating habits are not that of a normal 31 year old female.  They are, however, very similar to a five year old child.  I have a few rules, more like guidelines, that I follow.  

1. If it is something someone else has cooked, it can’t have more than three ingredients.  I don’t do casseroles unless it has been cooked by myself, or by my mother.  Don’t even throw the word meatloaf at me.  Putting together a conglomerate of ingredients and then forcing it into the shape of my Aunt Judy’s homemade loaf of bread, is NOT a meal.  I have found over the years people really dig this pile of duke.  They open the refrigerator and see a couple chicken nuggets (left over from last weeks kid’s meal), chop it up (because that qualifies as the “meat” in meatloaf), throw in a few other things that could be anywhere from onions to cotton candy, and place it in the oven, only to pull it out in 45 minutes and place it on the table around the family.  Really?  What did they do so bad to deserve to eat that mess? 

Casseroles are also out of the question for me.  Most casseroles have more than three ingredients...so I am out.  

1. Bacon.  There is ONE place where you should find bacon.  Next to your eggs, in the shape of an airplane runway.  Don’t stick it on my sandwiches and hamburgers.  For crying out loud, don’t chop it up and sneak it into my sides either!  Do you know what people put bacon on?  I order green beans, and it has bacon in it.  I order mashed potatoes and they have diced it and MIXED it in (this is borderline casserole)!  Restaurants chop it up and stick it in corn, salad, and spinach.  Now, it doesn’t matter what I order I say, “Please hold the bacon.”  Yesterday: “I would like the peach cobbler, and please leave off the bacon.”  Better safe than sorry.   
2. Beans.  There is one kind of bean to eat....green ones.  I am not picky (imagine that) about how you give them to me.  They can be french style, cut, or long...I prefer them out of the can, but would be willing to choke down fresh ones (depending on my audience).  Those other beans?  The brown ones?  You can hold those too.  I would rather save the baby food for the babies.  If it’s round, and has a tough skin, I am not putting it in my mouth.  The beans that qualify under this category?  Pinto, refried, lima, kidney (don’t even get me started on putting a body part with the word BEAN on it, in my mouth), black, brown, white, purple, orange...there are too many to list.  Green is the only one I am eating.  Case closed.
3. Soups.  I LOVE soup.  I know what you are thinking, soup is just a liquid form of a casserole.  I agree, which is why I order soup and only eat the broth.  There is an exception to this (as with any rule).  Olive Garden minestrone soup.  Not only will I eat the broth, but I will eat the sea shell noodles too.  As for all the other thrown in ingredients (probably a mixture of bacon and cotton candy)?  I will pass.  
4. Pizza.  Don’t worry, I am not going to bad mouth America’s favorite food.  I LOVE pizza.  I even like pepperoni pizza, but I don’t like the pepperoni.  So, I order the pizza, and remove the pepperoni.  I like the juice from it, just not really the pepperoni itself.  Pizza is another exception to my “three ingredients” rule.  I like a vegetarian pizza too, and will ONLY eat it because I can physically SEE all the ingredients.  It isn’t hidden in a loaf shape, or buried somewhere beneath the cheese covering to a casserole dish.  Of course I pick off the onions, green peppers, and yellow peppers.  But I LOVE the mushrooms, and the juices from all those other veggies.  
5. Speaking of onions.  I don’t like onions chopped up in my food (similar to the bacon issue), or put on my sandwiches and burgers.  BUT, I LOVE bloomin’ onions...because, I know what I am getting.  It is a dish with onions, nothing more, nothing less.  
6. Blue foods.  I am not doing it.  I shouldn’t have to explain why the color blue should not be eaten.  If I have a bag of M&Ms, I eat all but the blue ones.  Sweet Tarts?  All but the blue ones.  I stay away from blue suckers, and any other candy that might have the slightest tint of blue.  As for blueberries...what color are they?  Case closed.    
7. I like my food warm, but as far as my cookies, cakes, and brownies?  They need to be room temperature before I will eat them.  So fresh cookies out of the oven need to sit about an hour before I will pick one up...same with brownies.  Don’t ask me why, I just don’t like them warm. 
8. Leftovers.  I don’t do them, unless it is pizza.  I don’t want to eat food that is more than six hours old.  Why is that so weird?  
9. Fresh fruits and veggies.  This is a grey area for me.  I really don’t like many fresh fruits or veggies.  Fresh fruits make my gums feel dry and weird.  I will eat apples, but bananas give you stinky breath so I stay clear of them.  And vegetables, well, lets just be honest, I am not a fan (unless it is asparagus or artichoke).  Give it to me in a can, and I am great (as long as it’s green beans or corn).    
10. Drinks.  Of course we are talking non alcoholic (because I don’t drink alcohol)...I like them room temperature.  When I order soda at a restaurant I ask for just a little ice.  If I order anything other than soda, I tell them no ice.   When I go to the Olive Garden with Blond BFF, I request, “Peach tea with no ice.”  She promptly follows that with, “I would also like peach tea, but I would like mine the way normal people drink it.”  At home, I don’t like my sodas out of the refrigerator, I like them out of the pantry where I can add my own ice.
11. Chinese.  I can’t do it.  I have tried on multiple occasions to eat their chopped up baby kitten, and I just can’t swallow.  Have you ever noticed the meat is unrecognizable?  Is it beef, or chicken, beef, or chicken, beef or.... Can’t do it.  In my mind, kitten, or puppy, kitten, or puppy...
12. Eggs.  There is one way to eat an egg.  Over easy.  Simple right?  Well, I thought so.  I eat my eggs in a very specific way.  I first take my fork and cut around the yolk and eat all the white.  Then I carefully slide my fork under the yolk, making a serious attempt at NOT popping that yolk.  I balance it on the fork, and lift it to my mouth.  Once in the mouth I press the yolk against the roof and let it pop in my mouth.  If you didn’t think I was a freak before, I probably just changed your mind.  Call me crazy, I like to save the best for last.  No need to make a big mess all over the plate, when I can have every ounce of pleasure in my mouth all at once in a quick burst.  Are ya hungry for an egg yet?

The reason I am blogging about food, is because of who I am temporarily living with.  Blond BFF and her husband, who I will choose a very appropriate alias of: Garbage Disposal.  Garbage Disposal will eat ANYTHING.  He has my 5’7, 105 pound Blond BFF trained to eat the same meal two days in a row.  IMAGINE the horror!  People wonder why she is so damn skinny!  They have a system.  They cook enough for two meals (by “they” I mean him, Blond BFF doesn’t cook).  For example, what they cook on Monday, they eat on Monday AND Tuesday.  Then what they cook on Wednesday, they eat on Wednesday AND Thursday.  It is an endless cycle.  Needless to say, every other evening I have “prior dinner engagements.”  

This man will eat anyone’s leftovers.  I don’t DARE throw away food (at least not while he is looking).  If I eat out, I bring him my last two bites.  “No, I don’t live with a dog, I just live with the human garbage disposal...do you mind wrapping up that table over there’s left overs too?”  NO food goes to waste with this man in the house.    

I am very much, a steak and potato kind of girl.  I need simple, I need plain.  I don’t wander outside of my box very often.  It baffles me that people think I am finicky about my food.  Brunette BFF informed me that she won’t cook when I come over because she is terrified of making something that I won’t eat.  I assure you, if you make me a meal, I will choke it down whether I like it or not, because my momma taught me, “You eat what is put in front of you.”  Of course I would not go to someone’s house and not eat what they have prepared.  That is just plain rude.  I assure you, I will smile, choke it down, and then not return for a meal again because I will have “prior dinner engagements.”  

My regular orders:

Chick-fil-a: Chicken sandwich with pickles only, hold the bacon

Wendys: Chicken sandwich on a REGULAR bun (they will give you those stupid wheat buns with seeds on them if you don’t request the “regular” one), with pickles only, hold the bacon.

McDonalds: Big Mac, with no onions, lettuce, or tomato, hold the bacon.

Taco Hell: Cheese roll up (simply cheese in a tortilla shell), hold the bacon.

Hooters: Crab legs, hold the pepper and bacon.

Twin Peaks: Steak Skewer, medium rare, leave off all spices and peppers.  Corn and fries, hold the bacon.

Logans/Texas Roadhouse: Medium rare sirloin, fries, and corn, hold the bacon.

Olive Garden: Peach tea (no ice), Cheese ravioli with marinara sauce, minestrone soup (broth and noodles only), hold the bacon.

Mexican Restaurant: Chicken fajitas, hold the bacon.

Ice cream Shop: Vanilla ice cream, hold the bacon.

That’s me in a nutshell.  I am a vanilla square.  Hold the bacon.

Line Cutters

        There is a special place in hell for people that cut in line.  Nothing infuriates me more than YOU thinking you are important enough that you don’t have to wait like everyone else.  The airplane lands.  Everyone in the front stands up, people in the back stay seated, knowing it’s going to be a ten minute wait.  You always have that impatient jack wagon that comes from the last row that runs halfway up the isle before the seatbelt sign finishes it’s ring.  I want to make something clear.  I like to be first, but I am not a cutter unless I feel it is necessary.  For instance, if you are next in line instead a fast food restaurant, and you are on your phone and not paying attention, chances are, I will walk past you and go.  Don’t get in line unless you are ready to order.  Hence the fast, in fast food.  I don’t have time for people that piddle around.  With that said, when you are in an airplane, and everyone is trying to get off the plane, don’t be an ignoramus and jump ahead of everyone.  That is just breaking the rules, and I am NOT a rule breaker.  I was on this flight a couple years back and I was sitting next to a young kid (13ish).  We were towards the middle of the plane, and it had landed and was making its way to the gate.  Someone out of the corner of my eye caught my attention.  It was a woman that was standing up getting her bag out of the overhead (rule #1: don’t get up until the fasten seatbelt sign goes off).  Then we got the “it’s okay to get up” ding, and I immediately stood up as she plowed into me.  She said, “Excuse me.” 
        I said, “You are excused.”   
        “Can I get by?”
        “No, you can wait like everyone else.  You can’t go anywhere anyway, no one is moving.”
        The woman tried to squeeze by me...seriously.  I might look weak, but I am not pushover, peeps.  I stood my ground.  I wouldn’t let her by.  I then made sure every seat in front of me was empty before I walked forward.  The kid that was sitting next to me stood up and tried to squeeze in.  The woman starting pushing him.  At that point I almost lost it.  “Lady, CALM DOWN.  You are pushing a CHILD.  You are acting completely inappropriate right now.”  I made sure to say this all very loud, so she would receive the stares of onlookers.  I thought her tiny, Clinique filled face was going to explode. 
        Another place that I hate cutters.  In the car.  Nothing makes me more angry than people that ride in that left hand lane when they know it ends up ahead.  I seriously am going to be on the news one day.  I can see it now: Frisco woman, beats up business man with the hook end of an umbrella, then breaks his window with the heel of her red pumps.  Witnesses say she was screaming, “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU IGNORANT JACK WAGON?!?  DON’T YOU SEE THERE IS A DAMN LINE HERE?”  Seriously, makes me want to shoot someone.  It’s probably a good thing I don’t carry a gun...or an umbrella.  
        If you are reading this, and YOU are one of these line cutters...may your balls fall off and your hair fall out.  So help me God.    

Side note.  When someone lets you in, thank them with a wave.  Is that too much to ask?  Didn’t you listen to your momma when she taught you to say please and thank you?