Sunday, August 31, 2008

I Come for the Cotton Candy

Sick with the beer flu, I refrained from any alcoholic beverages at the T-Bones game we went to as a part of Kate's birthday weekend Saturday night. The $6 tickets got us "seats" on what is known as "the burm" - a half grass, half mud hill that you plant your ass on where ever you can find a bare spot while two dozen screaming, grimy children run around you invading your personal space. Hey, it's minor independent league baseball in Kansas City, what do you expect?
But $1 hot dogs, Dippin' Dots and bags of cotton candy as big as your torso made our seats a little better and we found several activities other than watching the game to entertain ourselves - watching the little kids catch staph infections from a nasty mud hole and cracking up when these two conversations took place while trying to convince little children not to crawl under the deck through a hole in the lattice we were sitting next to:

Mark: "Hey, get outta there!"
Kid: "But we're looking for worms!"
Mark: "That's great, but you can't do it here."
Sam: "The worms under there have rabies."


Kate: "Don't go under there."
Kid No. 2: (extremely concerned and whiny) "But we're looking for worms because we're making a drink tower and we have to have worms! We HAVE TO!"
Kate: "Well, yes, that makes perfect sense."

We were also quite entertained with the little child with a mullet, french braiding Baron's hair and my personal favorite, distracting the right fielder from the other team.
After inhaling the better part of one of said torso sized bags of cotton candy, I decided the right fielder from Fargo was intriguing and started waving at him. One time I got a wave back and another time I got a hat tip - yeah, I'm pretty big pimpin'.
The waving turned into loud choruses of "HEEEEEEEY MOOOORTIMER!" (the name on the back of his jersey). When he went up to bat, we found out his first name was Steve and then, (if I would have had binoculars), I saw him pound his chest with his fist twice and mouth the words "This is for you hot yellow tank top girl," then he busted out a grand slam.
Kate then decided to make me a sign and the three seconds it took to take this picture was the longest I stayed up by the wall despite much encouragement from my group who thought my retardedness was quite entertaining. That's Kate's caption from Facebook with it.


I think the best part of this picture is the fact that the baseball player isn't paying ANY attention at all to the game in progress, but is blatantly staring at Lara :) Oh, Mortimer...so dreamy!

Since I was convinced this guy was probably a toad since I couldn't see his face from that far away I decided to continue my charade and wait for him to walk past me on the way to the locker room. Except he got closer and all the little girls wanted their picture taken with him - little girls with fabulously mature taste because he was gorgeous. I was all, "uhhhhhh, uhmmmm, derrrr." He finally shook all the little girls clinging to his arms and legs off of him and I managed a "Heeeey Steve," when he walked by...and kept walking by. Dammit Steve.
"Did you enjoy the game?" he called out over his shoulder. "Come to the playoffs!"

Wait! Who won the game? You guys have playoffs?

Saturday, August 30, 2008

When I Grow Up...

I've been in this manic mood lately about what the hell I'm doing with my life. I'm beginning to think I was grossly misinformed in college and had a complete lack of guidance since I was under the impression that having a college degree in journalism would the open the door to a variety of jobs. But the only door it's opened for me is one that leads to a big black hole. The black hole known as newspapers. Hello? Is there anybody out there? And could you please get me the fuck out of here?
I'm beginning to think that I'll be the reporter in this tiny Kansas town for the rest of my life. I thought I wanted to be a journalist, but as I chill here just above the poverty line while my friends my age are buying homes and getting promotions, I know I can't realistically do this for the rest of my life. There's no opportunity to climb higher and make more money and the skills that I've acquired over the past three years apparently mean nothing since I've been looking for a another job for almost a year with only one interview and a big fatty rejection letter.
So, obviously something's not working here...what do I do about it?

Do I go back to school? For what? I obviously didn't know what the hell I was doing the first time. What are the chances I could fuck it up the second time? So, after a bit of research, I decided that getting an MBA would be beneficial. Then I presented my idea to my parents who immediately criticized it into the ground and made me go, well never-fucking-mind then...I'll just rot in misery until something gets thrown my way...yeah, that's the way to get what you want. I hear Debbie Downer in the midst - wah WAAAAAAAH.

There are about 30,000 things I could do except I don't know how to do them and I need to figure it out.

Um, hello, can I get a career coach please? Do those even exist? God! I don't know anything! : (

Monday, August 25, 2008

First Impressions

I'm really, really good at being myself so much so that people often run away screaming the first time they meet me. I'm honest, tactfully honest and sarcastic, and I don't see it as a character flaw because why would you want to dull yourself down, hide things about yourself then suddenly spring them on people later? That's when people really get pissed. Lets just say that smart, pleasant people that I want to hang out with get me and enjoy my company, so in a way, my uncanny ability to be me from the start is just a way to weed out all the losers right away.
Well, this weekend was a shining example of how first impressions can be a bitch. Friday night was the stickiest, muggiest night of the Kansas City summer so I decided to go out in about half the clothes I normally would. I wore what I like to call the slut skirt or the trouble skirt, aptly named for its teeny tiny-ness and the fact that the first time I wore it, in Cancun, the wind caught the little bottom ruffle just right and all of a sudden *ass* *ass* *ass*. I was embarrassed at first and tried to contain it, but then after realizing it was a lost cause along with downing a few more rum punches, I just said, 'what the hell do I care? I'm in motherfucking Cancun!' and just let it flap in the breeze. All night guys were coming up to me and saying 'that's the best skirt I've ever seen,' and I'm like yes, I know, because I look like a stripper.
Anyway, it was Andrew's birthday and we headed to the Foundry in Westport where everything on the menu is '70s-tastic. We had been eyeing this intriguing tacky tiki pitcher full of jungle juice thing on the menu for weeks, saying we'd get it for the first special occasion because downing a mixture of fruit punch, Bacardi 151, peach schnapps and Boone's Farm requires a special occasion. And, what's more special than Big Gay Andrew turning 25?
So, the Foundry's jungle juice tiki pitcher (which we quickly named "tiki tiki timbo" after that one book we read in second grade) and I were introduced for the first time.



A little later into the night I somehow realized, via text I think, that this guy, Jon, (that's not Jon in the pic, just Tiki) I'd been chatting with a bit on Match.com was in Westport and I thought it to be a great idea for us to meet each other for the first time while shitfaced on Tiki Tiki Timbo. However, I notice when I met him in McCoy's, the bar connected to the Foundry, he was more drunk than I was, but he was also quite hot, allowing me to somehow look past his stumbly-ness, douchebag friends, the fact that he forgot his wallet at McCoy's when we went back to the Foundry and a smoking habit that he conveniently left out of his profile and our conversations.
After hanging out at the table with us for a few minutes, he went to the bar and disappeared for six years. Meanwhile, I go the bathroom and come back to the table to find Lacey with a paper party hat on each ear, Kate with one over each eye and Lacey shoving one in my hand saying, 'here! put this over your mouth!' I of course, don't even hesitate and strap it to my face for a few pictures right as Jon decides to come back to the table. He immediately gives me a hideous look, a nervous, trying-to-be-nice laugh, blurts out some lame excuse that his friends want to leave, but we'll still meet up on Sunday like we'd planned and literally RUNS out of the bar. I think all the fun scared him away. Pansy.
I mean, who wouldn't love this?


Or this?


C'mon, this is just sexy.


After the bars closed, Tiki Tiki Timbo decided to run away from me too - in the form of pink puke in Kate and Sam's toilet. Tiki Tiki is a dick.
The next night involved a 1980s themed bus party - another birthday for some girls I know through my friend Jeff. Oh, and the girls and I take theme parties very seriously. We were sorority girls you know. The horrendousness that was the white, lattice boots I wore on my feet was unsurpassed probably even compared to things people who actually grew up in the '80s wore. And, we can't forget the hot pink mesh shirt or the half side ponytail I sported either.



Partying '80s style on a bus was amazing partly because my friend Tom made an '80s mix CD allowing Lacey and I to relive our fourth grade dance classes with "Rhythm is a Dancer" (technically early 90s, but still awesomely awful)and also allowing Kate to teach me the hidden lyrics to "Get outta my dreams, get into my car." Something about Kate belting out "GET-IN-THE-BACKSEAT-BAY-BAAAY!" sent me into a fit of hysterical laughter.
Everything was just fabulous until we reached the first bar and I learned an interesting piece of information from one of the girls I met through a girl on my volleyball team. A few weeks ago, Jeff and some of his crew met me at a bar and after hanging out for a few minutes, one of the girls in his group pulled him aside and suddenly he throws his hands in the air and storms out of the bar with her running after him. I found this very odd since Jeff never gets mad, but I never really pried, nor was I told the cause until Saturday night.
Apparently a note I sent through the group e-mail about shirts for the next Crawl for Cancer was taken as rude and now I'm suddenly despised by this girl I barely even know and have been nothing but pleasant to. This is what it said:

"I need a small and I vote for purple shirts, but I know they will be vetoed immediately you shitheads. ; )"

Note the winky face, which means I'm just kidding around, something any normal person would realize. Also, this was directed at Jeff because he loves KU and hates K-State even though he went to Stanford - something I give him shit about all the time. Really? If you took offense to that you e-mail you should seriously think about having that giant stick surgically removed from your asshole.
Suddenly, after learning this interesting piece of information, I was acutely aware of the fact that several of the girls in the group were staring down the three "new" girls. It was embarrassing since Kate and Lacey are basically the most fun, nice and accepting people I know. I just don't understand why so many girls do this to each other. Why in the hell would you want to alienate yourselves from three kick ass, cool chicks and make them feel unwelcome just because you've never met them before? Whatever happened to making new friends, being friendly and channeling your energy into having fun instead of wasting it on being an unjustifiable bitch?
Sadly I'm used to it and I just ignore it because I'm nobody new. Jeff and I have been friends since we were 16 and I'm just lucky I have a friend like him that will stick up for me even to the point of uncharacteristic pissy-ness. I'm sure as hell not letting a couple of girls stuck in the complexities of high school clicks scare me away and neither is he. And, like I said, the girls in the group who are smart and I want to hang out with get me and enjoy my company, so I'm not worried about it.

In case you were wondering, Sunday came and went without a call from Jon. I sent him a message Monday night asking if he'd perhaps misplaced my number or gotten scared away by the party hats...nothing. Eh, who needs him. He lied about being a smoker, so I probably would have brushed him off anyway. Plus, if he can't handle a few strategically placed party hats, then he wouldn't have been able to hang anyway. Funhater.

In closing, I think the sentiments of this blog are best summed up by the lyrics of the great Dr. Dre: "If y'all don't like me, blow me."

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Sex with Strangers

I love all things hysterical and Chelsea Handler's show, Chelsea Lately, is at the top of that list. That woman will say absolutely anything and she's basically my hero.
So, when I learned from Whitney that my hero had actually written a couple of books, another love of mine, I was instantly intrigued.
"Lara," Whitney said. "She has this book called, 'Are You There Vodka, It's Me, Chelsea,' and it's so funny and inappropriate, I automatically thought of you."
Yeah, that sounds about right.
"Go buy it right now so we can talk about it."
And, of course, I didn't go buy it because with my plentiful income I tend to concentrate on petty little things like feeding myself and my little dog rather than buying books that I can borrow from people who have more money than I. She also mentioned another book by Miss Handler called, "My Horizontal Life," which is a collection of one night stand stories. Do you think they carry that at the public library?
Anyway, Whitney posed as my wife by shacking up at my place for a few days last month when she was in town from Colorado for a visit. I gave her my extra key to use while I slaved away at work and she ended up taking it home. Well, much to my surprise, when she mailed the key back, it was attached to a little present with a note that said:

Lara,
Thanks for letting me be your wife for the week! You'll like this even more than a ring.

*heart*
Whittah

The key was taped to a copy of "My Horizontal Life." YESSS! I love that generous, generous Whittah.
So, I finished my current read, began "My Horizontal Life" and immediately began to squirt tears of laughter on page one. She talks about busting in on her parents getting it on, skid marks in her underwear, sexual favors from midgets...and I'm dying.
Today I decide to take my delightful read outside with me to lay in the sun where I proceed to crack up poolside despite the fact that I have company from other residents. As I was putting the book down and gathering my stuff to head back inside, a weekend pool regular with some wild grey chest hair stops at my chair and says,

"Hey, whatcha reading?"
"Ummmm, 'My Horizontal Life,'" I answer...(I never thought about somebody actually asking me that. Please go away and don't ask me what it's about.)
"What's it about?"
"(SHIT!) Ummmmmm, it's a collection of one night stands."
"Oh, like an autobiography."
"Uh, sure, yeah, it's pretty funny (hasty laugh)."
*Man walks away and I stroll back to my place avoiding eye contact*

Now, I'm not sure what's more funny, the book itself or the fact that I just had to tell a total stranger that I enjoy reading about other people's promiscuous sex-capades. I'm totally going to be the talk of the apartment complex now.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

The World Wide Web

I got an e-mail from a guy in South Africa praising my work today.
Apparently this guy named Jonathan in Cape Town owns five Jack Russell Terriers, scans the Internet daily for stories about crazy JRTs and finds a new one almost everyday, he said:

"I really loved the piece that you published today. You and your dog are very lucky to have one another."

I couldn't believe my column about Andy published in a mofoing tiny ass newspaper in Kansas popped up in one of his searches, so I went to Google news and typed in Jack Russell Terrier. Sure enough, my column was at the top of the list. Well, I'll be damned.
The Internet is just mind boggling. You just never know who's going to stumble upon your stuff. Then, I couldn't believe this guy was thoughtful enough to write me a little note. How cool is that? You can read the column here.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Left Out

I'm pretty much the only female in my family now that hasn't popped out a kid or become pregnant at some point in time besides Remi. I feel so...what's the word? Infertile? Could I have pregnancy envy?
My cousin's girlfriend Ashley's belly is HUGE. It looks as though you could literally poke it and it would pop all over the place. My other cousin's wife Ginny is also preggers, but she just now busted out the stretchy elastic waist prego jeans, so she has a ways to go.
Aunt Maryo's birthday celebration was tonight at my parent's house and my cousin Gayle decided to get about 350 tiny cakes so we could have a cake sampling party. Let me tell you, the chicks at this cake place, "Three Women and an Oven" are cake gods - strawberry margarita cheesecake? Pink champagne cake with sparkly pink icing? Are you kidding? I was in cake nirvana. Here I was, flanked by cake eating pregnant chicks and I was totally keeping up the pace. I'm a great cake eater without being pregnant. Ten points for me.
Then, afterwards, Ashley and Ginny were moaning because they were so full of dinner, cake...and baby. They are both in their early to mid 20s, so they're kind of like my people I talk to at family functions. Now, here we were belly to belly to not belly chatting about all things pregnant...no alcohol, no cute shoes or non stretchy elastic waist clothes, caffeine in moderation, screaming children, the agony of child birth, heartburn like a fire breathing dragon...yeah, I've got nothing to contribute to this conversation except looks of horror.
At one point, as I was putting my cork wedges back on my feet, Ashley frowned and said, "I wish I could wear my wedges." But, I did get to feel little Carter rolling around in that giant belly and that is always exciting.
After everybody left, my dad made a comment along the lines of, 'in nine short months, I could look like that if I wanted to,' referring to Ashley. "She's EXTREMELY pregnant," he said. "Can you imagine your flat tummy doing that?"
And it's true, because I would totally look exactly like Ashley if I was pregnant since we basically have the same body type - short, skinny and petite with this enormous, stretched to the gills, basketball belly that's just like *BAM!* However, while Ashley is one of those incredibly adorable pregnant chicks that hasn't gained weight anywhere but in the belly, I fear my ass would swell to Sally Struthers proportions...not so adorable.
So, do I have pregnancy envy? Nope, I was totally just kidding.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Domestically Disabled

I'm pretty sure it's hopeless. The odds of domesticating myself are slim to none considering half the time I don't even bother to bust out my Martha Stewart skills since I have this job that takes over my life and the other half of the time when I do try, I don't just fail, I actually manage to embarrass myself without anybody even witnessing it.
Take for instance my recent attempt to cook. I went on this "take a stand for single people" kick and looked up a bunch of cooking for one recipes, picked a few, then bought the ingredients for Italian crusted chicken breasts or something like that at the not single friendly grocery store.
First of all, I didn't even know how to defrost a frozen chicken breast. Yes, people, I fucking Googled it, then called my mother. I'm awesome. Shut up.
After making some sort of water-in-a-bowl-in-the-sink-with-plastic-bags-and-glasses-to-weigh-it-down chicken defrosting contraption and waiting an hour, I then had to psyche myself up to play with raw meat, which totally freaks me out - milk, flour and cornmeal mixture, then onto a baking sheet and into the oven - for 550 years. I'm pretty sure the worst thing that could happen would be to sit down to eat dinner, cut into a lovely Italian crusted chicken breast only to realize that it was still raw in the middle. I would probably vomit right onto the plate and even if I didn't, I would most likely throw it away instead of trying to cook it more because it would gross me out so bad that I would have dreams about it.
So, a long story short, I cooked the shit out of it and lets just say it wouldn't make my mother proud. I mean, it was edible, but nobody besides starving children in third world countries would want to eat it.
The other day, I purchased my first vacuum and found that while watching the carpet change colors every time I use it because of the dog hair is quite appealing, I also suck balls at operating it. I mean, how fucking hard is it to push this sucking machine across the floor of a 600-square-foot apartment without injuring one's self? Apparently extremely difficult because the first time I used the attachment roller brush to get the fine layer of white Andy fur off my fabulous black and white duvet cover, the entire thing fell over and landed on my right foot so hard that it brought tears to my eyes.
Then, a few weeks later, while running a quick vacuum through the place before somebody came over, I managed to suck my nightstand table cloth up into the rollers then the entire nightstand came crashing down soon afterwards. I ran to unplug it and watched a curl of smoke rise from my wake of destruction and the stench of toasted tablecloth fill the air. I stood there and stared at it for a good minute going, goddammit! I just broke my three week old vacuum on a tablecloth and I just threw away the box yesterday! But all I had to do was pull the tablecloth out, which unfurled from the rollers easier than expected and everything was fine...besides the horrible stink of domestic retardedness that hung in the air which was masked nicely by vanilla body spray - thank you Victoria's Secret.
I found myself in a similar situation with my blender a few days ago. Blender and I have always gotten along and considering I love smoothies and milkshakes and all that good stuff, I have quite a bit of experience with it as well. In went my ingredients, I turned it on and this sound came out: RRRRRRRRRRRR*&%)@_TTTTTTTTTTTDKR!
Frightened by the demonic sound my old friend made, I stopped it, pulled the pitcher off the base and was greeted by a puff of smoke and a familiar stench. What. The. FUCK! I realized that whatever I did royally jacked up the blender so bad that chunks of it were missing...and apparently important chunks because now it wouldn't work. I almost cried when I shoved the Kitchen Aid in the trash can. Good thing it was a garage sale find.

So, I can't cook, I can't vacuum and I can't operate kitchen counter top appliances, however, I can sew on a button, make pillows, decorate and use a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels like a 1950s housewife so I give myself a C in Home Economics.
And, hey, C is for cookie, that's good enough for me.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Waterlogged

It's a summer ritual 20-somethings across the country look forward to all year - the float trip...and a strange ritual at that. Basically you get shitfaced while floating down a river on a giant raft with a bunch of your friends, but after this year, the float trip will never be the same.
Kate, Sam, Baron and I piled into the car Friday afternoon and headed to what has now been deemed "River Diddle," which has been going on for about 3,000 years and has evolved into a weekend worthy of traveling across the country for - according to veteran River Diddlers - who also happen to have the entire trip down to a fine science including some bizarre yet strangely appealing traditions. I suppose anything that involves drinking continuously for a day and a half is bound to get interesting...
In fact, we started a brand new tradition on our way down to Noel, Missouri a.k.a hillbilly country - torture Lara with Baron's absolutely terrifyingly disgusting hand growth. A work accident left a finger on Baron's left hand with giant bubbly thing called a pyrogenic granuloma (look it up on Google images and try to not gag). One that was so bad that he actually had an appointment to have it removed by a PLASTIC SURGEON then have a motherfucking SKIN GRAPH to patch up the hole it was going to leave on Monday. This of course meant he had two and a half lovely days before it was loped off to chase me around torturing me with it much to everybody else's delight. Needless to say, even though I let Baron share an air mattress with me, I threatened a plague on his unborn children if his left hand even so much as brushed up against my hair in the middle of the night. This damn thing became so much a part of the trip that we actually named it - Ned the Nubbin.
After about a four hour drive, including a eventful stop at the Nevada, Mo., Wal-Mart for the trip's most important element - beer - and a Sonic somewhere, we pulled up to the River Ranch Resort on the Elk River where we proceeded to "camp" in a giant fraternity-esk cabin with multiple showers, toilets, bedrooms and 23 strangers playing beer pong - yes, my kind of camping. Of course Sam knew all of them being an almost veteran himself and we knew his sister Amanda and her boyfriend, but everybody else was new to the other three of us.
We made friends while enjoying gourmet Jell-o shots - fuzzy navel and caramel apple? Really? - which are apparently a highlight of night one of "River Diddle" along with multiple beer bongs, some game where you throw random objects at each other for no apparently reason and a rousing game of "what do you know, who would you do" while gawking at a skunk that decided to wander near our post just outside the cabin door. Wildlife while "camping," imagine that.
Of course, the really weird shit didn't happen until the next morning when everybody decided to get up at the crack of dawn. Me and my aching hungover head were woken up to cheerful squawking and cooler loading before 8 a.m. I'm going, why the FUCK are these people awake when we don't have to be on the river until after 11 a.m.? A girl started offering Sam mimosas about the time I crawled into bed with Kate in their nice dark bedroom until the bizarro world we apparently stepped into finally overcame us and we started getting ready at a decent time.
Groups of scary, tatooed white trash joined our almost seemingly normal group at the bus stop where we traveled thigh to thigh to waiting yellow rafts and canoes at the launch spot. As we loaded our precious commodities, also known as beer and beef jerky into our raft, others began plastering their canoes with random shit including a bouquet of plastic flowers, a naked Barbie, crepe paper dragons and a talking mechanical parrot. However the most "normal" canoe ornament, a windsock flag, got us in the most trouble when a pervy toothless man from a raft group we nicknamed the "Piridiots" or river pirates stole it from one of our groups and Kate took it upon herself to save it. Suddenly both our hats were snatched off our heads, I got mine back, but hers was taken back to the piridiots' raft and passed around. Somewhere between Kate screaming, "you owe me a beer hairy back man!" at one of them and me laughing hysterically, Baron flung off his glasses, dove into the river and rose out of the water like something out of Anaconda and tackled the hat stealer backwards into the water. Amazing.
Shortly after our piridiot encounter, it started to rain...and it rained the fucking ENTIRE rest of the trip. I cheered when we spotted the pullout point because as much fun as it is to perch on the edge of a raft shivering under a wet towel in nothing but a swimsuit for six hours with my pigtails plastered to my face and my nipples holding fast in the perma cut glass position, I was more than done with this little trip down the river.
After making it back to the cabin in one piece, fighting for the showers, dinner and gorging ourselves on gummy bears, we all passed out before midnight.
The next morning, we held a full on "Beerlympics" awards ceremony during the traditional buffet breakfast at a nearby Shoney's and guess what I made off with? A yellow "I'm Special" ribbon for putting up with Baron's nubbin...Dammit Ned.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Matched Up

So, Internet dating has become my second job. I come home after my regular job and then spend the rest of the night answering e-mails...or so it seems. Perhaps I'm just horribly distracted by other things while I answer e-mails or maybe I really just need to be more picky about who I chat with.
However, I have steered clear of continuing conversations with any one of the following gems:

"Hey, I have a seat on my Harley waiting for you."
Yes, I've always dreamed of dating a man with a shirt that says, "If you can read this, the bitch fell off."

"You have the most beautiful smile and eyes."
Why thank you and you must have the most incredible eye sight being able to see the beautifulness that is my microscopic eyes in the two inch by two inch photos on the site. Oh, by the way, I also wrote this whole profile thingy. Did you even read it?

"I love that you used the word 'douchebaggery' in your profile. I challenge you to use it in your next article."
Thanks, I appreciate our shared love for this amazing word, but your challenge is a little flawed since I would definitely get fired...dumbass.

Regardless, two of those e-mail conversations turned into phone conversations which turned into dates. I have to say that I didn't expect to meet my soulmate in my first month of pay-for-a-date and I'm pretty sure my assumptions were correct, but there is nothing blatantly wrong with these guys. They're both pleasant, smart and have no unsightly growths coming out of their faces, but as far as romantic connections...I'm not so sure yet.
I met my first date in the P & L and besides sweating profusely, the conversation wasn't even the slightest bit awkward. I found out we had a mutual friend and he didn't seem to be scared off by my heathen-istic ways despite his very Jesus-y upbringing - nor did he have a stick up his ass because of said Jesus-tastic upbringing.
Then we went upstairs and things sort of veered off to the right. Standing on the balcony in mid conversation, he suddenly spots his seventh grade teacher or something and excuses himself leaving me to fend for myself. As I'm chilling ALONE on the balcony, some creepy old balls and his friend almost immediately swoop in like vultures. It never fails - for the love of god, it was a Wednesday night! Am I never safe?
I wander over towards the teacher conversation in hopes he'll wrap it up so we can get on with the show and instead I'm introduced to the teacher, but I figure it's better than being old balls bait.
We then wander into another bar where he happens to work part time and he lied to the bartender about how we met. Then about five minutes into another conversation he suddenly perks up and literally runs away. Apparently a fight had broken out in the front of the bar and he felt the need to supervise...on a night that he didn't work...while he was on a date. As I stood there ALONE again, I looked at the clock on my cell phone which said it was about midnight and I thought I would totally leave if this guy even had the slightest hint of douche in him - thankfully for him, he didn't. I stood there just a little too long before he finally came back.
I held his attention for the rest of the night and have been harassing him since then about his impeccable first date manners. However, I obviously wasn't too offended since I agreed to go out with him again. I believe in second chances depending on how horrendous the first chance was.
My date with guy number two wasn't quite so eventful. The conversation went well, things in common yada, yada, but as we walked out of the bar, he hit the unlock button and the orange lights flashed on a little red Mazda 3 that wasn't mine. Yes, we have the EXACT SAME CAR. He said I either have really good taste in cars or he has a girl car. I believe it's a bit of both...but having a girly car gets you another date with me I guess.
However, my Match.com dating experiences so far have been better than either one of their past experiences. Apparently both of them have ended up face to face with Jabba Da Hut, then realized it was their date for the night. I guess the "about average" option on the body type section of the profile is interpreted differently by the masses.
Well, lucky me...

Monday, August 4, 2008

Gimme My Money!

Gina, Scott and I spent last night watching wild child Remi fling herself all over the living room and do her impression of the famous "Maniac" scene from Flashdance on her mats. She's just like her Auntie Harn - getting her second wind at 10:30 at night. I knew this was prime time for a little "Pearl the Landlord" education.
She looks just like Will Ferrell's protege and I've been trying to get her to say "Where's the rent?" before she had even mastered "Mama" and "Dada." She won't say it, but she'll put her little hands out to each side like, "I don't know," and that's been funny enough. However, I decided to try another phrase from the skit that night - Gimme my money - and after repeating it a few times Remi more than caught on. The sassy, hyper little child shook her head and, I shit you not, shimmied while screeching her version of "GIMME MY MONEY!"
All three of us laughed until tears were streaming down our faces and then Remi started cracking up, which made us laugh even harder. I think the next phrase will be "You pay now!"
I just love that kid so much. She's truly one of a kind.
 

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