Sunday, June 29, 2008

Flying Free to Phoenix

There are many joys attached to having a flight attendant cousin. My favorite is fielding the inevitable question that follows as soon as the words, "my cousin Jake, the flight attendant" fall out of my mouth, which is, "Is he...(dun, dun, DUUUNN! Crowd gasps.) gay?" Then I continue on with my sentence, "and his hot, busty, blonde wife Nicole, who is also a flight attendant..." to answer their question without actually answering it.
My second favorite is the occasional free stand by plane tickets he passes on to lucky family members. This year they went to me, my sister and my brother-in-law and we came to visit Jake and Nicole at their new house outside Phoenix in Goodyear, Arizona.
OK Jake, you provide the plane ticket and I'll provide the ridiculous, unintended, but appreciated entertainment.
As stand by travelers, we were excited to even get on the plane Thursday night and didn't care that we didn't all get to sit together or that the plane was crammed full of smelly, fat people. However, I did mind that the largest douche (not in size, but in character) of the 50 states planted his ass right next to me.
At first it was just nice little bantery chit chat, then mild bragging about his daring career moves and life as a "native Californian." Then, as the flight attendants kept his little plastic cup full of merlot, it quickly turned into him commanding the conversation, cornering Gina and I in our plane seats while he blabbered on about religion and politics and gay marriage and how his wife was a crazy bitch and all the other controversial stuff that you just don't push on two, cornered young women on a crowded plane while contradicting himself on his unwanted scary conservative views every five minutes...oh, and did he mention he was a "native Californian?"
My sister, the understanding nurse, muttered a polite "uh huh," "yeah" whenever he would allow while I buried my face in my book trying to ignore him completely while the bullshit continued to spew from his face. At one point, he discovered that I was 25 and HOLY SHIT, he just about crapped his pants with delight! My age automatically meant that I was mentally retarded and he began condescendingly referring to me as "the 25-year-old" saying things like, "oh you little 25-year-old, you'll get it someday," or "So, 25-year-old, what do you think about the topics I've just discussed?"
I wanted to say, well, it doesn't take somebody over 40 to realize that you're a complete flaming, dicknosed jackass, so at least I have that going for me. Instead I opted for a simple, "they don't really interest me." That got him to shut up for a whole two minutes until the plane started to land and I began to feel nauseous. This happens to me once in a great while during decent, but it was surely highlighted this time because this great douche of a man was practically in my lap blowing his shit smelling breath straight into my nostrils.
He continued to talk non stop and attempt to "soothe" me, since, ya know, us little Kansas girls have never been on one of these here flyin' machines before *he yuk,* all while humping my right arm. I breathed in and out slowly to not only avoid vomiting, but also to refrain from screaming SHUT THE FUCK UP! I'm going to punch you in your stale red wine breath blowing mouth you bastard. Why don't you talk some more shit on your wife to a different group of perfect strangers because your douchebaggery has not only exhausted me, but has caused my ears to fold in on themselves in an attempt to block out your verbal diarrhea.
After the plane landed and he went to the back to poke at the flight attendants, the people in front of us, who heard the entire train wreck, felt so sorry for us that they shoved us in front of them to help us get away from him.

Now, with a start to a trip that bad, needless to say, the rest of the trip was absolute bliss. We went straight to dinner to meet up with some of Jake and Nicole's friends we met at their wedding in Cabo in February. I sadly passed on beer because of my lingering barfy feeling and passed out early because I had slept a whole four hours the night before. I was up until 4 a.m. finishing an editing test I had to turn in at an interview I had Thursday, which I initially thought I aced, then my neurosis slowly set and now I'm fairly certain I bombed. Fuck.
* The next day, we made a trip to a GIANT liquor store, then out to Lake Pleasanton where we floated in the lovely clear water getting shitfaced, talking about life and laughing at me trying and failing to wakeboard.



"See Lara suck at watersports."

We returned home to some extremely excited doggies - Loretta and Sadie, then decided to invade the neighbor's pool. This involved me squeezing into and paddling my drunk self around in a pink kiddie raft, then slipping and busting my ass on the deck:





Yes, I know I'm quite graceful and talented.

* The next day, we tubed down the Salt River and discovered that pink marshmallows floating in the river = MARSHMALLOW FIIIIIIIIIIGHT! And we thoroughly enjoyed pinging each other and people we didn't know in the back of head with slimy, swollen marshmallows. Other highlights - Scott taking a dump in the river and discovering the largest nipples ever seen on a man.
* We later treated ourselves with the delicacy that is In-N-Out Burger - how I love thee. I often ponder, why isn't Kansas, the land of cows, home to one of these glorious establishments? I'm waiting patiently and when you do decide to move further east oh holy In-N-Out gods, when I'm 105, I'll still be your best Kansas customer, even if I no longer live here.

Then we climbed on a plane at 6 a.m., got home in one piece and now I want to sleep for four days straight.
I'm totally calling dibs on next year's free stand by tickets...

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Home Sweet Home

I LOVE MY NEW APARTMENT! IT'S SO MOTHERFUCKING, DISGUSTINGLY CUTE!

OK, now that moving day is over and most of my boxes are unpacked I feel less like ripping someone's fucking face off. I might have been a little cranky for a few days there, but I'm back to normal now. Moving day, Friday the 13th nonetheless, sucked BALLS at first. I signed my lease, walked in my new place, then was assaulted by a KU sticker that the previous resident left stuck on the dryer. I swear it burned my retinas, but I had to take a picture because that was just too weird. Then I found a goddamn KU face tatoo in my medicine cabinet! But that's not really why it sucked. It was just Mom and me moving stuff at first...us two and my 300 foot mountain of shit. We didn't get very far needless to say, but then my pals (and Dad) got off of work and came to the rescue - Kate, Baron and Sam. We were done in an hour and a half. Mom compensated the hard workers with Papa John's and Miller Lite in my clusterfuckity living room, then somehow I found stuff to bathe with, clothes and make-up and we went out for a celebration...which means we drank a lot at bars.
It's a given that I love Mom and Dad, but I love those three other monkeys too. They're the kind of people that I know are going to be around for the rest of my life and they're not going to flake out when shit gets rough or decide somebody else is more interesting and ignore my existence or any of that petty high school "I do what's popular instead of what's right and the word loyalty has no place in my life" bullshit.
Anyway, besides the fact that my stove, my ice maker and my sliding glass door all decided to crap out on me within the first two days (they were all fixed promptly) and I've watched every DVD in my small collection six times because I'm a dumbass and didn't call the cable company ahead of time, life as a true singleton has been fabulous. My big girl bed is like a "yea! kiss my ass insomnia cloud," my decorating skills have proved to be even better than I expected, in unit washers and dryers are the best things ever and I don't have some anal shitbag breathing down my neck about anything. Here are a few things I've noticed since embarking on my first living alone experience:
* I've become a nudist. Yes, screw clothes, I love naked. Drying my hair, washing dishes, watching TV, dancing...I hope I didn't move into one of those creepy apartment complexes you see on 60 Minutes that puts hidden cameras all over the place. If so, at least they're getting some good quality entertainment.

* I love me. I talk to myself. I hang out by myself. I sleep alone, except for with Andy Boo. I make time for just myself...and most of the time I like it.

* I'm pretty sure I just moved into a retirement community. Everytime I walk Andy, the complex is either completely deserted or on the rare occasion I do see another soul, they are 150 years old. It's so bad that I'm afraid that if I see someone within 20 years of my age, I will tackle them and demand that they become friends with me just because I'm so glad that somebody else lives here besides me and the crotchety crowd. Plus, people are so "settled" in this place, which is unusual for an apartment complex. I'm talking storm doors, vegetable gardens, wooden name signs hung above the garage and scary amounts of self landscaped "yards" complete with birdbaths and lawn gnomes. It's kinda bizarre.

* I do not enjoy playing with dog poop. The complex demands we clean up after our pets and as sexy as it is to see a woman bend over and scoop up her dog's shit in a little plastic bag, then carry it around the rest of the walk, I'd rather just go somewhere where nobody can see my dog shitting and avoid the ritual. Sometimes it's unavoidable though and I still haven't figured out exactly what to do with the shit bags either since there aren't any outside trash cans.

* How narcissistic can I be? I guess this sort of goes with the "I love me," but I've decided that this apartment will bear something "me" all over the fucking place just because I can. I mean, it is all about me right? My first project is a giant "L" to place on a mantle shelf in my living room. I found one at the craft store when I was there with Mom the other day and she almost peed her pants laughing with I walked up to her with a 5-foot tall paper mache "L." OK, so maybe I don't want it that big, but I'm currently looking for something similar.

Well, so far, so good, but if I suddenly mention a new found love for BINGO or shuffleboard or start to impulsively hoard cats, somebody please intervene.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

White Trash Bash

I'm never more aware that Kansas City is full of smelly, fat, tatooed white trash than when Rockfest rolls around.
The annual day long event caused 50,000 people to crawl out of the woodwork and decend on Liberty Memorial Park yesterday. Apparently toothless, scragly-haired, gangly people looooove rock music. I mean, it was an absolute sea of people milling from stage to stage, beer tent to giant foot long corn dog stand, to the water fountain station then of course to the forest of port-o-potties. Never in your life will you see more muffin tops, dimply asses, poorly etched tatoos, saggy boobs and mullets all gathered in one place. The fact that Kate, Sam, Baron and I have none of those things made us a minority, a rare piece of beautiful scenery or a target - take your pick.
Kate had class most of the day (damn her and her trying to better herself!) leaving Sam, Baron and me to try to fend off the beer craving pangs. We arrived around noon-ish and wanted to wait for the first thirst quenching beer until 5 p.m. for two reasons: 1.) We didn't want to be completely obnoxious when Kate showed up for fear she would ditch us, leaving me to play with just the smelly boys the rest of the night. 2.) We had an irrational fear that we would become what Johnny Dare, the mascot of 98.9, the radio station that puts on the shindig, calls the infamous "Rock Lobster" a.k.a. a wasted dipshit that passes out on the lawn and gets horrendously sunburned. I suppose there was also the fear that one of us would have to visit the medical tent for dehydration and be poked with needles, but becoming the Rock Lobster might have been worse.
So we waited and waited...and waited, but dealing with the fat, sweaty, tatooed, B.O.-tastic crowd along with the fried food and beer drenched atmosphere was almost too much to bear without a frosty plastic cup of goodness in one hand. And, a whole 45 minutes after arriving and reiterating our 5 p.m. pact, we found our alcoholic asses in front of the glorious beer tent ordering giant Miller Lites. And, no, I'm not ashamed. It's human nature right?
Trips to the port-o-potty forest became increasingly difficult throughout the day. I managed to become slightly tipsy at one point during the festival, imagine that, and with the hotness that is Kansas City summer, the water station was overflowing, making the area around it a giant mudhole. I slop through it in my sensibly chosen black platform flip flops and lose both of them in the process. After ewww-ing profusely because I was actually barefoot for 10 whole seconds at Rockfest probably catching herpes of the feet, I put them back on and climbed up the hill that you had to walk on sideways to get to forest-o-potties.
Drunk Lara + wet rubber platform flip flops + big hill = rolled ankle and broken shoe.
Dammit, now I was barefoot at Rockfest for even more disgusting seconds. Sick. I almost cried at the thought of walking around the rest of the day with no shoes on even though my feet were already caked with Ebola virus anyway, but then my friend Jeff came to the rescue and shoved the little flip flop prong back in with a car key, repairing the shoe. I owe him my feet because amputation probably would have been my only option if I was forced to bare foot-it.
Did I mention there were 50,000 fucking people there most of whom were absolutely disgusting creatures, but a few of whom I knew? Co-workers, friends of friends, people I didn't recognize since I hadn't seen them since we were six in dance class...Then there were the people I was forced to get to know a little bit better without actually knowing them because they showed off pieces of their anatomy hence the names, "the boob train," "fatty fat bitch tits," and "plastic ken doll." When you add in all the sweaty bastards that tried to molest me throughout the day, I say I made quite a few new friends.
Oh yeah, and there was music and stuff even though I wasn't a huge fan of any of the bands besides the headliners, Stone Temple Pilots. I mean, who doesn't love STP and Scott Weiland's cracked out ass? Oh, and was he cracked out. He was mumbling shit about "corporations and love and blah" between songs, then he'd randomly just say "FUCK!...SHIT!" between songs. I think I liked it best when they sang Happy Birthday to one of the band members and at the end, Scott sang, "...And many whoooores!" However, the old songs sounded amazing and while he came out on stage in this hot red hat and tie, he of course ended up shirtless with his hair plastered to his face. Scott Weiland - skinny, cracked out, sweating profusely, yet still strangely attractive...Hmmm...

Thursday, June 5, 2008

Mom on my Side

A cute apartment is essential for a single gal and I'm lucky to have a mother that agrees with me.
Lets see, I need fabric to recover the cushions on the bamboo chair I'm inheriting from my parents. The scary pink flowered shit from 1985 that's on it now is anti-cute and mustn't enter my cute only apartment.
I also need a bed skirt for the new big girl queen sized (yes, very fitting) bed Nebraska Furniture Mart will be delivering the day I move in. And not one of those horrendous frilly things - Tailored, thank you, tailored.
It's probably also a good idea that I borrow some money to pay for asshole's leather couch that Andy sorta, kinda ate when we were first dating because I more or less live paycheck to paycheck like most writers. (Why the hell didn't I major in marketing or business like a normal human being? Journalism - really? What the fuck is wrong with me? Damn dream follower and shit...) I can't be moving into my new cute apartment with couch dues unpaid. That's just bad karma. Plus I really don't want him to come hunt me down for the money (which he would most definitely do) or hire a hit man (yeah, wouldn't put that one past him either) because I really just want him to go the hell away so I can pretend he no longer exists.
I'm also glad mom and I see eye to eye on this issue as well. After shopping a bit, we stopped by her bank right by where I used to live. The cute little house that I found on the Internet. My goddamn house that I was forced to vacate because somebody is a scary dickhead. This launched me into a diatribe of how said dickhead would still be living in Olathe with no friends and no life if I had never come along. I introduced him to the lovely land up north - close to the fun stuff, yet still suburbia, yet not suburbia hell - I introduced him to everybody he hangs out with now (or used to since most of them have told him to fuck off because of his actions towards me) and the entire life he leads...blah, blah, blah on and on and on...and then he just steals the life I created out from under me forcing me to start over again? It's just not fucking fair.

"I hate him, Mom. I fucking HATE HIM!"
Mom: *silent*
"I just don't know if I can do this anymore. Guys are just a pain in the ass. How do people deal with this and get married and stuff? Fuck it, I'm just staying single."
Mom: "You know Lara, sometimes it just isn't worth it. They're more trouble than they're worth."
"Yeah,dammit."

We pull up to my bank so I can deposit money into my account and I yank down my green lace button up shirt as I walk in. The only male teller behind the counter eagerly says, "I can help you right here!"
As I hand him the cash, he stares me in the face, smirks, then says, "Your eyes match your shirt, ya know that?"
I raise my eyebrows, grab my receipt and just say, "Yeeeep" and walk out.

(whining)"Mom, the bank teller just hit on me!"
Mom: "He did?!" What did he say?"
"He said 'your eyes match your shirt, ya know that?'"
Mom: "Did you say 'hellooooo, my eyes are blue?'"
"No, but I should've...I can't even go to the bank without being molested by some stupid guy. What a douche."
Mom: "Totally."

Sleeps With Dogs

This is what happens when I'm put in charge of children:






Isn't it kind of funny (or sad) that my niece Remi would rather pass out in the dog bed with Shadie than a.) in her own bed or b.) on the couch next to her Auntie Harn? I'm totally not like mommy though, for obvious reasons (refer to photo above). Mommy and Mema have nice, squishy boob pillows to offer the child while all I have is a rock hard, bony sternum. Snuggling up next to my scrawny ass is like roughing it style camping. I'd probably choose the dog bed too, but I would like to say that I most definitely smell better.
Scott and Gina went to a concert while I watched the little one and she was just chillin' on the couch with me, when all of a sudden, she walks over to the dog bed and face plants on it. After a bit of thrashing and rolling, she was out. Actually, I was kind of relieved since the kid literally HATES to go to bed (future party animal like the rest of the family) and the fact that she passed out on her own regardless of where it was, made my job a whole lot easier.
I texted Scott: "Ha! Your child just fell asleep with Shadie in the dog bed!"
All I got back was: "TAKE PICS"
And so I did. Shadie eventually just happened to rest her head on Remi's butt, which made the pictures even more "Awwww" worthy. When the parents arrived home, Shadie of course jumped out of the bed to greet them, but Remi just stayed sound asleep so Mom and Dad could gawk, laugh and say "awww!"
I wonder what other families would say if I said, "Hey, I got your kid to sleep, but it passed out in the dog bed with the dog." Perhaps I should stick to babysitting my own flesh and blood.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

The Doo Doos and Don'ts of Dating

I'm fully aware that everybody shits.
I shit, you shit, boys shit, girls shit, my dog shits, your mom shits...
In fact, this common act spurred the idea for the greatest piece of literature known to man, "Everybody Poops."
I'm actually quite open to talking about my own personal shit stories in certain company, but that company doesn't include a guy I'm interested in that I've known for three days. I mean, come on, that's just cruel. We all know that men would rather deny the fact that women shit than live in reality...and guess what? Women feel the same way about men.
There's a certain point in a relationship where you become aware of the fact that your partner does in fact shit and that's OK. It no longer makes you cringe when it's mentioned and with time, jokes may even be cracked about the other's shit habits. My favorite? My brother-in-law yelling, "Gina's takin' a shiiiiiiit!" if my sister (or anybody) is in the bathroom more than 30 seconds.
However, that comfort level does not materialize after three days or even a week. When I'm still unsure of what your middle name is and I'm still learning the names of your siblings and your views on religion, I do not want to know about your bowel movements. And, for the love of god, I don't want to be anywhere near you when you release them...so just don't fucking do it.
Burping and farting? Still funny, to an extent, but please use your best judgement. You might want to wait at least a few dates before letting the ass trumpet loose.
Ok, that is all for now. Until next time...happy shiting...alone...and not in front of somebody you just started dating...

Sunday, June 1, 2008

I wanna get drunk all day...and party every night...

Why is it that everytime somebody mentions some sort of pub crawl I'm all like, "Fuck yeah!" It's not like we don't bounce from bar to bar every weekend anyway, but an occassion that requires some sort of bar bouncing theme and schedule gives it that extra drunken euphoria.
When we were too young to pub crawl, we created the Out-of-House crawl with all the juniors in our sorority pledge class. In matching Ts, carrying matching cups, we got underclassmen to cart us around to about five of our houses or apartments where we drank in true themed style. Kate and I of course had the dirty Mexican party complete with tequila shots and a stereo blaring downloaded mariachi music.
After the whole of us turned 21, we soon gained the reputation of the drunkest pledge class that ever passed through the house. While most had a senior pub crawl we decided we needed to get some good wear out of our hot pink Aggieville bar strewn t-shirts that said "If you can read this, put me back on my barstool" upside down on the back, so we had about four. Then, as if that wasn't enough, we created the alumni pub crawl to help us slip into deep denial that we were all getting old.
Now, after the adult pub crawls consisting of tacky Christmas sweaters and santa hats, white trash attire and golf pro sluts and of course, Crawl For Cancer, news of perhaps the ultimate crawl popped up a few weeks ago.
An Around the World Bar Tour in the Power & Light District. Each bar was a different country and you had to answer different trivia questions at each to get a hole punched in your card. At the end, full punch cards were entered into a drawing for fabulous prizes.
So, instead of just drinking you kind of have to think, in otherwords, the lazy drunks need not apply. I happen to think I'm a smart, energetic drunk, so this was perfect for me. Especially since Sam had the ability to look up all the answers on Google from his phone. What? I'm not letting any lack of knowledge/rules stand in the way of that giant plasma TV prize. It's mine bitches.
My faux parents, also known as Kate and Sam, and I made up a team and we actually knew some of the answers without using phone Google. Except phone Google made us look too smart. The kind of smart that doesn't consume mass quantities of alcohol before the sun goes down. As I went up to the trivia post at McFadden's to spout off all of the answers to the four questions, including one pertaining to Hamlet, a guy standing nearby, seemingly quite impressed with my awesomeness exclaimed, "Are you a Shakespeare fan?!"
"Uuhhh...no." I said quickly, running away. While I'm more appreciative of his work now, reading Shakespeare in junior high and high school kind of made me want to stab my eyes out and die. I ran away to avoid revealing my phone Google secret. Not because I was ashamed or afraid he might quiz me with random Shakespearean nonsense, but because I feared he would steal it and ruin my chances at plasma TV ownership. I think not.
The rest of the day was lost in Red Bull and vodka, but I know at some point we made friends with the mimosa guzzling bartenders at Vininos and saw the extremely "mah" *push nose into the air with finger* bar Mosaic during the day. I dare not venture in there at night for my fear of orange tinted douchebags is far too great.
I turned in my full punch card, trying to think of how I was going to get my giant TV home, then about every other name except for the three of ours was drawn to receive a prize. Then some dude took home my TV and a tear fell into my beer. Bastard.
I sat at Kate's until I sobered up, then decided it was a good idea to go back to the P & L to round out the night with some more vodka. Alyse and I watched a girl perform an Irish jig on a table at Ragland Road while some sketchy, balding dude with billow-y chest hair repeatedly asked us on separate occasions if we wanted to go to Costa Rica with him.
I think I'll switch to beer now...
 

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