Back. Off.

What is it with people these days?

First, no on has any respect left for personal space - especially men, who find you attractive - they'll totally breathe down your neck under the guise of needing something, or reading the same thing you are, reaching for a pack of gum from the Impulse Buying Shelf, or - I really don't care what reason they give, if I turn around with a knife in my hand, and you're so close I'd cut you in half?

Back the hell up.

For the record? Be very careful especially if you find her attractive; then it's not only irritating in an over-the-top-annoying kind of way, but the Really Very Creepy kind of way, leaving her skin crawling, and her wanting a very hot bath. I know this. That guy at the grocery store the other day, who hopped in line behind me, on the one time I didn't use the Self-Checkout, scootched so close to me I'm not sure dental floss could've passed between us. Supposedly, he was reaching for gum.

Let me be clear: if I don't know you?

Don't touch me.

If I've not given you specific instructions that it's okay to touch me?

Then don't.

Keep your ridiculous excuses Mr. Gum Guy to yourself, I'm not buying it. What you did was rude, obnoxious, and bordering on sexual harassment. Next time? I might not be so nice - maybe I won't simply move forward, locking eyes with the pretty little girl ringing me up, both of us sharing that Ewww Moment, maybe, just maybe?

I'll "accidentally" knee your nuts while I'm reaching for the latest copy of Martha Stewart Magazine. I did want to check out those blue eggs on the cover.

While I'm at it, people suck way more than simply rubbing up against me like a cat in heat on a hot July day; I've had it up-to-here with seemingly interested relatives who only want to chat when it's convenient for them, read: dinner hour. By the way? Beginning a conversation with "no one else answered when I rang, so I thought I'd call you to chat" while driving home from work, the cell phone going in and out? Not the best way to start a conversation - one that leaves both sides pissy - me, because I'm freaking cooking dinner - an event that does not deviate on a nightly basis - them, because I'm lacking the required enthusiasm and fabulous news to impart they crave.

The worst part of the above unnamed offender? It's not the first time during dinner that they've chosen to call. Nor, sadly, is it the first time that horrifyingly demeaning phrase has been used - frankly, I don't need to know that no one else answered, so you scrolled through your address book on your phone for some poor schmuck you know will be home so clearly, you'll have a captive audience. How might you know that I'll be home, you might be naive enough to ask?

I've a child and dog.

It's dinner time.

Say it with me...dinner tiiiiiiiimmmmmeeee.

You want my attention?

Simple.

Do not rub up against me, unless you've express permission, most likely in writing that it's okay to do so, and, for the love of God, have some respect, do not call during the dinner hour. Even if it's not your dinner hour, because you don't have children, or pets, so you eat at eight, or nine, whenever you feel like having something other than a glass of wine and some fruit you grabbed from your fridge, while luxuriating on the sofa catching up on the day's news. Or sit-coms. Or that hideous Sex in the City crap.

I can't follow a sit-com, as my tv viewing tends to be limited to that acceptable for the younger viewing generation - we're on a steady diet of i-carly, Phineas and Pherb, or something equally brain numbing. Don't tell me how fabbbbulous so and so looked in whatever dress she had on during a sit-com - because honestly? I don't care. I won't have time to watch it, and even if I did? Sleeping rates higher on my list. Or perhaps being allowed a moment to set my ass on a toilet seat without that bringing on the Child and Dog Brigade, lest I have one moment to do anything other than attend to their needs.

If I hadn't heard that the health care reform bill got passed? I might not know if Obama was still president. I learned second hand, that we were expecting more rain that this region has ever seen, severe flooding expected; all I knew was that it rained so much Pucker has taken to peeing with one paw on the door of the slider, lest I walk away prior to her being able to come in the moment her stream ended. Or even slightly before that.

A wee dribble of pee on the rug? Pfft. No big deal considering the torrential rain and high wind blowing severely up her un-furred backside.

So, yeah, I'm annoyed today. Totally irritated.

Screw chivalry, I'll take plain old respect any day of the week.

Holding open a door constitutes a lovely gesture; that is, unless you position yourself across the open door, so I've no other option than to allow my sleeve, or bag, or hip, or whatever, to brush across you - you (read: thoughtless prick) may think I don't notice your stupid attempts at being clever, and sort of copping a feel - but I notice. It skeeves me out. Wicked bad.

I don't rub myself up against a hot guy in the market, much as he may wish that were so; I don't stand behind someone at a counter, waiting for coffee and breathe down their neck hoping for a hint of cleavage over the shoulder, or being close enough to inhale strands of their hair.

I don't call during the dinner hour, unless I'm missing a limb, being mauled by bears, or bleeding from every orifice on my body.

I don't begin conversations by pointing that the one called only received said call because no one else I really wanted to talk to answered the phone.

And do you know why?

Because I have respect. For space. For other's. For dinner time.

That's right. Whether I'm serving PB&J's, or roasting a chicken along with a chocolate cake, dinner hour is sacred.

I'll eat my damn PB&J inside my Three Feet In All Directions of Personal Space, while opening my own freaking door.

You want to show off your chivalry?

Call someone - anyone- else during the bewitched dinner hour. Tell them how lowly they rated on your scale of folks to blather to while stuck in traffic. While you're at it, take on that fat lady over there in the check-out line, she may be thrilled to get felt up.

Because if it's me?

You'd do best to Back The Fuck Up.