Sunday, December 27, 2009

Are You Done Yet?

The two words I've heard most in the past couple of days besides, "Merry Christmas," and "I'm exhausted" have been:


Yeah, not so inviting anymore.

And, poor little Andy can't find a place to crap.

After day three of fat falling flakes and bitter wind causing drifts and being snowed in and digging out and shitty roads, I think it's finally done. We keep talking about how we haven't seen this much snow in KC for a while and I just heard it was "the snowiest December since 1961," so I guess we were right.

When it started snowing on Christmas Eve, our visitors from California and Arizona were excited to experience a white Christmas, but then I had to drive home in it later on that night and I decided once and for all that white Christmases are a crock of shit mainly because I'd rather live than have a festive holiday. Driving 25 miles per hour on the highway because the blowing snow is preventing you from seeing more than a foot in front of you is the scariest thing ever. It was like driving across an open field because I couldn't see the lines, the signs, the overpasses...white knuckled with my face about an inch from the windshield I stayed just below full blown panic attack mode as I noted all of the cars in the ditch and skidded sideways while screaming, "SHIIIIIIIIIT!" I found myself cheering on my little Mazda3 — go Maggie go! — and when I got the car into the garage after the third attempt I was all, "FUCK YEAH!" because I didn't get stuck or wreck the car or, like, die, so that was quite an accomplishment.

I risked my life for Andy of course, who was all by himself since I couldn't bring him to Christmas Eve at my parents' house. There were far too many tiny people to knock over with his relentless four foot vertical jumping:

These five — Carter, Altan, Aidan, Ashlee and of course, Remi — all under 4 make up the third and fourth generation of my family. Don't act like you didn't go, "Awwwww!" when you saw this picture. Needless to say I spent much of my time on the 24th snuggling, wrangling and toting these disgustingly cute little creatures. I see my beloved niece Remi at least once a week, but making googly eyes at the other kiddos is more of a rarity. This guy and I seem to gravitate towards each other at family gatherings:

This is my right boob and my third cousin Altan, who is 10 months old — the child, not the boob...He's already walking and it's so bizarre to see this little miniature man toddling across the living room. He was scared of the other non-jumpy dogs that were allowed to attend Christmas, so he spent quite a bit of time perched on my knee or on my hip, which was just fine with me.

How adorable is this kid?

The best part of this situation is that you can hang out with the little ones until one of them cries, then you can pass them off to mom or dad and go refill your Crown and Coke instead of handling the many facets of baby drama. Aunt and cousin I can do — mother is a title I will continue to avoid until Hell freezes over...or so it seems.

While National Lampoon's "Christmas Vacation" played over and over on the TV like always, my dad emerged from the bedroom we had herded the dogs into to keep them from begging at dinner wearing a santa hat and said matter-of-factly, "All three dogs are laying on the bed watching a talk show." Then it was time for the wrapping paper to fly in the most epic organized chaos of Christmas present unwrappage ever witnessed. None of that take-turns-one-at-a-time bullshit. We just get it done.

Before I knew it, we were bundling babies and jump starting cars and shoveling vehicles out of the snow and hugging goodbye. After all had left except those that were staying at Mom and Dad's, we watched the movie all the way through one more time and cracked up at my cousin's brother-in-law, who passed out on the couch and spilled his beer all over his crotch.

Gotta love the fam...

My other fam also had our own Christmas festivities in the form of ridiculous amounts of booze and warm, fuzzy and oh so stylish holiday sweaters. Behold the 3rd Annual Tacky Christmas Sweater Pub Crawl:

It doesn't take much for us to find an excuse to dress up in ridiculous outfits and drink beer. I was asked about 60 times where I got my striped socks with the fur — $5 at Target — and some chick at one of the bars told me I had "balls" for dressing up as such, but I made it look good. Yes, I make the tacky Christmas hooker ensemble look good. I should be proud, yes? Oh, and that last picture was an attempted kick line, which formed during Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York." Towards the end of the night we also danced and sang along quite loudly with the juke box to "Fuck The Pain Away," by Peaches. Klassy with a capital K and mass hilarity as always. I love my friends.

As for gift giving, since the ladies and I are all pretty much broke this year, we decided to do White Elephant gifts:

This psycho little lady that looks at though she's attempting to stab her bunny with a bunch of carrots is courtesy of Kate. I now possess the best and creepiest Easter decoration ever. I can't wait for Spring!

"And even farther for that thing you do with your tongue?" Are you fucking serious? I think the best part of this is that it is actually a product made by Hallmark. The same Hallmark that brings you warm and fuzzy sentiments in the form of greeting cards at your local supermarket. The same Hallmark whose headquarters are in Kansas City. Shit, if I would have known they had a "Skanky Pervert Division" I would have applied years ago and would probably be head of that division by now because lets face it, is there a better career match for me? I would be amazing at coming up with shit like this. I might have a hard time refraining from using actual profanity or secretly putting "that's what she said" in tiny letters after every witty and pervtastic saying, but I would definitely kick ass at this. Why anybody would discard this item at the Goodwill is beyond me. Thanks Whittah!

I'd also like to thank my friend Lacey for getting me none other than the highly sought after and coveted Bedazzler because everything is more festive and fancy when it's covered in rhinestones.

My favorite gifts to the ladies included a book of Bible puzzles and a Windows '95 compatible copy of Oregon Trail on CD ROM. I can't believe it actually worked on Kate's computer. The rest of the night was then spent around the laptop sipping Shiraz and Miller Lite while yelling, "OOOOOOOOHHHH!" and "YAAAAAAAY" every time one of us came down with dysentery or the measles and then got well again.

Now that Christmas is over, it's time to look forward to the New Year and wind down while I pet my disturbing Easter statue, sip tea out of my slutty mug and bedazzle a large howling coyote on the back of a jean jacket. I hope you enjoyed your time of giving and togetherness as much as I did.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Thinking Positive Thoughts

Hey y'all....

Yes, look at me being all holiday spirit-y. Christmas is subtle at my apartment mainly because I haven't built up my decoration stash quite yet since being out on my own and I don't have money to burn right now on plastic glowy santas and inflatable snow globes. However, my neighbors apparently do, which makes Andy bristle and growl just like last year and cracks my shit up. Perhaps I'll take a tip from my parents who, on their first Christmas together as a married couple, couldn't afford a tree, so they stole some janky ass Charlie Brown tree from a nearby tree lot on Christmas Eve, then decorated it with popcorn strung on floss. Pretty awesome, right?

Aaaand, on top of that, this is what it looked like outside my door a few hours ago:

Kansas City's first snow of the season and I'm surprisingly not cranky about it at all.

Here's Andy going, "Dammit! Not again!"

Actually, he's a crazed tard ass in the snow, running at top speed in disjointed circles then stopping briefly to pee on a tree before continuing his rampage. It's a good thing he's a giant pansy ass like his mother and prefers to get back inside out of the cold as quickly as possible.

Every time I take him out in the evening I always hear...and downstairs neighbor outside smoking while talking on the phone. Actually, she's always relentlessly bitching and cussing about something quite loudly to whoever is on the other end. I can only guess through the tiny amount of unavoidable eavesdropping that it's about work. Bitching about work - imagine that. I just smile and laugh to myself and think, the day I'm given the opportunity to work again will mark the end of bitching about work for me. And, while you may think that's completely impossible, in the future, as I'm opening my mouth to bitch about work, I'll remember these nearly eight months - and hopefully not too many more - of struggling and grief and frustration and I'll slap myself in the face. I'll never take having a job for granted again.

Actually, I haven't had too much to bitch about around here lately. This weird feeling has come over me recently...wait, could that feeling be...happy? Whoa. Perhaps this is a sign that all that clawing and scratching I've done in the past several months is actually starting to dig me out of this hole - positive thinking I tell you.

This crazy thing called a full day of work lies ahead of me tomorrow thanks to a freelance writing job my former editor hooked me up with. I'm writing editorial business advertisements for the newspaper group I used to work for before I ventured off into my unknowingly "doomed to fail" marketing endeavor. It may not be enough to pay my rent, but it's keeping me on the radar and that's something I'm grateful for.

I risked another possible disappointment, but I was brave and decided to walk into a cute, little local store called Lulu's Boutique and present the owners with some of my "True To You" wrist cuffs a few weeks ago. I nearly crapped my pants when they were excited to add them to their inventory. I think at that moment I officially became an artist and it gave me that little kick in the ass a.k.a. confidence I needed to market my tiny, budding business a little more. Here are a few of my latest creations:

Thanksgiving was nothing short of lovely - no drama, no bullshit - just enjoyed the company of my family. I know, we're so boring, right? Keep in mind that this type of completely pleasant holiday is strangely of out character. Stay tuned for Christmas. Then, at the very least, you know you'll get some stories about and maybe some photos of anatomically correct gingerbread men...and women from our annual family Christmas cookie decorating get together. Pleasant, yet perverted - yes, and we're proud of it.

Perhaps the most exciting thing to not bitch about right now is the fact that I'm right in the middle of the selection process for an amazing job. Not just employment and a paycheck, but basically a dream job that I can't imagine anybody wanting more than I do. I waited a grueling month to learn that my cover letter, resume and writing samples apparently jumped out of the giant stack of qualified people, which allowed me to make it past round one. Round two involved three projects including ad design and writing a couple of different things, which caused my competitive and perfectionist Type-A evil twin to emerge.

She usually stays under wraps in the "toned down" form of fun loving, hyperactive and quirky me. However, when things get important and I have to prove myself queen of the mountain or defend an honor, I get a little, um, intense.

I ran on pure delirious energy last week completing these projects and doing everything I could possibly think of to make mine the best. I even attended an orchestra concert for one of the assignments, which wasn't required or suggested and watched as claws sprouted from my fingertips. I looked across the auditorium and thought I saw a woman standing on the opposite wall writing something down much like I was in my reporter's notebook. I wasn't even sure if she was my competition or if she was even actually writing anything down, but my blood seriously started to boil with fierce competitiveness - a feeling I'm pretty sure I haven't felt since my dancing days.

A few minutes later, I caught myself giving sideways glances in the direction of a different lady standing in the commons area after the show who, for some reason, also looked suspiciously like my competition. Like, BACK OFF! This is MY job! Then, I snapped out of it and was all, what the hell am I doing?! I'm insane! I guess it just shows that I'm passionate enough to scrap for this position and I don't usually resort to violence...usually. ; )

All of my assignments were turned in ahead of schedule and I had the opportunity (and pure luck) to run into the person in charge of hiring when I went to drop them off. Now, I'm anxiously waiting to see if I made it to round three, or first interviews, which I will apparently know by the end of the week. The job will be offered by Jan. 1. At this point, my fingernails and cuticles are torn to shreds, my apartment is spotless and sleep is a fleeting thought. Would you like to come over and watch me rip my hair out next?

On top of all that, I'm fighting a cold and I have boy on the brain during those few times I allow my mind to briefly stray from the job situation. Christmas is coming in two weeks and have I done any shopping? Yeah, right! Have you ever read this blog?

Eh, it will work out how it's supposed to work out, which means I will get this amazing, dream job and will be allowed to fulfill my promise of never bitching about work again.

Perhaps you pray, or believe in Karma, wish upon stars, cross your fingers, or harness the chi, or just think happy, positive thoughts - whatever it is you do that brings luck, hope and good things to yourself and others, would you mind throwing some of those things over this way to me? I could definitely use and appreciate a Christmas, or in this case, a New Year's miracle this year. Thank you!

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Needle Neurosis and Other Issues

Remember back in March when I became a robot for a day? I mean, nothing is more fun than having several strangers slap electrodes on my bare boobies and smear slime all over my chest in order to tell me that NOTHING WAS WRONG. Except my body is all, fuck you, yes there is something wrong and you better figure it out or never sleep again, which is why I'm still trying to figure out what's wrong with me 8 months later.

Remarkably, most problems, minus the insomnia, lessened when I lost my job. This is probably because I was wandering around slack jawed in this state, which can only be described as a mixture of shock and holy-shit-put-this-chick-in-a-straight-jacket-and-commit-her-crazy-ass for several weeks making it hard to notice or do much of anything besides breathe, cry and throw shit against the wall during the occasional "why me?" temper tantrum. When I partially snapped out of it, I began to notice stabby pains on my right side and in my back.

The true "oh shit" moment came when I went to Denver in October and woke up one night to a some sort of demonic creature sitting on my ribcage jamming an ice pick into my chest repeatedly. I had to convince my 26-year-old self that it was nearly impossible that I was having a heart attack even though the pain had now spread into both of my shoulders. Three hours of pacing and worrying later, it subsided enough for me to sleep.

I never quite trusted a medical professional or the field of medicine until I saw a neurologist for my migraines this past summer. I've had them since high school, but the fact that, in the past year, regular drugs have stopped working and they've gotten so bad that I was sure I was going to die while contemplating army crawling to the hospital, since you know, my vision was too blurred and I was too busy vomiting to drive a car, made me decide to take drastic measures. Now, I take and keep this miraculous drug he prescribed me constantly at my side and it makes me want to kiss Dr. Neurologist's feet in gratitude. Anyway, Dr. Neuro wanted me to get a lipid profile blood test done to see if my lovely family history has passed it's heart diseasy and stroky gifts on to me.

Since they were going to jab me with needles anyway and I hadn't resolved my "chest is stabby" problem, I decided to get it all over with at once last Friday. My favorite part was how I was supposed to fast for 12 hours before the test, which I totally did...right after I ate a fat cheeseburger. I wanted my last meal to be memorable since 12 hours is an eternity you know. So, when the doctor is all, "your test results concern me and you're probably going to die tomorrow of multiple heart attacks," I'll coyly ask, "Does it matter that right before the fasting, I ate half a cow with cheese?"

I also enjoyed it when my doctor was chatting with me about how to remedy insomnia and she reminded me that my bed is not for reading or laptops, but strictly for "sleep and sex," then I said, "what sex?" Just because she's a professional doesn't mean she's safe from all that is me, plus she of all people knows just how severe my case of the crazies is.

When the doc suggested that perhaps it wasn't my heart being an asshole, but my gallbladder, this did not ease my mind since Kate had her gallbladder ripped out a few months ago and it has done some fairly hideous things to her body. Then it was off to the lab so the vampires , sadists techs could suck four vials out of me.

First of all, the techs pretty much know you're going to be a pain in the ass when you ask to lay down to have your blood drawn. I don't even mess with that damn chair anymore because it hurts like a bitch when I inevitably fall out of it - physically and mentally. I mean, really, I'm saving them the work of having to stitch up the giant crack the tile floor would leave in my head. One of the last times I braved the chair I didn't exactly completely pass out of it, but that might have been because I was so distracted by the fact that the doctor told me my boobs felt like bubble wrap.

Just having the lady poke my veins around with her finger made me all sorts of twitchy. Then she started in on lefty. I breathed deeply and I thought I was going to be OK until she said, "it stopped flowing."


Oh, it's probably just because I now have zero blood pressure since I am, in fact, actually dead. I am the first woman that died from squem-ing out while having her blood drawn. Beads of sweat formed on my hairline and ran down my temples as I tried not to hyperventilate while she fucking MOVED THE NEEDLE AROUND IN MY ARM. Just as I was seeing gray spots on the ceiling and almost yelled, FOR GOD MOTHERFUCKING SAKES! GIVE UP! TAKE IT OUT BEFORE I DIE! (That's what she said) She stopped and I laid on the table in a state of comatose while she went to get other dude.

Then, of course, other dude comes obliviously charging over to an extremely pale righty with needle and tourniquet blazing and I have to stop him with the threat of my vomit all over his face. I didn't cause a scene, or cry, but I made them aware that I was not OK. Seriously, lights were dimmed and water was administered and several minutes of gathering myself ensued before I let him touch me.

More sweat poured, but at least the blood continued to come out this time. After he wrapped it up, I laid there some more so my blood pressure could go back up enough for me to drive home without passing out on the steering wheel. I sincerely apologized, like I always do, and asked for some tips on how to not freak the fuck out every time I have to get a blood test and do you know what they said?

"You just have to GROW OUT OF IT."

Really? Is that what you're going to tell my 63-year-old father when he reacts in much the same way? I'm fairly certain this is a legitimate inherited phobia and not a LEARNED phobia, since I never saw or heard my father talk about his needle neurosis when I was younger and my cousin Jake also has the same freak of nature problem. There has to be some methods to curing or lessening this besides "growing out of it." I realize it's ridiculous because it doesn't hurt, but I genuinely cannot help it. It is the worst, most helpless, most uncomfortable, most uncontrollable feeling I've ever experienced. Basically, I go into shock every time a needle hangs out in my arm. I hate the feeling, I hate the fact that I can't make it stop and I hate the damn people that tell me to just "grow out of it." Thanks for your understanding and compassion...dicks.

Anyway, it's over, I didn't vom nor pass out and I'll hopefully know which part of my body is being a crapass very soon.

However, I do have this other problem involving me being the perpetual third or fifth wheel. See, now, my friends aren't usually the type to make me feel as such, like Kate and Sam jokingly (and lovingly, I might add, dammit) call me their adopted daughter or second wife (I'm crazy-fuck Mormon compound Nicki, ahhhh!), but for some reason it just hit me tonight that I've been the token single chick for an uncomfortable amount of time. My last boyfriend worked weekends, so even then it was just me tagging along.

Granted, I am quite the entertaining third or fifth wheel in that I usually get drunk and cartwheel through the bar or say something inappropriate to some assbag using a cheesy pickup line, but it would be nice to have at least another single lady to play with or heaven forbid, a real live guy that could come along and be my date because that male mannequin I've been dragging around is kind of needy and isn't much for conversation.

Lacey's birthday celebration is this Saturday night and I need a date. Anybody free? No penis required, but it is appreciated.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

A Love Affair...With a Toilet?

After chatting with my friend Jeff the other day and watching a particular segment about home resale value on HGTV, a memory of my recent Vegas trip resurfaced about bidets. Don't ask me why I was having a conversation about a device that gives you a water enema with one of my guy friends. I've never claimed to be a normal person...

However, I am a practical person. Sometimes so practical that I annoy myself. So, when I walked into the bathroom of the MGM Grand hotel suite where Kate and Sam's reception took place and found myself face to face with my first bidet, I immediately began asking questions and thinking about it's purpose. Sure, I've seen them on TV before, but since these are not installed in the majority of bathrooms in the United States and seem to be reserved for Europeans and rich people, I've never actually seen one in person.

After much examination from afar without actually using the contraption, I learned that you are not actually supposed to "go" in the bidet, but rather in the toilet, then shimmy the three feet across the bathroom for a rinse. This allowed me to provide this valuable piece of information to the rest of the wedding guests: "Do NOT poop in the bidet!" I yelled it kind of a lot during the trip, which made me laugh every time and may or may not have prompted the bride and/or groom's family members to refer to me as "the bridesmaid with Tourette's." Ha! It reminded me of a scene out of "Dumb and Dumber" or something except in the movie Harry or Lloyd would have actually pooped in the bidet before realizing that you weren't supposed to.

Another guy friend of mine purchased one of those high tech Japanese toilets some time ago, so I've learned all about the different features of those. Apparently you can push a button to choose between a front spray or a back spray along with the temperature of the water. Some even have little dryers in them, which, in my opinion, would seem like blowing a hair dryer up your ass therefore making me quite terrified of this feature. There's also a deodorizer option on some models to remedy that not so fresh feeling I suppose.

The guy on the HGTV home resale show was absolutely RAVING about his high tech toilet claiming that he would never trade it for anything, that he hadn't used a square of toilet paper since he purchased it and the time he spent on the toilet was the "best 10 minutes" of his day, every day. Really dude? Does anyone else find that disturbing and kind of sad? His wife sitting next to him rolled her eyes at the comment and dismissed his beloved toilet. I guess I would probably be pretty annoyed too if the best 10 minutes of my husband's day was spent having naked time with a squirting, hot air shooting toilet rather than with me. That guy must really enjoy a perpetually clean and deodorized asshole...but, come to think of it, who doesn't?

While I sort of "get" the whole concept of a built in bidet on a toilet, I certainly don't understand the freestanding bidet. It just seems so impractical. Like I said, you go in the toilet, then toddle over to the bidet with your pants around your ankles? Or, is it proper to remove your pants completely? Then, you hover over this thing, twist around to reach the faucets, water flows out like a drinking fountain and then...what? So, it's a essentially an ass sink, except what do you do when you're done? You can't just shake the excess water off your ass like you do your hands then go about your day and there were no towels, nor TP nearby for drying purposes. What is proper bidet etiquette? Inquiring minds must know.

This article and this article are quite helpful in answering some of those burning questions, but not all of them to my liking. The shimmying from one porcelain receptacle to another and drying parts are what get me and my opinion of impracticality still stands on this one. Apparently you must prepare for the drying step before making your jaunt to the bidet in my particular case. Eh, I'm sure you'd get used to it although I think it's safe to say that I'm hopelessly American and I'm OK with that.

...But, you can't knock something until you try it, plus, hey, it's, of course I tried it... and the outcome?

A hopeless American with an impractically wet ass. Just as I suspected.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Boys Are Mean, Throw Rocks At Them

I woke up Sunday morning in a complete daze, then I looked in the mirror at my crackhead hair, telltale puffy, red eyes and smeary mascara and I unfortunately remembered what happened the night before. I finally broke down, became a hooker for some extra cash and my pimp slapped my drunk, ho ass? Nope, just another date that crashed and burned in a fiery fiasco of bullshit.

This, like all of my dating disasters, left me baffled at the complete lack of consideration for another person and downright meanness of the actions displayed by my male counterpart. Fortunately not all of my experiences with men and dating have been completely and explosively awful. A lot of times it's me because I'm the first to admit that I'm extremely fickle about men, or I'm fucked up at the time about something and would rather not bring another person into my shitstorm, or it just "fades away" as in there's just not enough interest from either party to keep the relationship going. All of these anticlimactic endings seem to fare far better since I'd like to think that I would never ruin somebody's fucking night by acting like a total dick. *SIGH*

Anyway, my latest dating FAIL got me thinking about all the mean things boys have done to me in my life and no, not in a pity party, feel sorry for me type of way. Some of this shit is so appalling it's hilarious and it makes you want to throw out the, "I'm calling your mother and telling her what you did" threat. Here's a selection of fond memories:

- My encounters with mean boys started at a young age, which is probably why after more than 20 years of this crap I'm completely exhausted and frustrated yet surprisingly not made of stone. I had my first crush on a boy when I was 5-years-old and when one of my friends asked him if he liked me, he replied with, "NO! She's a buuuuutt wipe!"

"Excuse me, you little bastard, did you just call me a butt wipe?" Then I gave him the most ball crushing wedgie of all time. See, that is what I would have said and done if all of my years of cynicism were rolled into my 5-year-old self, but the feisty bitch of a woman you know and love today took years to develop, so my soft and impressionable kindergarten heart was crushed. While I haven't had the pleasure of coming face to face with this guy in many years, the word on the street provides truth to the saying, "once a wiener, always a wiener." Go figure.

- If anybody were to come up to me and tell me that their junior high experience was a happy and joyous one, I'd immediately call bullshit, then question them about the type of drugs they were obviously taking between the ages of 12 and 15. My favorite of the mean boy memories from junior high had to be when I asked a boy from another school to the Valentine's Day dance and he just didn't show up or when a boy who was actually younger than me told me just out of the blue one day that I had bushy man eyebrows. Apparently I missed my waxing appointment at the salon because naturally that's what you should be concerned about when you're a 13-year-old girl. Man, that kid was a bitter troll of a little boy. Let's hope he became an esthetician, which might help explain his unnatural obsession with eyebrows at such a young age.

- Dancing was my saving grace for most temptations that high school brought - drugs, drinking and mean boys. I was so busy with practice, competitions and teaching that I had little time to care about much else. However, I still managed to snag my first love and it's too bad I couldn't have chosen a mentally stable one. This guy stalked me and I'm talking calling-me-every-two-minutes-and-lurking-in-the-bushes-waiting-for-me-to-get-home-with-dad-threatening-to-call-the-police caliber of stalking. Then, he called my dad the fucking Unabomber (WTF?), which in turn made my head explode because you don't mess with my people unless you'd like to die, THEN he decided to stick around long after I tried to get him out of my life with a short-lived attempt to turn my friends against me. Oh, high school...Much later, I found out he cheated on me with some skank in Padre Island during Spring Break, which most likely wasn't the only time, but at least I got a beer bong out of it. I'm pretty sure he's married now, which is so hilarious since he's obviously a keeper. *wink*

- In college, the boys became more creative and thus the dickheaded art of ditching came into play. Greek life introduced me to some interesting rituals such as the themed date party, which is why I now have a trunk of random costumes in my parent's basement like some traveling circus side show. Digging through that thing would garner some interesting question and answer sessions:

"Why do you have this black leather whip?"
"Oh, that's from my french whore costume."
"And this sparkly red tube top?"
"That's when I was a pimp and my date was a ho."

Barn party was a popular one - we'd dress up like cowboys and party in a barn - fairly self explanatory, and I was feeling pretty ballsy for asking this particular guy that I hardly knew to this date party. However, I was ditched the minute the school bus rolled into the party and I would unknowingly be ditched after the party was over as I literally watched this guy fling himself out of a still moving vehicle and run into his fraternity house, never to be seen the rest of the night because I apparently have leprosy.

I was reunited with him for the short school bus ride back to the sorority house where he grabbed my boob, tried to make out with me and then explained to me how he told his fraternity brothers what he was doing that night by telling them, "You know, I'm going to a date party with that girl with the hot body," he said. When I reminded him that I also have a face, he said, "Yeah, but the body sort of overshadows the face." It might have been the vodka, but I'm pretty sure it was that comment that made me fall out of bus seat. Did he just more or less refer to me as a "but-her-face?" Oh man, I reveled in that nickname, "The Body." It stuck for probably a year - on the back of shirts, in joking conversation, as my signature on my e-mails to friends... I suppose there are worse things to be bushy eyebrow girl...and the guy eventually did stick his foot in his mouth and apologize on numerous occasions claiming that the comment came out wrong.

Another case of the ditch-your-date-at-barn-party happened just a few months after the first one when I agreed to go with a different guy to his party. After a long bus ride full of many shots of vodka, I found myself on a farm full of drunk, singing strangers in 10 gallon hats and furry pig suits in the middle of nowhere Kansas barfing behind a tractor...ALONE. My date didn't even look up from his conversation with Tits McBigboobs when I finally found him hours later teetering on the edge of a hay bale in a dark corner. Then, when it was time to go, the THREE of us boarded the bus-o-fun where my date leaned in for a long, seductive kiss with Tits McBigboobs about two inches from my face, but their moment of passion was interrupted by my 19-year-old self screaming, "WHAT. THE. FUCK. ARE YOU DOING?!" through a raspberry vodka haze.

I once again witnessed a guy flinging himself from a moving vehicle when we arrived back at the fraternity house and I eventually found his dumbass passed out in his bed. Since my phone oh so conveniently died in the middle of this trainwreck, I used his phone to call a bunch of wrong numbers at two in the morning in an attempt to call one of my friends to pick me up. When I couldn't remember anybody's number, a lightbulb went on and I began to hoof it towards Kate's boyfriend's frat house a few blocks away in heels, at two in the morning, ALONE. I was a giant blubbery mess when I finally got there, but nothing my best pal Kate and a mini fridge full of Natty Light couldn't cure.

- In modern times, guys and their crap have evolved into much craftier forms of mean - being verbally abused via text at work by Stage Five Clinger, the running away from party hat boobs, the usage of the word 'cunt,' among other things, to describe me by live in boyfriend (who, by the way, I've made amends with after a few years and lot of growing up on both of our parts) the "void of a caring bone in his body boy" and the dumping over an extremely flirty glass of water by Robocop.

However, my date Saturday wasn't a newfangled kind of mean, but kind of a throwback form of mean and unfortunately it wasn't of the "butt wipe" variety.

I found myself in a world that I've long since grown out of and as much fun as it is to try to carry on a conversation with a trio of fresh 21-year-olds that are so fucked up on pot and Xanax that their necks can't even support their heads, I still tried because I genuinely liked this guy and saw no red flags when I had been out with him a few times before. However, I still questioned why a man who is nearly 30-years-old would voluntarily subject himself and a woman he barely knows to such things. While I'm hardly pretentious and adapt to most situations, like I said, you naturally grow out of things and therefore your tolerance for such situations tends to have a limit.

He received some ill-timed bad news when we were out and while I completely understood his situation with this chronic unemployment and scrambling to find income in the form of pennies and dimes and temp jobs hanging over my head, he decided to handle it by drinking himself into oblivion and pretending that I didn't exist.

I think the height of my night was when he disappeared for almost an hour with one of his friends and by the time he reappeared, I had given up on talking to the remaining faded friends and took a seat at the bar by myself. Apparently an hour in his world translates to 20 minutes (which, by the way, is also an unacceptable amount of time to leave your date alone in grown up date land) even though I have a nearly hour long text message conversation on my phone that I had with Kate while I was passing the the bar...drinking water...BY MY FUCKING SELF...FOR AN HOUR.

When I pointed out that I didn't appreciate such jackassery, he turned the situation around on me, said I was attacking him and demanded his keys. I refrained from quoting the famous Dan Connor of "Roseanne," "Women tend to get upset when you treat them like crap," handed him his keys and he disappeared into the bar crowd never to be seen again.

The band we went to see was actually pretty damn good and thankfully I didn't have to listen to it alone for long since I ran into my old friend Sean. A while later, Sean walked me over to my usual watering hole, and since I have a soul and don't like to be an asshole, I sent the infamous disappearing date a courtesy text telling him where I was and inviting him to join me. Much to my surprise, he actually responded, but of course he didn't actually show up leaving me to either jump in a cab to get home or call my friends to come pick my dejected ass up from the bar. I chose the latter. The few times I've been upset in a bar I do everything I possibly can to hide it since nobody is going to believe that the chick squirting tears in a bar at 2 in the morning is not a drunk ass, but the victim of a mean boy. It's one of the few times I actually care what strangers think of me.

While I love to have fun, perhaps more fun than most women my age, I'm also a grown woman and demand to be treated like one, which frankly, isn't asking too much. I'm always going to value myself enough to stick up for myself and I'm never, ever going to compromise how I feel I should be treated. Sometimes I wish I could wear a sign that stated this so men would be warned that if they can't handle that, they should probably just stay the fuck away. Here are some simple pieces of advice to follow as well: a.) Women, like most human beings, don't appreciate being ignored, so don't invite me out if you think this is acceptable behavior and b.) learn to handle your shit and if you can't possibly do that, then please don't make me a victim of your path of destruction. I certainly don't expect any guy to be perfect, but I can expect them to treat me with respect.

While disappearing date sent me a half-hearted apology the next day via text, it's sort of too little, too late...although it was more than I've gotten from most and dammit, I really thought I had run into a cool one this time. Sometimes I wonder if my forehead secretly has "Welcome" or "Wipe Your Paws" imprinted on it signaling men that it's OK to walk all over me without any objections. Perhaps I'm acting in such a way that doesn't warrant respect from the opposite sex, but that's not true either because I'm not any of the following things: Mean, slutty, needy or overly possessive.

Really, I think there are just that many mean men out there. They're always going to be lurking around and there's not much I can do about it besides defend myself, which is why I'll never waste my energy on being a man hater, nor will I give up on dating. Eventually and certainly I'll run into somebody with the right mix of chemistry and kindness. Until then, I say, bring it on. Go ahead and pummel me with your bullshit and consider yourself lucky if you behave in such a way towards me and then make it out of the situation without severe injury to your testicles. Shit, with the number of mean boy encounters I have under my belt, I'd be pretty stupid not to find the humor in it all at this point.

Now, I'm curious. Sorry to leave you out non-mean, straight men, but I sort of have a theme going here. What is the meanest thing a boy has ever done to you and how did you react to it? I'd like to know just how many of you can top my mean boy stories.

Friday, October 30, 2009

"The Glamorous, Glamorous..."

"...The flos-say, flos-say!" What the hell does that even mean? Flos-say, flos-say? According to Urban Dictionary, the Web site that defines all ghetto speak for my pasty, sheltered Kansas girl ass, says it means showy or flashy, and this is exactly why I titled this blog entry as such - because I now lead the glamorous and flos-say, flo-say life of a temp.

Yes, this week I actually EARNED a paycheck instead of collecting my meager rations from the state like I have for the past six months. Since all companies in this city apparently feel that I'm far too retarded to write, design or edit things for them or complete such complicated tasks as filing shit and answering the phone when it rings, AAAAAND, my unemployment extension hasn't gone through yet, AAAAAND, I was forced to be "that person" who collects all of their loose change and presents it sheepishly and apologetically to the annoyed looking bank teller just so I could afford a football weekend at Kansas State U. with my pals last weekend, I decided it was time to call into effect my back-up, back-up, back-up plan - the temp agency.

The first time I used them was when I was just a wee lass in 2006, meaning I was a complete dumbass and quit my first job out of college without having another job to go to. When my savings ran out after about a month without a job, I went, "oh, shit, I should probably find some way to make an income."

My first assignment was at a large corporation based in Kansas City. I'm sure the planner had good intentions when he/she decided it was a grand idea to create a man made pond on the campus of this corporation, but I'm fairly certain they weren't aware of the number of geese...or the amount of goose shit that would result because of this sexy water feature. In turn, I'm also sure they weren't aware that said geese would become so accustomed to their home away from home, including the people that had to walk around it to go to work, that they would become not only tame enough to just hang out by the building entrances honking incessantly, but also territorial enough to chase employees through the parking lot with a taste for human ass wrapped in a tasty pair of pinstripe dress pants or khakis.

The fact that these geese were prehistorically huge along with my freakish bird neurosis made the possibility of getting my ass chomped on by a goose each morning and evening the most exciting part of my day during my 8 weeks of hard labor at this company since the remaining 7 hours and 50 minutes were spent reading a book or picking my nose in a cubicle on the 8th floor.

I'd often harass the ladies next to me for something to do and I'd end up using my college degree to alphabetize a 4-foot stack of documents or peel and stick 6 million labels to manila folders and then they'd marvel and praise me for a job well done. It's a good thing they were awesome ladies or else dementia might have actually set in extremely prematurely and then I would have never gotten my second newspaper job allowing me to get the hell out of the temp world.

Just when I thought that experience was behind me, I find myself at the temp agency office again. They've offered me three different assignments in less than a week and my willingness to agree to everything has earned me the labels "kick butt" and "easy." Yes, I am an employment whore and I'm damn good at it. When you've felt like you're just a lump of shit taking up precious space in this world for six months and your income is suddenly non-existent, you'll pretty much do anything short of shaking your booby tassels in some old man's face or giving blowies to fat, hairy, buffoon-faced politicians and businessmen in the backseats of Lincoln Town Cars.

This is probably why I spent the last three days testing medical equipment. Picture this: An abandoned doctor's office in a local hospital where they apparently had to evacuate quickly or were just too lazy to take care of some basic housekeeping items such as disposing of used syringes and needles, trash, used latex gloves and mousetraps stuffed full of temps on laptops computers repetitively pushing buttons on 100s of I.V. pumps, *BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP*, FOR 20 HOURS. That's two and a half work days and once again, if it weren't for colorful co-workers, my brain would have completely oozed out of my ears from non-use instead of just halfway.

Discussions included children - number, gender, ages, etc. - since the majority of the people there had them, married or not, whether they actually liked their significant others or not and whether they were above the legal drinking age or not - as well as a drawn out conversation about people and their zodiac signs. I learned that Scorpios are apparently scary bitches, Geminis are the best people ever and if you're a Taurus, people will hiss at you, look away and form their two pointer fingers into a cross while sticking it in your face. Useful information for future reference, I do believe.

Today, I'm sitting at the front desk of a trade college basically just hanging out and answering everybody's questions with "I don't know," then calling somebody who does know to come up front and help these poor people.

My next adventure? Who knows, thus is the beauty of this glamorous lifestyle. The one thing I'm worried about is my unexposed immune system. I figured out that with any luck, unemployment would hopefully keep me healthy this winter since some days the only other living things I come in contact with are my dog and my herb garden. But, now I've spent the last three days in the close quarters of a filthy ex-doctor's office inside a hospital that has at least two quarantined floors full of flu patients and today in a school where there have been two confirmed cases of H1N1. While temporary employment will allow me to pay my rent, it will also force me to take a daily dip in bleach water. Damn swine flu.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Fancy Seeing You Here

I drank giant Budweiser pounders and partied with my parents, family friends, Marcia Ball and Kathleen Sebelius Saturday night. You know, a pretty typical Saturday night.

Knuckleheads is essentially a shack of a bar tucked away in a defunct part of North Kansas City near some railroad tracks. It's appeal is the quantity and quality of bands that it hosts and the fact that they have to play the music loud enough to be heard over the trains.

I, along with two other lovely ladies, got lost on what seemed like a tiny dance floor until it suddenly overflowed with the oversized flowered blouses and orthopedic dancin' shoes of Marcia's typical fan base - proof that most of my generation has yet to discover the appealing sounds of New Orleans, blues, zydeco, sax, piano, guitar...or they just have shitty taste in music...probably the latter.

Then, after enjoying a front row seat for Marcia and her band, the crowd parted, and there was teeny, tiny Kathleen Sebelius with a couple of giant dudes in tow. She brushed past me in route to what I assume was the bathroom and if I had had one less giant Bud, my reaction time would have been quick enough to catch her attention, chat with her and casually mention that I had some classes with a certain les-bi-nan family member of hers when we were at K-State (who was quite the cool chick by the way), but then I realized that it wouldn't have been all that much fun to do since she's a Democrat and doesn't get all squirmy at the mention of anything remotely homosexual like her Republican counterparts. Also, I would've asked her to tell Obama "heeeey" for me and tell him that I really, REALLY need a goddamn job.

My dad said he spotted her among the dancing mass last time he saw Marcia Ball at Knuckleheads a few years ago, but that was when she was just the measly governor of Kansas. Now, she's the U.S. Secretary of Health and Human Services under Obama and therefore kind of a big deal. This time I think she sort of held back. I suppose that's what politics does to a person. The higher you go, the more stifled you get in a desperate attempt to avoid any of that additional public scrutiny that comes with doing such devilish things as dancing and having a beer and doing anything involving fun. The only problem is, when you deprive yourself so severely for the sake of a squeaky clean rep, all the stifled-ness often explodes and suddenly you're boning hookers and shoving cigars up interns' hoohas.

But, I do commend Madame Secretary for being cool enough to be a Marcia Ball fan AND finding a way to break away from the White House to come to a podunk bar in Kansas City just to have a little fun.

Those big dudes with the curly cue cords coming out of their ears and running down their necks looked kind of uneasy that a Democratic U.S. Cabinet member was just prancing around the redneck-tastic-ness that is that bar.

Speaking of U.S. Cabinet member, after we left the bar and started walking to the car, my dad had an epiphany - those weren't just bodyguards, those were definitely Secret Service Agents...who surely had nothing short of machine guns strapped to their hips and probably at least a glock hidden elsewhere. So, make that a U.S. Cabinet member and a gaggle of Secret Service Agents just prancing around a little shithole in Kansas City. I think we've just been put on the map.

And, for your viewing pleasure, unbeknownst to me, Whittah caught me in a compromising position during my trip to Denver. Here is a true to life, unrehearsed, I shit you not visual to go along with the faulty shower curtain fiasco I told you about in my last post. I have far too much fun to ever be in politics:

Quit staring at my ass you pervs.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Doing Denver

So, I saw my first snow of the season and froze my ass off at a baseball game at the beginning of October this past weekend, both of which made me rethink the possibility of moving to Denver for grad school. Every time it snows or drops below 30 degrees in Kansas City my relentless bitching can be heard for miles and that usually isn't until November or so. I just wasn't cut out for cold, plus I hate skiing. Have you ever seen the second Bridget Jones' Diary movie - "The Edge of Reason?" The scene where Bridget is on a skiing vacay with Mark Darcy - yeah, that's me, flailing helplessly down the mountain like a dumbshit. I'm usually fairly coordinated in most aspects of life what with the years of formal training and success in dance, but for some reason it all goes out the window when you add cold and snow and attach skis to my feet. It's less than flattering. I'd rather be floating on yacht or laying on the beach chugging a margarita - so sue me.

This was the first time I went to Denver with more than the goal of partying my ass off with my pal Whittah. I got in the car and drove nine hours by myself through the exquisite western half of Kansas and the even more breathtaking, if that's possible, eastern part of Colorado in a quest to answer two important questions that could impact my life greatly - 1.) Is this school - the University of Colorado-Denver - kick ass enough for me to pick up my life and move in order to reap it's educational benefits and 2.) If question No. 1 is yes, then can I feasibly live in Denver? The answers: 1.) I don't know yet and 2.) Probably. Those sound like pretty vague answers for an 18 hour round trip drive, but I have several options to weigh before making a decision. Regardless, I saw this trip as sort of a pilgrimage - a first step to changing my seemingly never ending sinking ship of a life for the better.

I won't bore you with the details of the business school open house, but after navigating my way through downtown Denver during snow flurries and rush hour by myself and paying out the ass for parking, I basically found out the school caters to people who work full time by only offering classes in the evening one or two nights a week or online. This is not the kind of lifestyle I was planning on leading while in grad school, so this is mainly what I'm struggling with. Everything else seems pretty appealing.

After I got the important stuff out of the way, I was then able to focus on the usual goal of partying my ass off with Whittah. I came back to the apartment after the open house to find it full of friends ready for dinner and "The Office" - the Jim and Pam wedding episode of course - and ready for me to reveal the present I had made for the guy Whittah is dating.

One night after a particularly drunken Rockies game, Whittah and Chris called me with a special request. Chris had seen the "True To You" bracelet I had made for Whittah and wondered if I could fashion something to be worn on the male genitalia for special occasions. I said "sure thing" and while Chris was fairly certain after waking up and thinking about the request the next morning that he had scarred Whittah's dear friend for life, Whitney just replied, "That's the thing with Lara. She doesn't think it's weird. She's going to make one and bring it." And, that, my friends, is when I added cock sock maker to my repertoire:

The girls cracked up and marveled at it's carefully constructed drawstring for maximum staying power, however the boys (excluding Chris, who didn't see his gift until Sunday) who came over later seemed quite scared and slightly disgusted by me and my creation and stayed far away. I was like, dude, this is for YOUR man part that you guys all seem to love so much. It's not like I pulled out some alternate form of menstrual flow protection and a working rubber vagina for a demonstration. And, while I'm used to people looking at me like I'm crazy, weird or at the very least, slightly odd on a nearly daily basis for the things I do, say and think, this little craft was not my idea. I mean, I'd gladly take credit for it just for the pure hilarity of it all, but it was made strictly because of Chris' request. In all actuality, during the construction process, I Google imaged "cock sock" and found that they do exist mainly in knitted form. Go do it, I dare you. Therefore, neither one of us invented this thing.

So, just because I have the ability and perhaps the knack for lovingly making a schlong coozie with my own two hands does not make me a pervert, but rather someone who likes to keep her customers happy...and happy he was:

We should all just pull the sticks out of our asses and see this for what it is - a funny novelty.

In the midst of the cock sock hype, I witnessed my first inner city talent show at one of Whittah's schools Friday afternoon - so much gyrating and gospel-like voices. Then we made our way to Oktoberfest on Friday night at Mile High Station, which involved drinking gallons of Hefeweizen, singing with an old German dude in lederhosen, assloads of pretzel necklaces, dancing and playing the alpenhorn - yes, I looked that up, just think RIIIIICOLA!

In fact Logan, our sorority sister Andrea's (a.k.a. Yado) husband, danced so hard that he knocked Whittah to the ground in one fell swish of the hips and I almost pissed my pants and died laughing because like I've said before, nothing is more funny than people falling down....except when they're old with potentially fragile hips, but Whittah is young, healthy and DRUNK, so it was totally cool...


RIIIIIIICOLA! This guy said he was actually in a Ricola cough drop commercial.

They were selling these necklaces at the beginning of the night, but they had so many left over at the end that they started just throwing them around your neck. Right before we left, Logan purposely bear hugged me so hard that we heard this loud CRUNCH and watched and laughed when it rained broken pretzels all over the floor when he pulled away. The clean-up crew, who was probably watching the whole time, was surely thrilled. Damn drunk people.

We continued the dance party at the Ginn Mill downtown, which, by the way, doesn't have a dance floor. For some reason when "Devil Went Down to Georgia," came on, I felt it necessary to yell, "YEAH! GO KANSAS!" Perhaps because it was country-tastic? I don't know. Damn drunk people.

The next day, we traveled down to Colorado Springs to visit Andrea, Logan, their new house and their Corgi named Oscar, who they call, to my delight, Mr. Poopers. Look how cute:

After scraping ice off the car in OCTOBER, we headed back to Denver to watch Kansas State lose horrendously to Texas Tech - oh Wildcats, you're making my heart hurt - then met some people out for more games and vodka to drown our sorrows. We ended up at a bar called The Celtic and danced to a classic rock cover band.

At the end of the night, our three sheets to the wind asses looked like this:

In the back a cab driven by a man whose name was apparently Tupac. He told us tales of his mother in India and the crazy woman that got him to move from California to Denver. He agreed to take us through the McDonalds drive thru that took forever and we bought him an orange juice for the road. We decided it was a good idea to watch the "What's in a gin and tonic!?" episode of "How I Met Your Mother" once we got home while stuffing our faces with fries and apple pies. After Whittah's roommate and boyfriend walked in to us singing songs quite loudly, we decided to get ready for bed. Easier said than done apparently because as I was reaching into the shower to retrieve my face wash, I toppled headfirst into the tub and yanked the shower curtain and rod down on top of clumsy drunk ass. Somehow I managed to wiggle out of the tub so I could proceed to lay on the bathroom floor with Whittah and laugh hysterically about the incident for several minutes.

Despite the frigid temperatures, we braved nearly an entire Rockies game on Sunday night just to see them lose to the Phillies anyway. I learned about Rocktober, which is apparently a big deal and is now over because of said loss. I don't know. I don't give two shits about sports unless it involves lots of purple Wildcats and nice butts in tight pants.

Then, suddenly it was time to go home and I was sort of indecisive about the whole thing. On one hand I had no desire to drive nine hours back to my life in Kansas City with no job and no signs of a revival, but on the other hand, it made me realize how little time I have left with my family and my hometown before it's time to head back to school wherever that may be. It made me ask the question, "Can I do this? Can I be so far away from my family and still be happy?" I missed my little crackhead of a dog, Andy, so much. He's my constant companion and I feel a small sense of purpose in caring for him in this slump, so I felt a little lost without him for those couple of days. Of course, he'll be going with me wherever I go, so I find a little comfort in knowing that.

Of course, I arrived at my parents' house at about 10 p.m. Monday and was greeted by only Wolfie. Andy just stared at me blankly from a blanket on the couch in the living room. What the hell? I thought. Was I gone too long and now he doesn't know me? Then my mom said, "He tranquilized!" Yes, Andy was stoned out of his mind...and his right paw was all bandaged up. Apparently, one of his toenails was cut too short, but even after the bleeding was stopped, his Jack Russell Terrier ass was too spastic to stay still long enough for the clot to hold up and he ended up bucking bronco-ing blood all over the house. My dad had to tranquilize him just to keep him still to bandage him. This is proof that it takes a special person to love a JRT. They are definitely dicks, but in a good way.

To my comfort, Andy eventually staggered all slitty-eyed over to me and snuggled up into my lap. I couldn't stop laughing as he so unabashedly let his inner Cheech and Chong show through. Ahhh, there's rarely a dull moment. Perhaps this life isn't so bad. And, it will get better. I just have to keep practicing the fleeting art of patience.

The lesson learned: Drugs are not the answer, but it's damn funny to watch those who think they are.

I'm so hiiiiiiiiigh, you guys.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Hey, It's Vegas

It's been two and a half weeks since I got home from Las Vegas and I still haven't written about it. Once again I blame the asshole GMAT because it's a whore and I hate it. When it's over, I'll be so happy that you'll find me dancing in the streets naked...nudity depends on how well I score of course....

OK, so...

In Vegas, anything goes and nothing is normal. In my competitive dancing days, (the jazz shoe and spandex kind, not the booby tassel and pole kind) I used to travel there for national dance competitions and I suppose I noticed these simple facts then, but definitely not as much as I had them shoved in my face this time. You go to Vegas to escape and live in a fantasy world for a couple of days before being thrown violently back into reality. I can't imagine living there because somebody would have to routinely smack you in the face to bring you back down to earth. While you're there, you tend to live by the motto, "Hey, it's Vegas," meaning, of course, anything goes, nothing is normal and you should automatically replace all your doubts and answer all your "should I..." questions with "Yes."

In fact, the first thing we did after landing at the airport and waiting for the guests of honor, the bride and groom, along with a couple of other people, was pile into a limo. It's like, fuck taxis when there are limos just hanging out ready to give me and my friends a ride for the same price. And, it wasn't our only limo ride. Later on in the trip, the wedding party hopped in a Hummer limo to the "Welcome to Las Vegas" sign for photos. But, hey, it's Vegas.

After a booze run and a trip down the strip, we got to the MGM Grand, then Kate, Lacey, Whittah and I threw on dresses and literally sprinted to see boobs...or should I say basically full female nudity - which none of the boys had a desire to see. While I was under the impression that this burlesque show, The Crazy Horse Paris inside MGM, that I insisted we go to was slightly more clothed, it didn't disappoint. The choreography was nothing short of amazing for several of the pieces, which was my reason for wanting to see it. Plus, the ladies were sans surgically enhanced making it sexy instead of skanky. The Australian boys in "Thunder From Down Under," which we went to see the next night, went more for the man skank appeal. However, watching ripped men in banana hammocks role play in random costumes and perform several Backstreet Boy-esque choreographed routines also makes for a great comedy show.

Speaking of boobs and skanks, I have never seen so many in all my life. Kansas City has it's fair share, but I tend to stay away from the places where they flock since I prefer to hang out with people who aren't dicks. However, in Vegas, it's unavoidable. My friends and I stuffed our faces with In-N-Out Burger, threw on swimsuits, shorts, sunglasses and flip flops and headed to the pool - one of our favorite activities of that weekend since pool weather in KC abruptly ended this year. And, as we strolled the mile or so through the casino to get to the pool, hoards of ladies in lingerie, four inch sparkly stilettos and sunglasses bigger than their faces with teased Bump It hair and full masks of make-up strutted in the same direction with that perma sneer on their faces that says, "mah, step aside, I am the SHIT." While my drunk ass was floating in the lazy river drinking a Bud Light, being retarded with my friends, probably burping really loud and having fun, I thought it might have been interesting to grab one of their little ankles and pull them into the water, you know, just to see if they actually disintegrated since my theory is that they aren't really made of anything human. Of course, I could never be that mean no matter how skanktastic, so we shrugged it off and said, "Hey, it's Vegas."

And, as we were sitting there people watching, I was amazed by the number of boob jobs that just looked incredibly painful. I mean, boob jobs can be done tastefully, although that rarely seems to be the case, and in Vegas, it never is. I remember seeing one waitress in particular - maybe 5 feet tall and petite with these over inflated basketballs for breasts, which were stuffed into this teeny tiny cocktail server dress. She was just all boob. That's all you saw. All the bulging and the stretching and shininess - I clutched my chest in pain just looking at them. I mean, I'm pretty sure the pain doesn't stop after you recover from the surgery when they're that overstuffed and then shoved into tiny clothing. I was thinking that if she made one false move, they'd surely explode and we'd all be splattered in silicone. Then, since we'd been exposed to such sights for a couple of days already, we'd probably just sit there blanketed in this woman's boob goo, look at each other, shrug and say, "Hey, it's Vegas."

The first day we were there, we decided to check out the Hoighty Toity pool at MGM called Wet Republic. We walked in and were surprised that the guy at the door felt the need to search through and inspect our stuff. Of course, I was the only one with a larger bag and the ladies had put most their stuff in it, so here I was for what seemed like a half hour while this guy pawed through everything - and I mean everything. I would have just left it in the room if I knew I was going to be violated. Even I, the one who laughs instead of embarrasses, turned a little red when he opened that bag that every woman has in her purse full of Ibuprofen, antacids, bobby pins...TAMPONS...A CONDOM...yeah...then after he questioned every pill in the bag, searched through all the pockets of two wallets, made Lacey test out her eye drops, asked me if I had a drug habit, demanded the name, address and social security number of every sexual partner and performed a full cavity search, I was free to join my friends standing a few feet away who then asked, "why do you have that in there?" Referring to the condom...I responded with, "Yeah, it's just...leftover...and it's probably expired...and that guy totally knew it by the shape it was in." I'm not sure what's more appealing, a ho that practices safe sex or an involuntary born again virgin. After realizing a chair...A CHAIR cost a minimum of $100 and purchasing a $16 strawberry daquiri, we retreated to the "commoners" pool, which we enjoyed far more. But, you know, hey, it's Vegas.

"Hey, it's Vegas" was naturally our theme for the trip, besides Whittah's made up word of "Ballshoot," a mixture of ballpark and shoot for, which didn't catch on quite as fully as I would have liked.

"Hey, it's Vegas" always answered a question with "yes" and pretty much guided every decision we made on that trip.

"That yard glass full of girly looking alcoholic beverage looks really good, but it's $27 and it will probably make me vomit. Should I still get it? "

"Hey, it's Vegas."

"I met this hot Armenian guy from L.A. at Studio 54, but all my friends are leaving. Should I stay and dance with him until 5 a.m. anyway?"

"Hey, it's Vegas."

"When I wear this dress, you can see the bottom of my ass cheeks and if I move my arms at all, my areolas peek out and say hello to everyone. Should I still wear it?"

"Hey, it's Vegas."

However, not even glittery shows, a delicious dinner at Craftsteak, dancing and drinking the night away and a reported sighting of Mike Tyson in the hotel lobby could overshadow the main event - Sam and Kate's wedding.

Kate looks good, but she's far less of a girly girl than me, so seeing her so flawlessly made up like a movie star was enough to make me tear up, but I saved most of it for the actual ceremony in the little Grand Chapel in MGM. In fact, all of the bridemaids were just short of sobbing through the entire thing. I'm kind of a cry-er lately anyway, but there was just something about watching my best friend and her guy, who has also become one of my best friends, make it official. Like I told them in my four page wedding speech, (yeah, I know, but you should always take any opportunity you have to tell your friends that they're kick ass) they have the kind of relationship that gives the remaining Bridget Jones' of the world some hope. Marriage never really seemed real to me until then and the fact that they're truly best friends and I know they'll be together forever makes me overwhelmingly happy for them and less cynical about the idea of marriage in general.

It was small, simple and intimate, yet as I looked out over the Las Vegas Strip from the 21st floor MGM suite balcony at the reception, I realized that it was also fancy, classy and fairytale-like. And, as I downed wine, danced and sung with my best friends and some new ones on that balcony overlooking the Strip, I kept having to stop, look around at where I was and say to myself, "Is this really happening?" Then I'd shrug and say, "Hey, it's Vegas."

Now, it's off to have some more fun in another city other than my home of KC...that is, after a decent night's sleep (hopefully) and a 9 hour solitary road trip to Denver. I'm leaving tomorrow morning to visit the University of Colorado Denver and make a weekend out of it with Whittah and the rest of the Denver. There will surely be tales of shenanigans to tell when I get back.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Start Spreading the News

Who knew that re-learning fractions and quadratic equations could take over my life and turn me into such a gelatinous pile of shit?

I finally took the leap and started studying for the most wretched test known man, also known as the graduate business school entrance exam, or the GMAT. Yes, I'm going to graduate business school - a Master of Science in Marketing - to be exact, and one of the first steps is to pay $250 to take this goddamn test that doesn't measure anything relevant to business besides maybe my ability to not have a complete mental breakdown. I'm doing OK so far aside from the whole dreaming in story problems thing and occasionally screaming "I DON'T UNDERSTAND! MOTHERFUCKER!" at the giant book of algebra problems in my lap while studying. I'm relearning something I sucked at in the first place, so I'm pretty happy about it as you can tell. The verbal portion is obviously not as evil.

But, it's my own fault. I only gave myself about six weeks to study for this thing that I will hopefully take in mid-October, so I can start working on the next step - applications. It probably would have been helpful to, you know, light a fire under my own ass back in April when I was laid off, but I was too busy with that whole I-suck-at-life feeling that being laid off gives you. I've tossed the idea of going back to school around since I graduated from undergrad, but being out of work for five months with only one interview really has made me realize that I need something more and the time to do it is now.

It's difficult and scary, yet appealing to picture my life less than a year from now since there are no schools in the area that offer the program I want and I'll have to move. Less than a year from now I will no longer be a resident of Kansas City and while my family is here and is the most important thing to me, two once fleeting thoughts will turn into reality and be realized at the same time because of this decision. It will be good for me in numerous ways.

Besides being a slave to the bitch ass GMAT, I've had quite a month in my blogging hiatus:

- In mid-August, a few friends and I took a weekend to join the debauchery that is "Riverdiddle," a float down the Elk River that involves a whole hell of a lot more than floating and beer.

During a stop at Wal-Mart in Nevada, MO on the way down, the organizer Steve actually got a Wal-Mart employee to announce "Attention Riverdiddle 2009, 20 minutes," over the loud speaker. However, it was hard to pay attention since I still had flashes of smooshed-against-the-car-window white butts in my head from the drive down. So much mooning. Not to mention the set of boobies that voluntarily escaped from a veteran Riverdiddler's t-shirt and traveled down the line of cars not only giving our convoy a show, but the lucky truck driver behind us all while stopped at the train crossing in Ft. Scott, Kansas.

This year's theme was to interpret the number 7, pretty much in relation to the seven deadly sins yet our group really wanted to wear horned viking helmets, so we chose the 7th Century.

However I think Ethel, the blow up doll, with three "pleasure holes" was my favorite theme on the trip as she represented the 8th deadly sin - Inflation. She was one scandalous bi-atch and aided in much naughty activity on the trip. Needless to say, she came off the river involuntarily deflated and crumpled in a cooler.

- At the end of August, all of my planning came together in the culmination, which has been called, "The Best White Trash Bachelorette Bash ever." Nothing but the best for my dear friend Kate, who actually specifically requested a white trash party for her bachelorette months ago. Complete with a costume contest, beer tasting contest, pinata full-o-trash, a rousing game of flip cup, beer bongs, white trash trivia and squeeze cheese, this party flipped the traditional, girly and classy bachelorette party the bird, performed a WWF move on it then farted on it's head.

After all this, we climbed on a bus and graced Kansas City with our faux boob tattoos and jorts. I think the bus driver, who was actually about five years older than us and graduated from my high school, was slightly frightened by our antics, especially when we scream sang Tenacious D's "Fuck Her Gently" in route. Apparently Kate's parents' were also serenaded by the same song since her ass decided to call them right at that moment.

Nobody will ever be the same after that party, especially Whittah who barfed up about six pounds of "meat candy" - lil smokies wrapped in bacon and drenched in brown sugar - a few hours post-party. I believe the phrase, "I will never be able to eat that again," was used. Mmmm, delicious.

- With all this "spare time," I started a little homemade business off the notion that "I like this and I could totally make it." It turns out - I can and other people like it too. True to You Productions, which so far has unconventional wrist cuffs and greeting cards is still in it's tiny, budding stages, but I hope to have a Web site up as soon as I get this GMAT out of the way.

And, now, I'm going to try to shut off the GMAT story problem dreams and get some sleep since I have the ultimate pleasure of catching a flight to the fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada tomorrow. Not only am I crapping my pants with excitement over this trip since it will be the first time I've visited of legal age (fourth time total), but also because the whole point of the excursion is to watch my best friend get married on Saturday. I nearly shed tears earlier today when I thought about it because this is such a huge event in her life and for some reason the thought of marriage never seemed real to me until now.

Like we've been saying for months, Kate and Sam's wedding is the number one event going on at the MGM Grand this Saturday...the second is the minuscule Mayweather Jr. vs. Marquez fight, which will attract most of the celebrity guests who weren't aware of the wedding, but will surely choose to attend the reception rather than the fight. Lacey and I will ride the elevators up and down repeatedly in full stalker/star struck mode just to make sure they do.

Viva Las Vegas!

Monday, August 10, 2009

Mother Daughter Bonding

I'm realizing every woman's worst nightmare. Every day I find myself becoming more and more like my mother.

It's not so bad though. I mean, we're both short, fun-loving, vodka drinkers...what's not to like? No, but really, we have our differences, but we're similar in some scary ways.

We're both no nonsense, don't-feed-me-that-bullshit kind of ladies yet she's more on the reserved side, while I'm a bit more boisterous.

We both know what we REALLY like, but we adapt to most situations (i.e. camping) as long as there's enough beer to make it bearable.

We're both fiercely loyal to our "people" and if you mess with any of them, you can kiss your ass goodbye in one form or another. My mom most notably to her children and grandchildren. She's like a mama bear and I swear on everything that when shit goes down, her eyes get all wide and wild, then they turn red and she grows 6-inch razor sharp claws. She's the most loving, gracious, giving woman...until you grossly cross the line. You want to be friends with her. I'm like this to an eerily similar extent, but I suppose I'll be even more mama bear-esque when if I have my own children because I mean seriously? Children? Eew...said the cynical, jobless, unmarried-with-no-prospects 26-year-old.

Just a few weeks ago we learned we're also both touristy, road tripping nerds.

The upside to being jobless is that you can go anywhere and do anything whenever the hell you want especially if somebody else is paying.

Well not anything, since you know all of us unemployed people, while we appreciate the help from the state so we don't in fact starve, really would love to go rob some sort of establishment just because we're so desperate to remember what it feels like to have our old salaries. Not that mine was good anyway, but better than what I'm living off of now.

I've heard people complaining about their salaries recently and I'm like, I'M LIVING OFF A THIRD OF THAT RIGHT NOW YOU BASTARD! And, it's not much worse than what I was living off of while I was at the newspaper. Quit being such a whiny, money grubbing dick! Be happy you are at the very least employed instead of slowly driving yourself to the looney bin like me! Then I punch them in the mouth. But, then I remember that I mentioned I wanted to rob stores and stuff and I take back the money grubbing part...and give them some ice for their fat lip. Perhaps the legal fees and jail time would be far worse in the long run. See, I'm not completely insane...yet.

Also, there was talk that I might qualify to be on food stamps, but I looked into it and it turns out that I "MAKE" TOO MUCH MONEY. Mmmmkay. Can you imagine that? The Johnson County princess, though far less princessy than many, MANY of my counterparts, on food stamps? It's a riot - a fucking riot I tell you...

Damn, where did that come from? Anyway, back to the doing-whatever-I-want-when-I-want thing...

I've loved the famous author and humorist Mark Twain for quite a while and ever since I found out his hometown of Hannibal, Missouri was a mere four hour drive from my hometown of Kansas City, I've wanted to visit. He was just so my style. He made fun of ignorance in a wise and 19th century snarky way. He'd basically say, "Wow, you're a dumbass. Shut up," but he'd do it in this cleaver, roundabout way that would make most people deserving of his remarks sit there puzzled for hours before they'd think, "wait, did he just insult me?" It's pretty much kick ass and relentlessly entertaining.

One day, my Mom goes, 'hey, want to go to Hannibal?' And while I never pictured making the trek with my mother, most people would rather do anything else besides give up their weekend to drive across the state of Missouri to nerd it up with me over some dude that's been dead for nearly 100 years and I'm not sure why I hadn't thought of Mom years ago. So, we did a little research, booked a hotel room, jumped in the car on a Tuesday morning and headed to Hannibal while listening to "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" on CDs. Yes, I just proudly admitted that...

We tromped through the rain for some lunch at a local bar, marveled at the eight different buildings involved in the Mark Twain Boyhood Home and Museum, hoofed it up 6 billion stairs to the Mark Twain Memorial Lighthouse for views of the Mississippi River and received an unplanned private tour of the famous Mark Twain Cave. Apparently it's not too popular on a Tuesday night.

I was mesmerized by the museum, especially the first building where it's basically a giant timeline of his personal life, mixed with his writing career all in one room. It was extremely well done and any history lover would enjoy it.

When we got to the last building, which pretty much focused on his different books and writings, I was briefly snapped out of mesmerization and into hysterical laughter when Mom and I walked over into the "Innocents Abroad" exhibit and unknowingly into a cloud of nuclear waste mixed with three day old summer roadkill that had apparently escaped from the ass of a man that had just quickly exited the exhibit. We both looked at each other wide eyed and covered our faces to not only block out the stench, but stifle laughter until we could run back to the "Roughing It" exhibit to hide in a faux stagecoach until we could compose ourselves and let the area "air out." It took me a while to get Mom to go upstairs because, "I'm not going up there with that guy!" She said, for fear the cloud had made it's way up there as well. Hehe, farts are funny.

Love this quote:

Upstairs, we learned why Samuel Clemens, a former steamboat pilot, chose the pen name Mark Twain and saw actual photos and stuff he used such as one of his white suit jackets, a top hat and a pipe...mesmerization back on.

As we started our journey towards the steps leading to the lighthouse, our peaceful walk was interrupted by some vagabond-type young man singing extremely loudly behind us. I was mildly entertained mainly by how uncomfortable my mother became in this situation. After muttering things like, 'I hope he doesn't come near us' and 'oohhhh, go away!' under her breath, we realized he was singing some religious song and she said, "Oh shit, he's singing a damn Jesus song!" *brief pause* "...and you wonder where you get it, Lara..."

Before we left the hotel for our excursion, I read the Mark Twain Cave brochure and noted how absurd it was for them to use the words "light wrap" to remind visitors to bring a light jacket (the words I would have chosen) for the tour since the cave is 52 degrees. Men aren't going to immediately understand what that means. You might as well say "bring a pashmina." Then, when we arrived at the cave, I said to Mom, "Now, don't forget your light wrap!" and she pretty much lost it and had to sit in the car for a second so she could stop laughing. Later on, my Mom told the story to my Dad and at first, he thought she was talking about food...I rest my case. I have a bright future in brochure writing...Now 1, 2, 3 someone hire me.

Wednesday morning we decided to take a ride on the Mark Twain Riverboat before heading back to KC. We situated ourselves in a couple chairs on the top deck at the front of the boat and quickly realized we were overlooking a gaggle of white trash who provided much side entertainment during our hour-long sightseeing ride.

The chick that would have looked about my age if it hadn't been for the rotting, yellow teeth and half blond, half dark brown hair because of the roots down to her ears, had a child that was maybe 8 months old and BITCHED about EVERYTHING the ENTIRE time. Mom and I watched as person after person sat behind this chick and her parents, then promptly got up and moved to another seat far, far away.

At one point, everybody had food and the kid was stretching her neck out and squawking like a baby bird and WT mommy responded by shoving potato chips and mini M&Ms in her joke. Pretty soon, all the food was gone and the baby FLIPPED A SHIT, you know, like all babies do from time to time, which caused WT mommy to become flustered, yell at the baby to STOOOOOP! and pass the kid off to her grandparents, who also looked confused as to why the baby was screaming.

Then I about fell overboard when Mom matter-of-factly said, "That baby is just hungry. Why don't they feed it? Fucking morons." And, we both laughed uncontrollably in our own little, profane world.

The rest of the riverboat ride involved me salivating over "Jackson's Island." "Oh my god, that's Jackson's Island from Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer!" A Great Blue Heron flew out of the trees as we slowly chugged past and I gasped waaaay too excitedly and pointed waaaay too spastically just because I know they're my mom's favorite and she would have been pissed if she had missed it.

As we continued to float by, my dreams of becoming the female Mark Twain were crushed when I saw the state of the island. Wilderness - wild, woolly wilderness and there was no way I would ever fashion logs together in a skiff, float my ass to this island and stay here for any period of time no matter how craptastic my dad was or how cool Jim the escaped slave was for fear my face would be eaten off by some unnamed river creature, but mostly because of butt crack beetles. I'm far too obsessed with modern technology and I'm not talking flat screens and Blackberries. I'm talking modern dwellings and indoor plumbing. OK, well, maybe I would, but only if there was moonshine. Lots and LOTS of moonshine...

It was quite the educational and worthwhile road trip - for the love of Mark Twain and, most importantly, for the love of Mama.


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