Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Self Inflicted Hairlip

An envelope tried to kick my ass yesterday. The tiniest paper cut on your finger alone makes you want to go on a murderous rampage against all paper products, but when it cuts your FACE, it gets personal. There may be torture involved in this murderous rampage now.
I've mentioned that my job can be more office bitchy some days rather than others. One day I might be exploring the world of Web page design and blogging and the next day I'm labeling, stamping, stuffing, and my personal favorite, licking more than 100 envelopes for the company Christmas cards. Yea! To top it off I'm sending a Christmas card with a photo of the entire company on it and I'm smack in the middle of the picture with this "der, der, der" look on my face. I usually pride myself on my dancer/sorority girl photogenic-ness, but apparently I was feeling fugly that day. It's a perfectly lovely card, I just think it would look better with a sticker of a squirrel over my face...

Anyway, you may think 100 isn't really that many and that's exactly what I thought when I started. I thought I could just work on it gradually throughout the day and that going out in 5-inches-on-the-ground-still-falling-snow just to get a little envelope moistener contraption wasn't worth it. Uh huh, good thinking.
After about 15 of them, it felt like a third grader had force fed me half a bottle of ass-mint flavored Elmer's Glue. I remember when I was little, I loved the licking-the-envelope-and-stamp job. Remember when you had to lick the stamps? My mom would sit there at the kitchen table paying bills and shit would hit the fan if she beat me to the licking - "I WANT TO LICK THE STAMP!" It all sounds so dirty. It's kind of gross really knowing that this cute Christmas card you got in the mail was thoroughly mouth molested by a perfect stranger a few days earlier. Shit, those poor people at the gas and electric companies got every grubby school-aged kid germ known to man on both the envelopes and the stamps from our household during the late '80s and throughout the early '90s. I hope they wore gloves...
So, I began to hurry through it just to get it done instead of the gradual throughout the day plan. Just when I was rolling, the envelope whipped out it's tiny switchblade and severed my upper lip.
"OH! OW! GOD!...motherFUCKER!" I yelled while I began to nurse my lip wound without even stirring the boys. I guess nobody ran to be at my side because this is exactly what I yell when the printer decides to become possessed on a daily basis and when my boss throws Jolly Ranchers at me.
A few hours later as I was driving home, I noticed my stomach hurt and went through the possible causes in my head. When I came across the fact that I had probably ingested roughly 6 pounds of envelope glue earlier that day, my mental search for the source of my stomachache was over and I laughed in that bitter, Bah Humbug sort of way.
I guess if you haven't licked envelopes until you want to puke or received a battle wound from the war 'o Christmas card sending then a.) you haven't fairly earned your wages and b.) you aren't truly embracing the Christmas spirit.

Merry Fucking Christmas and a Happy Goddamn New Year to you and yours. *kisses* the lip...

Friday, December 12, 2008

Fun with Tacky Christmas

I walked into my parents' house one afternoon earlier this week and was greeted by Wolfgang, my parents' dog, wearing a wee red apron with a gingerbread man on it. Stranger things have happened in this house, I suppose. My mother is the same woman who surprised us one Christmas several years ago with framed photos of our old Sheltie, Bogie, wearing a pleather biker outfit (or dominatrix, depending on how you want to look at it) complete with teeny tiny chains and a hat. But, I still ventured to ask: Why in HELL is the dog wearing an apron?
My mom, standing in the kitchen with Remi skittering around and babbling at her feet, was wearing a larger version of the dog's fashion statement.
"Remi wouldn't wear her apron, so we put it on the dog," she said.
Yes, that makes perfect sense.
Apparently the plan was to have a little grandmother/granddaughter baking bonding time to prepare for the upcoming annual Holidays with the Hastings anatomically correct cookie decorating party this weekend, but somebody wasn't cooperating.
We hung out and had some lunch while Wolfie begged, tail wagging, making the little red apron swish back and forth. Not only did he not mind the torture by apron, he seemed to like it, practically prancing through the house saying, "Look at me, I'm so pretty!"
This pissed Remi right off since it was clear that the dog might be getting more attention than her and that was total bullshit. She marched up to Wolfie demanding that he take off HER apron RIGHT NOW. We diffused the situation by distracting both the dog and the kid with singing tacky Christmas.
Now, Wolfie is an extremely rare Australian Corg-a-Doo, a.k.a. the biggest super mutt to end all super mutts. My parents recently had a DNA test done just for fun and were disappointed by the results: Inconclusive. Wolfie is so far mutted out that specific breeds cannot even be detected in his DNA. My dad, the veterinarian and Wolfie's best friend prefers the term, hybrid vigor. His legs are about 2 inches long, attached to a furry black Corgi looking body with a sorta kinda Australian Shepard looking head. Funny looking, yes, but just funny looking enough to be adorable and, to top it off, he fits right in with our family because he's completely neurotic.
They adopted him while living in Reno and quickly learned that he couldn't be outside when the sprinklers came on because he would attack the sprinkler heads, biting the spray ferociously then puking up all the water he swallowed.
A black ceramic cat was perched on the railing of their deck right by the steps leading to the yard and, almost daily, Wolfie would go outside, launch his short chunk body off the deck steps and attempt to rip the ceramic cat's head off.
It was not uncommon to see him racing around the backyard with a plastic flower pot over his head or for him to go ape shit every time he would hear my parents using the plunger on the toilet.
He's perfectly sweet until you bust out the unknown, so it's not surprising that he has an unexplained vendetta against the giant stuffed reindeer that sings "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" while rocking in a tiny rocking chair in my parents' living room. We turned it on and Wolfie stood on his hind legs barking, trying to bite it and knock it off the table.
This sort of behavior is apparently quite disturbing to an almost 2-year-old, so while Mom, Dad and I laughed because it's ALWAYS FUNNY, Remi protested, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" while on the brink of tears..."Wolfgang, get away!" she whined while trying unsuccessfully to push him away from the reindeer. This in turn made us laugh even harder and by the time the reindeer had finished his delightful song, tears were streaming down our faces.
Later I discovered the aprons also had regular sized and mini sized red oven mitts to go along with them. You would have thought the tiny one was covered in Anthrax because as I approached Remi to try to get her to put it on her little hand she screamed, "NOOOOOOOOOO! DON'T LIKE!"
Well, since she didn't want to wear it, I put it on the dog...THEN she demanded I take it off of him and put it on her. Go figure.


Tacky Christmas with the help of Andy has also brought a smile and a laugh to my frozen and disgruntled face the past couple of mornings. While I feel I should be buried in my nice, warm, awesome bed at 7 a.m., work and Andy feel I should be outside in the freezing cold practically sleep walking while a bastard terrier rips my arm out of the socket repeatedly. The last two mornings we've approached one of my neighbor's patios which is decorated with lights and a life size, plastic light up Santa, because, you know, giant, faded, glowy Santas waving to the parking lot are the epitome of Christmas classy along with those huge blow up snow globes. Andy immediately bristles up and starts barking at the Santa. Even after he went up and got a closer look, he still thinks it's real. It's sort of like that time he went insane over a trash bag stuck in a tree each time we walked past it for several days, except holiday style. In fact, I can't wait to go home and see if he'll do it again tonight.


Lacey was shocked and appalled to hear that I don't plan on shoving a Christmas tree into my tiny ass apartment. I might put a gimpy little Charlie Brown Christmas looking wreath on my door, but it has to be real and homemade and kind of ghetto looking or else I won't like it. First of all, I'm too busy getting drunk at bars to be at my apartment enjoying the festiveness and second of all, why do I need to decorate when Christmas has already exploded all around me anyway?

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Strange Encounters of the Winter Holiday Kind

'Tis the season for ass busting, which I almost did about six times walking down the steps of my apartment from about Saturday night until Tuesday because of the ice - thank god for a little bit of sun and the lovely maintenance men and their rock salt. But, that's besides the point.
The point is, strange things happen around this time of year. People forget to take their Prozac or perhaps take too much of it with their whiskey and water and shit starts to get a little crazy.
Now, lets start with my own crazy ass. I've already mentioned I'm a little distressed and in disbelief that some of my friends have decided to step into the lets-have-children-on-purpose realm. My diet also mirrors that of a three-year-old, so the scene on Saturday night - eating sushi at a table with my pregnant-on-purpose friend - was one that I never thought possible.
An eight months pregnant Sarah, Anna and Lacey were all in town for Thanksgiving and we decided to have a little reunion at Kona Grill. I decided to give sushi a chance a while back and although I haven't sampled all the menu has to offer, I like a small selection in small doses and I attempt to try a new roll each time I have it. This time the surefire Atlantic and California rolls appeared with a new one, the Las Vegas roll and Anna, the sushi connoisseur and apparent eel lover, picked out the dragon roll, another new one for me. Now there's something a little crazy. Who would have ever looked at an eel and said, 'that slimy little bastard might be good to eat?' Whoever decided such a thing - I wholeheartedly disagree with. Just as Lacey was talking about how she was worried about drinking too much after eating sushi and how gross it would be to throw it up (yes, lovely dinner conversations we have), I stuffed a piece of dragon roll in my mouth and discovered that eel tastes just how I thought eel would taste - like a slimy little bastard.
As I sat there with a mouthful of assy eel and rice I wondered, 'will I be able to swallow this or will I vom eel all over this table?' I did in fact swallow it and most likely made a face as though I had just eaten a live cockroach on Fear Factor. Thank you raspberry Mojito. I'll check the dragon roll off my list now.


Kate and I decided to go out for a little drinky-poo on Monday night and shortly after we sat down at the bar in Kelly's in Westport and got our pitcher of Miller Lite, the Tootsie Roll man appeared. This guy can't be more than 4 feet tall, yet he's not a "little person/dwarf" and is maybe in his 60s or 70s. There's something not quite right with him that you can't quite place and he's been walking up to and giving me, all of my girlfriends and every girl in the bar Tootsie Rolls for as long as I've been going to the bars in Kansas City. He shows up everywhere and while I hate Tootsie Rolls and never eat them when he gives them to me, though I'm sure they're harmless, you can't exactly refuse one from a strange, tiny old man, now can you.
Two giant Tootsie Rolls were thrust in between us at the bar stools before we even noticed him standing there looking rather festive wearing a little Santa hat. Then he placed a hand on each one of our backs and gave us a scratch while letting out a little howl. At first I thought it was cute, then after about 7 seconds of scratching I began to think, 'is he going to stop?' About 15 seconds passed and Kate and I are both hunched over, laughing nervously, like seriously Tootsie Roll man, enough with the touching. He finally stopped, but then started to sing...and sing...and sing. More nervous laughing and avoiding eye contact. Finally he left, Kate turns to me and says matter-of-factly, "he just scratched our backs for an uncomfortable amount of time."
I agreed and added, "Then he sang for a VERY uncomfortable amount of time. What song was that anyway?"
We shrugged and went back to our Miller Lite.
Not 10 minutes later, a guy on the bar stool next to me turns to me and says wide eyed and fruity, "Those are very lovely scarves you ladies have!"
And the very next sentence was, "Don't you just love the gays?" As if to check and make sure we weren't the scary Jesus-hates-you-because-you're-gay-and-therefore-so-do-I hypocritical freaks that roam freely around KC.
Why yes, little scarf loving gay man, we do in fact love the gays, so no worries. We then taught him how to properly wear his scarf since he had been with his partner for five years and was "soooo out of the loop."
After he and his two lesbian pals had called it a night, Kate turns to me and says, "Wait, was that one with the shaved head a guy...or a girl?"
"A girl," I said. "But the only reason I know is because she went into the women's restroom a few minutes ago."


I've recruited Kate as my driver to dance class since the studio is the ghetto, the lighting sucks, the parking is terrible and I got approached by two bums the last time I went, one of which approached my car before I got out of it and scared the living shit out of me. I mean, it would totally blow to be robbed or killed at all, but while sporting the spandex? That's just humiliating. So, I've opted to park at Kate's then have her drive me the rest of the way down the street, drop me off, then pick me up when it's over.
All the chicks in the class have been normal and perfectly nice so far and last time there was even a guy that showed up. Then things turned a bit freakish this week when a different guy showed up. He was wearing all black when he came in, then he began to strip away the layers right before class started. I turned around to put my stuff on the ground under the ballet barre and head to the center of the floor for warm-up and when I turned back around I had to do a double take. The all black ensemble had turned into thigh high red leg warmers, a long sleeve shirt with a sleeveless red with white writing shirt over it and, the best part, teeny, tiny goldish, bronze spandex shorts complete with a perfect outline of all of his "parts." I almost fell over.
Wait, were we shooting a Cher video? Why didn't anybody tell me we were auditioning for the new "FAME" movie? Now, I hate to make fun of the guy because some dancers tend to wear strange things, though everyone in this class has stuck with the standard practice dance wear, and I'm not going to shun someone just because they're wearing squeezy metallic shorts, but come the fuck on. It was totally bizarre for the usual atmosphere, but everyone just went on with class as if there wasn't a 6-foot-something balding guy wearing Britney Spears' hot pants standing in the middle of the room.
The weird part was, I'm not even sure if he was gay or just a flamboyant kind of guy. I assumed gay since he was attending a dance class in that get up and had also painted his toenails a soft yellow, but his mannerisms and his voice said straight.
I hope he becomes a regular because I'm dying to see what outfit he picks out next week.

View my page on Twenty Something Bloggers