Monday, March 30, 2009

The douchebag of the ocean

Sharks are dicks and I hate them.

I mean, look at them! They're the scariest motherfuckers ever! I've always known this, but this show that the boy and I watched Sunday night "Ocean of Fear: Worst Shark Attack Ever" on the Discovery Channel just heightened my awareness of their asshole-ish ways.

The show was all about the USS Indianapolis that was torpedoed and sank in the summer of 1945 leaving hundreds of Marines and Navy guys floating in the Pacific Ocean...for FOUR FUCKING DAYS in the crappiest life rafts I've ever seen. Some didn't even get that and just bobbed up and down in the ocean with a life jacket. The sharks apparently honed in on them pretty much immediately.

Deep, ominous voice of narrator: "Then an Oceanic White Tip, one of the most aggressive sharks of the sea, approached the group of men." (Flash video footage of big asshole shark swimming around)

I immediately thrust my arm out in front of me to point at the T.V. and yelled, "WHORE!"

Chuckles from the boy.

They talked about how these sharks terrorized the shit out of these guys who were, in the meantime, also dying of hypothermia, starvation and dehydration. Then when it got really bad, some started drinking the salt water, went batshitass crazy with hallucinations and super strength and ended up drowning their friends before they died too. Then sharks would swarm every few hours to chomp off people's hands or pull a dude under and then the other guys would watch while their buddy's body parts would pop up to the surface. BAAAAH!

Later they talked about how some guy lost his pants and his shoes somehow while jumping off the ship and without the protection of those, his pale, flailing limbs in the dark ocean looked like fish to the sharks.

Me: "That's bullshit. They always say that sharks mistake humans for fish or whatever, but I think the sharks know we're humans."

Jim: "Lara, we're not in their natural habitat. They're just looking for food." *chuckles*

Me: "Whatever. They know...They know."

The boy will get NO WHERE with that rational attitude when he's lost in the deep, dark sea one day. These shows always say, 'oh poor shark, he just thought that surfer was a seal.' Well, you know what I say? Fuck that. That surfer looks nothing like a seal. It looks just like a tasty, tasty tanned and blonde-headed human. Just like the pale, flailing limbs look just like delicious legs and arms. Humans are to sharks like crab and frog legs are to humans. Or like 'Da Bronx pizza is to me - a rare delicacy. You can't tell me they don't know the difference between human flesh and a goddamn fish.

When they finally got rescued, some crazy number like more than 500 guys died in the water. And, while they call it "the worst shark attack ever" they tried to backtrack and say very few of the deaths were actually because of shark attacks. Then they spouted out some statistics like only four humans are killed by sharks a year and something like 400,000 sharks are killed by humans per year.

Me: "GOOD!"

Chuckles from the boy.

Throughout the show, they had interviews with some of the survivors of pretty much the worst situation I could possibly think of being in a.k.a. having your vessel sink then having to rot in the ocean for FOUR FUCKING DAYS while sharks tried to eat the shit out of you all while simultaneous starving and going insane, but at the very end, they asked the guys their opinions of sharks.

Two of the guys were all, 'it's cool, we were in their territory. We can't really blame them.' But then the third guy was all, "That situation certainly didn't make me like sharks at all. I think they're harrible!" (yes, harrible, I fully agree.) Nicely put, but I'm sure if he didn't have to censor his response for television, he'd be all, "FUCK SHARKS!" And, I'd be all, "Right on! I'm with you dude."

Moral of the story:
If you join the Navy in 1945, they will leave you to rot in the open ocean for FOUR FUCKING DAYS even though they know your ship is overdue, so don't even think about traveling back in time to enlist AND, more importantly, sharks will eat you on purpose because they are dicks.

I swear I will aim this at your face

The shower gene just isn’t in me and it has nothing to do with personal hygiene. I’m talking baby, bridal and couple. Call me a cranky bitch if you must, but boo - just fucking boo to these damn things. Now don’t get me wrong. I think they’re a necessary evil in order to collect all the much needed items for the wailing, crapping machine you’re about to pop out or for years of marital bliss or some shit like that and I’m sure I’ll be having such “showers” in my honor in due time, but for fuck’s sake, could we bust free from tradition just a tiny bit and be happy about it?

How about instead of sitting around with a bunch of people you don’t know, being faux polite while passing around diapers full of smashed up candy bars and trying to figure out which candy bar is which because, mmmm, yeah, that’s fucking retarded and a waste of my precious blissfully baby free, non-preggo time, you only have the people you give a shit about come to the party dressed as giant babies and then swill rum out of baby bottles. Yeah, that probably wouldn’t work since at least one person would be pregnant and from what I’ve heard – rum bad for baby.

But you know what I mean. Let’s stop this polite, quiet, stilted gathering bullshit and have a little fun. No stupid games, no fake oooing and ahhing, no hands folded nicely in the lap or golf clapping like we’re at a goddamn black tie charity event or a Victorian Tea Party because we are in fact celebrating, correct? How about backyard BBQs with fireworks and coolers stocked full of 24-ounce cans of Miller Lite? How about trips to World’s of Fun or White Trash Bashes for such occasions?

I suppose you must start small for these things and gradually introduce non-douchey elements to shower goers, so this is what Kate and I attempted to do on Sunday evening. Or what Kate attempted to do with slight assistance from me. She planned everything and made all the food. I just offered the venue – my parent’s house – since I live in a shoebox and she lives in a lil dumpy rental house in the ‘hood, along with, I suppose, a little...flair?

The theme of the evening between us two was, “Yeaaaa! (tard voice) We’re good pawty plannors!” Since neither one of us have been on the planning side of such an “adult” event – mostly just theme parties and pub crawls – and with her personality and my attitude, things were slightly less high class than one would expect at a bridal shower.

Kate knew that bride Shaunna would not object and in fact favor the NO GAMES policy at this party and so that was the first element of non-douche.

The second was good food. Kate looked up all these little recipes and made tiny Caesar salads in cheese bowls, mozzarella, basil and red pepper skewers, etc. Good shit that people want to eat.

We only had slight technical difficulties when Kate dumped the entire cookie sheet of tiny pesto and chicken covered pieces of toast all over the floor and the inside of the oven. That got a big “YEAAA!” from me, laughter from Shaunna, gasps and sneers from a few nearby sophisticates and joy from my parent’s dog Wolfie who gladly hovered nearby to clean-up the domestically and party planning disabled carnage off the floor. I stopped laughing just long enough to salvage a few pieces with a pair of tongs.

Non-douche element three was booze – Champagne and Chambord with raspberries. Still fancy-esque I suppose except for the fact that I turned away from the crowd of people, shot the cork across the room and yelled “WOOOOOO!” while the bubbly spewed all over the floor for three out of the four bottles (relax, I totally had paper towels ready).

I got a little lip from a relative for my celebratory opening of the bottles, which went a little something like this: “Aren’t you supposed to put a towel over it so it doesn’t shoot across the room? I mean, I guess it’s OK since it’s her parent’s house.”

It’s a good thing that little chicky bore the wedding’s flower girl and had the baby with her or else I would have aimed the next one at her face...or her butt. Maybe a little nudge from the cork would have aided in dislodging the giant stick up her ass. I’m like, excuse me for trying to liven the joint up a little bit. It’s more fun this way. If you don’t like the way I open champagne then you should have planned the damn party yourself. Ruuuude. I said some or all of this out loud and she probably heard me, but ask me how much I give a shit? Perhaps she’ll refrain from being an asshole next time.

** Note to those who plan on having me in their wedding: I’m probably always going to be labeled as “the asshole bridesmaid.” People, especially relatives, tend to butt in and say unnecessarily rude things if plans don’t pan out how they see fit during such occasions when they should really just keep their yaps shut because it’s none of their damn business and a.) allow those in charge to handle it and b.) allow the bride and groom/mother and father to have their moment; their day without any bullshit from third parties. When this inevitably happens, I will always stick up for you and those involved. I don’t care if it’s your 98-year-old grandma. If she says, ‘the bride could have chosen a dress that didn’t make her look like such a whore,’ I will reply with, “And you could have chosen a dress that didn’t make you look like such a crotchety old bleeeotch!” Then I will run away quickly for fear she will bash me over the head with her giant handbag full of prescription medications and anvils. Just a warning to you all. **

Kate also spilled champagne all over the counter while attempting to make these fancy cocktails, which I believe actually spurred the “Yeaaa! We’re good pawty plannors!” theme of the day.

And, the last element of non-douchey shower planning is a time limit. It’s like, talky, talky, eat, open gifts, say thank you, now get the fug out of my house! Two hours tops.

All in all I’d say our first shower planning/hosting event went fairly well – Despite a few mishaps, we didn’t break anything, the bride had a good time laughing at our stupid asses and I didn’t slap even one person in the mouth. I’d say we’re making progress on this bucking-tradition-for-showers plan. The next one shall be undoubtedly epic.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Why I may never Twitter

The printer at work is a total asshole. You tell it to do something and it’s all, ‘no, I think I’ll be possessed by the devil and do whatever the hell I want with this mind of my own I’ve developed.’ So I can often be heard wailing, “Why, WHY, do you do this to me you whorey motherfucker?! I HATE YOU!” Such is the same with many electronic devices in my life – my piece of crap cell phone, my Shitty McShitty home pc (I covet a Macbook), the demonic blender and vacuum – you know, all of those tricky little devices that require electricity and the slightest bit of coordination to operate. Yeah.

Anyway, I thought maybe it was just me. Perhaps I just had fatty sausage fingers and hit the wrong button repeatedly, but then I remembered that I wasn’t a senior citizen learning how to use this new fangled device called a computer and put it out of my mind. Then one day some of the guys were using my whore face printer for a certain project and spent the entire time blurting obscenities because it does the exact opposite of what it’s supposed to every time.

“SHIT!” “What the FUCK?!” “Goddamn printer!” Then I think one guy hoisted his leg to kick the shit out of it, but the situation was diffused before flying plastic shards could be lodged in anybody’s eye or ink could be splattered on favorite ties.

I’m like, “See? SEE? I fucking told you! I’m not just the “dumb girl” that works here.” Then I immediately posted a status update on Facebook that went something like this:

“Lara is laughing at all the cussing at the printer. I knew it wasn’t just me.”

A few hours later, this guy I knew from college that I haven’t spoken to even on Facebook in several years responds to my status update with something along the lines of:

“Wow, that is the most “The Office” status update I’ve ever read. I bet you miss sitting alone in a shitty newsroom.”

At first I thought, ‘Wow you tactless dickwad. Nice of you to come out of the woodwork just to attempt to insult me.’ Sure I miss certain things about being a reporter – sleeping in, choosing my own schedule, chatting with the people who weren’t complete shitbags – but there are so many more things that I don’t miss – the shitty newsroom infested with creatures, the long and late hours, the dead horse beating meetings that took over my life, deadline stress, forced creativity, the worst salary ever known to human kind (I’m fairly certain there are a handful of bums that sit in front of snooty restaurants on the Plaza and beg for nickels by waving a Styrofoam cup that make more money than I did) and the batshitass crazy people that I had to work with – certain co-workers and sources. If you ever stepped outside of the ailing world of newspapers, maybe you’d see the brighter side of NOT working in it. My life is so different (READ: Better) now that I’m in a nearly, non-media environment.

Then this happened.

I’ve been thinking about joining Twitter lately. I mean, my neurotic ass has been twittering in my own head for years. Even the non-neurotics do it, so now that there’s an outlet to share every little thing that pops into my head, I’ve been thinking about what I might write if I were to start an account. I believe most of my little entries would be from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. – the time of day when I’m most likely sitting in front of a computer. And, so, here’s a little sampling of what I came up with:

“Why won’t you answer your goddamn extension?! Can’t you see the little red light flashing?!”

“I’m starving. I wonder if somebody’s wife made cupcakes and left them in the break room for me to steal.”

“I hate fax machines. Why are they even still in existence?”

“Fucking copier jammed AGAIN and PISSED because shit’s all wrinkled now. Must replace pages now. Just yelled ‘fuck’ really loud. One of my bosses is laughing at me.”

“Somebody is a dirty whoring scissor stealer. Must find my good scissors along with culprit.”

“Culprit found! One of my bosses. What the hell? Stole scissors back in extremely stealth-like manner.”

“Found my actual pair of scissors in conference room where I left them last week. Feel retarded. Must return scissors in stealth-like manner.”

Seriously? Who the hell have I become? Fucking Milton from “Office Space?” Or who’s the craziest bitch on “The Office?” Meredith? Angela? Yeah, I’ve become one of them. This could be the most distressing realization of my life.

But, I’ve always been one of those people who look on the bright side. They’ve recently updated my status at work and are now allowing me to operate power tools to put together frames for licenses. Yes, hard labor is also in the job description.

“Am now crazy office bitch with mad marketing skillz that wields a power drill. Pretty much badass. Hang on to your testicles.”

Mmmm, hmmm, that’s more like it.

Update: The guys have now started calling me Wednesday (see photo above for reference). I believe this is an attempted insult. I will immediately dye hair blond, find mother’s pearls and dig out my old pom poms...just as soon as I give a shit.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Not as it seems

Saturday night I was downtown with some people for a charity party a friend of ours was hosting, so afterwards we decided to hit up one of our old favorites, The Quaff, which we’ve lovingly call “The Queef” or “The Queef Queef” from the very start of our adventures there for one reason alone - plain and simple immaturity...or badassed-ness. Take your pick.

I remember the commercials they used to have for that place on the radio in the early ‘90s. Some douchebaggy announcer guy would come on and blast through a background of bad techno music and people talking and partying and yell, “THE QUAAAFF!” in a deep, mysterious voice overly modified electronically so it sounded a bit robot-like. My 6 or 7-year-old self couldn’t wait to visit what I thought would be such an amazing wonderland of lights, glow sticks and half naked people dancing in cages hanging from the ceiling just feeling the *Nsss, Nsss* beat of the music.

Then 15 years later I walked in for the first time and was like, what the fuck?! This place is a duuuuump.

It’s not like ghetto-lipliner-sans-lipstick white trash or honky-tonk-confederate-flag white trash, just plain old regular white trash. The minute you walk in, you long for a shower and a dose of penicillin and I can’t tell if its because of the stench of fried food that’s so strong you’re pretty certain that each breath of air you inhale is about 12 calories, along with the thick layer of cigarette smoke smell that must be seeping out of the walls since Kansas City has had a smoking ban in bars for several months now, or if its because of the people you have the pleasure of hanging with while visiting this fine establishment.

The waitresses don’t have a dress code per se, but most choose teeny tiny shorts of various colors and materials to dress up their cellulity thighs in what is clearly an attempt to gain larger tips which I’m fairly certain is having the opposite effect. Many a time, one of them has plopped down next us at our table and proceeded to spill her entire life story full of baby daddies and dumb bitches who used to be best friends all while twirling a lock of perm and bleach fried hair around an airbrushed, acrylic nailed finger.

I’ve always wondered what this place was like in its glory days. Or maybe it was always like this and they just had extremely misleading marketing. Either way it would have sucked, but for some reason we keep coming back. Its appeal? Low expectations and the epitome of unpretentiousness I guess.

So here we were Saturday night, drinking some beers and shooting some pool
when we notice a couple of guys watching us. Well, pretty much just scoping out the boy while he kicked ass at pool because when you grow up in New Orleans’ 9th Ward where the bowling alley/pool hall is the safe haven, you apparently get really good a both. As soon as Sam and Jim finished up their third game, one of the spying guys seized his chance to challenge Jim by bumping Kate out of the way, tossing his red pool cue bag on the table along with some quarters and adjusting the black silken pool glove he had on his left hand. As this apparent professional pool player began screwing the two pieces of his personal pool cue, complete with a flame design, together, I thought:

‘oh shit, this is going to be a full on, drag out fucking duel between the amateur hometown pool hall boy and the famous pool shark, “Flaming Cue Magee.” There may be fists thrown and blood splattered on the green felt, then some Roadhouse looking bouncer will grab us all up by the napes of our necks, hurl us out onto Broadway for causing such a ruckus and leave us there bleeding and broken on the streets until the cops come and scrape us off the pavement. This could be really cool, but probably not since I’m not a big fan of violence of any kind. Oh shit.’

The boy was responsible for breaking and knocked in probably three balls before missing, allowing FCM to show us what he was made of. The solid 6 ball was perfectly lined up with the far right corner pocket – an easy shot especially for a player of his caliber. He sunk low to the table and dramatically slid his pool cue back and forth between his gloved fingers for an unnecessarily long period of time while demonstrating incorrect form. Even I knew this since my Uncle Pete had taught me how to properly handle a pool cue while we were having dinner with the fam in a bar a million years ago. He finally went for it and missed. OK, maybe it was just performance jitters. He’d show us the money the next time.

The boy commanded the table effortlessly again for several minutes before he missed and it was FCM’s turn again – another perfectly lined up, easy shot, another dramatic show, more bad form and another missed shot. This guy fucking sucked ass at pool. It was like he dressed up as a professional pool shark for Halloween, became obsessed with the persona and just never took the costume off. Even I could have made those shots and I’m more or less horrendous at the game although I’m much better or just luckier after a few drinks. Shit, I could have made them after more than a few drinks, while holding onto the side of the pool table for stability and squinting to try to make the blurry vision of the three balls I was shooting form back into the actual single ball.

Jim quickly finished up and won the game allowing FCM to shoot a grand total of twice. The bar was closing up and kicking us out right around the same time and the boy went over to say “good game” to FCM who responded with little more than an embarrassed mumble.

I think skanky waitresses, bathroom doors with broken locks, grime so think that it’s actually eating away at the woodwork and a poser pool player are far better than techno, glow sticks and hanging dancing cages full of beautiful people, don’t you?

Oh The Queef Queef, I wait anxiously to see what you have in store for us next time.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Insomniac's Theatre

One theory behind my recent heart issues relayed to me by doctor no. 1 in the walk-in clinic, is that I’m stressed out and don’t get enough sleep. You should have seen the look on her face when I told her I get an average of five to six hours of sleep a night. It was as if she believed I was now a zombie walking around hunting for brains and the reason my heart was trying to claw its way out of my body was obvious - I’m no longer a living human being.

I’d like to know who the hell gets eight hours of good sleep a night? I might be so lucky on the weekends, but it’s not technically good sleep since it’s usually a vodka and beer induced slumber. Plus, like I said, lady, I can’t sleep because my heart pounds which keeps me awake at night and I’ve also been a crappy sleeper since I left for college nearly eight years ago. What would you suggest I do? You make no sense, hooker.

Anyway, I took her advice anyway and have consciously tried to get more sleep, which involves me getting into bed earlier (sometimes) and therefore falling asleep earlier (yeah, pretty much never). It’s against my nature to do such a thing since I usually get my second wind around 10 or 10:30 p.m. and get into this manic state that makes me decide that it’s a perfect time to clean furiously, organize the coat closet or attempt to catch and shave my neighbor’s cat.

Then it seems all the odds are against me anyway. I’ll toss around and think about how cool it would be to be able to fly or to own a teleporter or what I would say if I came face-to-face with Octomom or Samuel Clemens. Sometimes I just wake up at 4 a.m. for no reason at all and go “Shit, shit, SHIT! WHY? I have to get up in three hours!” Which keeps me not wide awake, but in that weird in and out of sleep state where you have freakish dreams that you can’t separate from reality, which is SO MUCH WORSE than staring wide-eyed and pissy at the ceiling.

Also, my dog refuses to sleep at the foot of my bed or even just on the bed, but has decided to sleep ON TOP of me. He’s not very big, but it’s still unpleasant to try to sleep with half a Jack Russell on your hip. Plus he’s roughly 350 degrees, so the experience is equivalent to climbing into my fully pre-heated oven with a blanket and pillow for a snooze. As the night goes on, he takes up more and more of the bed because he can’t possibly sleep vertically, but must sleep horizontally and he gets heavier and more dead weight-ish as I try to push him back over. Then, every time I move, he thinks I’m awake and therefore MUST pet him immediately until the world ends, so he responds by shooting out his stick-like legs and punching me in the boob or the eye. ALWAYS the boob or the eye. Why do dogs do this? They are such DICKS.

Or how about last night when I was sleeping soundly while the boy watched TV next to me (the only person I know that is more night owl-ish than me, but can afford to be because he doesn’t have to work at the crack of dawn) when all of a sudden *Zzzzeeew* the somewhat familiar sound of all the electricity going out for several blocks. The sound of the TV suddenly snapping off stirred me first, but the sound of the boy going, “WHOOOOA! Babe, all the electricity just went out!” woke me up completely.

My cranky, why-the-fuck-did-you-wake-me-up-still-half-asleep-bitch self wanted to say, ‘I don’t caaaaare! I was sleeeeeeping like the rest of the free world at 2 a.m. on a weekday. Nobody else probably noticed except for you because they are ASLEEP!’ But my rational self, which I’m surprised even existed after being woken up from a deep sleep at 2 a.m., said, “well, I guess you’ll have to go to sleep now because there’s nothing else to do.”

He then proceeded to bucking bronco around my apartment – up and down, outside then back inside – “It’s out for long way!” – down then back up again, into the bathroom, back down again, edge of the bed...I’m thinking, honey, I love you but I’m going to fucking kill you right now. Less talky and walky, more sleepy.

Then he opened his laptop, remembered the Internet would also be out and started surfing around on his phone instead. “God, this reminds me of when we had to evacuate,” he said.

Ah ha! He had to evacuate from New Orleans with his family about six months ago when Hurricane Ike came through and spent a week in a hotel in Mississippi that also didn’t have electricity for most of their stay, along with other interesting occurrences, which probably explains why he was so wiggly at the moment.

“Hold on, I just have to make sure this isn’t some sort of terrorist attack,” he said halfway joking.”

‘OH FUCK. Wait, this could totally be a terrorist attack!’ I thought. Keep in mind that I was in an irrational, pissy, just unwillingly ripped from a deep sleep, state of mind. I’m surprised I even remember any of this.

Then he starts messing with me since he knows I’m a pansy and won’t watch scary movies anymore because I can’t sleep after watching them.

“(tightening the drawstring on his pajama pants while rolling over to go to sleep) I have to make sure my pants are on tight in case I have to run away. If a guy with an axe comes in here, you’re on your own.”

‘What? WHAT?! A guy with an axe! Oh god, he’s in my apartment! What’s that noise?! FUCK!’ My tweaked out mind screams.

“Shut up.” I said.

“I’m scared,” he said, still fucking with me. “Not really of guys with axes, but more of supernatural stuff.”

‘GHOSTS! Why’d you have to bring up ghosts? Now they’re all pissed because you’re talking about them and I can feel them flying around my apartment and hovering above my bed. Shit. Fuck!’ Neurotic, sleepy mind screams again.

“Shut up. You’re an ass,” I said.

So, I laid there, once a blissfully sleeping woman, now a wide-eyed 6-year-old afraid of the dark and axe murderers and ghosts and terrorists with only the dead quiet of a dark neighborhood around me, the faint whistle of a distant train from time to time and the sound of my digestive system processing my dinner to keep me company.

Oh and lets not forget about my heart doing back flips and it becoming increasingly sweltering in my room. Just when I thought ‘I am SUFFOCATING in here and I’m going to DIE!’ *Zzzoooop* the TV suddenly snapped back on, all things scary disappeared, I turned back into a 25-year-old grown adult again and fell back to sleep.

This is why I love naps.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Who's that crazy leprechaun-like bitch?

I covet things constantly. No, first I dream them up, have no idea if they actually exist and then I covet them and search for them - so much so that it kind of runs my life.

Such as when I decided I needed the perfect red, peep toe pumps – Not open toed, PEEP toe. Not maroon or mauve, but RED. Not a small, tasteful heel, but a sky high, I-am-now-an-amazon heel. Not a stripper-esque platform sole, but a concealed one etc...It began as a small desire a few years ago and then it just grew into an obsession with more and more stipulations until I finally found them after a several month
long, exhaustive search. They are the most bloody stump foot inducing shoes ever known to a shoe lover – I know because I’ve been wearing them around my apartment since they came in the mail on Wednesday - but that’s not the point. Whether or not they make you want to cry, then hack your toes off because that would feel better than the pain they are inflicting on your feet during a Friday night out on the town was not a stipulation, so I just have a couple more shots of vodka and say, “Quit being a pansy! These shoes are awesome and beautiful!”

And you’re thinking, ‘seriously lady, they’re SHOES for fuck's sake!’ but I do it with everything. Like the new brochure I’m designing for my company. I dreamed up this awesome design with removable, replaceable inserts and pockets that I thought surely some printer in Kansas City would have in stock, but come to find out my brilliant design was in fact a “Lara Original,” so I’d have to have them custom made for a bajillion dollars which is ridiculous for a mass produced brochure and would make my bosses go, 'get the hell out you crazy bitch!.’ So, sadly, I had to let go of this coveted item and think of something boring and far less awesome, which pisses me off.

Sometimes my searches are long and sometimes short. Sometimes my covets haunt my dreams and sometimes I have to coordinate them with my paychecks. Yes, I do wonder if this could be classified as some sort of mental disorder, but nonetheless it’s what I do and I must feed the need.

So my St. Patrick’s Day covet was tiny leprechaun hats. I just had this idea the day of: Wouldn’t it be hilarious to bobby pin a wee hat to my head when I go out for some green beer drinking tonight? You know, the kind that you’re not really “supposed” to wear, but just use as decoration? I stopped by two party stores on the way home from work Tuesday to no avail and then I tried a fabric store right by my apartment. I literally said, out loud, “Oh please have tiny hats!” before I walked in and low and behold there they were right in the front of the store – a six pack of teeny, tiny leprechaun hats covered in green glitter. Hooray! (a perfect example of the short search covet)

I arrived at my friend Lacey’s boyfriend’s friend’s house around 7 p.m. decked out in green with a 12-pack of Miller Lite and, of course, my tiny hat pinned just slightly cockeyed on my head. As I walked toward the three of them sitting on the front porch, the first thing Lacey said to me was, “You have a little hat on your head!” and I’m all, “I know! Isn’t it funny?!”

We strolled to the Westport bars a short time later and found that many people admired the tiny hat throughout the night and I tried to get others to don the five others I had stashed in my purse.

The boy was working at the bar he used to work at for the night and while he was less amused by my tiny hats than I had anticipated, I later tackled him and another bartender at the end of the night and pinned a tiny hat atop each of their heads. Joy ensued. It must have been all of those free green Jell-o shots the boy was feeding everybody…and himself.

While at my favorite bar Kelly’s, some random chick came by with a little bottle of green food coloring and at the exact same time she asked me if I wanted some green beer, she dropped a few drops of the green stuff into both beers sitting in front of me at the bar. I’m like, “thanks for the green roofie rando girl I don’t know!” but it’s hard to stay annoyed when you’re wearing a tiny leprechaun hat, so I got over it in a split second and drank the green roofie beer anyway.

Then I saw this guy and immediately knew he needed a tiny hat:


Except there was no hair to pin it to and make it stay so I was all, “Shit! Where’s some glue when you need it?” I will remember this for next year.

THEN, my best friend of the whole night appeared:

Yes, a fellow tiny hat wearer and lover, although mine was far tinier and better. I tried to share and perch one of my sparkly hats on his head along with the small hat he already had on, but once again the no hair and no glue problem arose.

Lacey eventually put one on and we posed with our friend Rob to compare the tiniest hat with the largest hat.

Now, I may be certifiably nuts with this whole covet problem, but the thing is, I’m never disappointed once my covet is fulfilled. In fact, as you can see, many times others also benefit from my obsessions and we all just have a grand ‘ole jolly time...or it’s just me having the good time and me imagining everybody else having a good time because I’m crazy. Either way, only good things result from the covet.

Usually I don’t reveal too much about my obsessions because I’m fairly certain it’s a deep inner struggle that nobody could understand and also because I don’t want anybody to steal my ideas like in third grade when I started wearing classic K-Swiss shoes, then Kristin got them, then Andrea, then Shaniqua and I was all, “what the fuck assholes?” Yes, I know, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but boo to that in most cases.

Anyway, here are a few, very few, things I currently covet:

Some lovely body scrubs from Angel Face Botanicals that I ran across while reading this chicky’s blog and pretty much everything on this vintage and vintage inspired Web site. There are specifics, but I’ll refrain from sharing for fear my head will spin around and pop off.

I’m a silly, silly woman.

Monday, March 16, 2009

This is how us old broads do it

Life is a bit more mellow when your 25-year-old body suddenly decides to behave like an 86-year-old, blue haired, liver spotted, hunched over, walker with tennis balls wielding cardiac care patient. OK, so maybe it’s not that bad, and I am feeling better today (minus the effects of the insomnia), but that general feeling of ass is still lingering and it makes my weekends far less entertaining than they used to be. Here are some highlights I managed to squeeze out:

• One of my bosses told me to go home at 11 a.m. Friday because the left side of my head was trying to detach itself from the right side making me a worthless employee.
At least this 30 hour migraine didn’t make me vomit like the last one several weeks ago (I know, I know, poor me, right?). So I spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening in a drooly, codine-induced coma because when one of these monstrous whores of a headache won’t go away, I don’t hesitate to summon the narcotics fairy.

• Feeling refreshed after my coma, I went to the mall in hopes of buying these hot ass shoes, but ended up having to order them. Afterwards I spent more time at Target on a Friday night, but managed to escape with mostly just necessities and enough time to hit up the bars for two whole beers. Somebody hold me back from all this fun!

• Saturday I spent my evening at yet another couples wedding shower ALONE. Awesome. This is what happens when you date a bartender because they work every Saturday night and all the friends that you only see once every couple of weeks for such get togethers think you have an imaginary boyfriend and still go, ‘awww, poor single girl. Who can we set her up with?’ At least I’m in the wedding and have an excuse for showing up stag as if I needed an excuse to crash a party.

• Not only was this a couples shower, but apparently an early St. Patrick’s Day affair.
It was like Pottery Barn and a leprechaun boned then exploded out babies everywhere in that house. I’m surprised I’m not shitting green after that party. However we did escape the Irish fest later and finished up the night at a local karaoke bar where best man Kyyyle and groomsmen Lawyer Man sang a rousing scotch slurred version of “MmmBop,” while the rest of the wedding party pissed their pants with laughter. A little later, Lawyer Man “danced” by rolling around on the ground in his scotch-soaked shirt. I’m glad we’re pals now, because Lawyer Man is too ridiculous to hate.

• Sunday I accompanied the boy to an eye exam since he’s one sudden head tilt away from having to tape the middle of his glasses together with sexy white tape. When the door to the exam room opened and some dude in a T-shirt and Wranglers popped in, I thought an America’s Best Eyeglasses customer got lost, except it turned out to be the optometrist. Apparently they don’t have a dress code there because it was like one of the regular employees walked out into the mall and asked, “Do we have a doctor in the house?” Then when nobody answered, they asked, “OK, fine, then does anybody know how to work one of those eye exam doflinkies?” And then Wranglers man raised his hand and was invited in.

• A little later that night while the boy and I sipped Shiraz and watched “Stepbrothers” – so fucking stupid it’s hilarious, by the way, mainly because Will Ferrell can just stand there and breathe and crack me up – I couldn’t get the boy to stop staring at this scooter online:
Apparently that’s his Spring/Summer “thing” and what he will be spending his hard earned St. Patrick’s Day tip money on. He had one a few years ago that he had to sell when he moved. This will apparently also become my “thing” as well since, from the sounds of it, I can expect him to pick me up on it about 99 percent of the time when the weather is decent. He’s already talking about going to some store he knows of and buying both of us helmets. I suspect we’ll be frequenting quite a few biker bars because it’s just like him to roll up on a bunch of leather clad bikers on a flame covered scooter and park it amongst the Harleys. Except if he gets a shirt that says “If you can read this, the bitch fell off,” I totally break up. Why date a Harley guy when you can roll with a moped man?

And now off to plan tomorrow’s festivities, which cannot begin until after 5 p.m. when I get off work. I’d consider taking the day off if I hadn’t been sick so much. Hopefully my life will be slightly more interesting after an evening of green beer.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

I swear it's not a bomb

Check out my external pacemaker:

I wore this thing all day and night yesterday to monitor my heart. I didn't realize I needed to wear a turtle neck in order to cover all the wires, so my wire-y chest was definitely exposed all day prompting everyone who walked into work to go, "what the hell is that?!" And me responding with, "I promise it's not a bomb."

My favorite part was taking the tape off along with a layer of my skin then trying unsuccessfully to scrub the crusty leftover tape shit off my body during my required hillbilly shower in front of my bathroom mirror this morning since I couldn't take a real shower without surely electrocuting myself. I took the rest of it off while sitting in the waiting room with four obese, mouth breathing old people. It hurt just as bad to pull off the electrodes except this time I refrained from yelling "FUUUCK!" each time I ripped one off like a band-aid to avoid upsetting all the old timers and their fragile hearts.

When the nurse called me back for my Echocardiogram, I'm pretty sure she was like, "what the hell are you doing here? Why aren't you a crotchety old lady wheezing for your life?" And I'm all, "yeah I keep asking myself the same thing."

So I laid there while more motherfucking electrodes were attached to my bare boobs by a stranger, got covered in warm goo (at least it was warm!) and saw and heard heart my heart go *gulump* *gulump* on a sonogram. It was actually pretty cool although I didn't know what was going on or what the chick was doing most of the time.

The good news is, she didn't feel the need to call the cardiologist in. The bad news is, I won't get results for a couple of days, so more waiting, and if nothing shows up, then what? What the hell is going on in there? More tests, more time off work, more insurance claims, more money and more of my sanity slowly disappearing. Plus the boy is being a wiener. Yea for life!

I did however get some good news today, which probably kept me from completely going off the deep end. My old newspaper co-worker sent me a text today informing me that I won first place in column writing for the 2009 Kansas Press Association Awards of Excellence. Hooray! Even though I don't work there anymore, I still had the opportunity to submit a sample of my work for the contest. I sent in this and this and this. I was hoping to make it to Wichita for the awards ceremony in April, but just judging from last year's date, I'm assuming it will be on one of the weekends I'm in a wedding or out of town.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go scrub massive amounts of electrode residue off my body.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

For once I'm not the drunk ass or the weirdo

While this blog usually and mostly consists of me making fun of myself for my domestic shortcomings and drunken behavior, with my heart being all ghetto lately, I’ve decided to detach my face from the giant bottle of vodka and take in the sights through (mostly) sober eyes.

Take for instance Saturday night when my sister and brother-in-law got completely hammered ass drunk for my sister’s birthday celebration at the Power & Light District. They made a QuikTrip run at the end of the night and I’m pretty sure they decided to eat their drunken snacks in the store because after 20 minutes, my sister returned to the car with half eaten nachos and my brother-in-law came out with three plastic containers of nacho cheese in one hand and a hot dog in the other. No bun, no box to carry it in, just a loose hot dog in his left fist like a 2-year-old eating his lunch in a high chair. Then, we left the pair of drunkards howling with laughter in the backseat of the car in the driveway because they looked down and realized they had both been spilling cheese all over their laps the entire car ride.

Now if I hadn’t stayed away from the vodka-lovin’ I would have never been able to help them piece together their night of hilarity the next day and explain to them why they had congealed nacho cheese all over their jeans.

* * *

I took lil Andy boo to the vet yesterday for his shots and realized my vet’s office is a mecca for scary white trash. First of all it smelled like rancid dog shit and ass. Now, the vet doesn’t ever smell good, but I’m pretty sure someone’s dog dropped a load in liquid form on the rug in the lobby about three seconds before I walked in. Then I waited for 45 mofoing minutes for the goddamn vet although the people watching and trying to quiet Andy’s shrill whining kept me entertained.

This one enormous lady in gray sweatpants with Tang colored hair – you know the hair that’s trying to be blonde, but the bleach wasn’t left on long enough kind of orange tint – and the scariest black scraggly unibrow ever sat in the waiting room for at least 25 minutes just oooing and ahhhing at all the dogs. At one point she came and sat by me just so she could scratch Andy with her Lee Press On Nails with designs and rhinestones. Of course Andy loved it because he’s a giant ho bag and demands that all people in his sight range pet him until their hands bleed. After a while I was going, ‘what the hell lady? Why are you even in here? You don’t even have an animal with you.’ Soon after, they called her name, she apparently paid a bill, then left.

My favorite was what appeared to be a white trash lesbian couple that was pretty much in the waiting room the entire time I was there. The fat one with a scroungy looking pony tail and boobs that hung to her waist had an inbred looking puppy draped over her shoulder and her older partner that wore a shit stained shirt that said “disguised as a responsible adult” was literally cuddling with a giant white and pink bird that was perched on her arm. I think it was a cockatoo or something,
but she kept hugging it and kissing and cooing at it like, “Oh Tussy, it’s OK baby.” Then the bird showed its appreciation for all the loving by taking a big shat on the thigh of the lady’s black jeans. To which the lady replied, “TUSSY!” I was pretty much dying and surprised that “responsible adult” lady didn’t look more like a BMW parked under a cherry tree in the spring.

Just when I was thinking, ‘where the fuck am I?’ The lady called us back to an exam room. Apparently Andy was pretty perturbed for having to wait so long too because as soon as the vet tech took his weight and left the room, he sniffed around for a bit then lifted his leg and took a giant piss on the filing cabinet.

* * *

Last night I stopped in the bar where the boy works to have a glass of red wine (Shiraz is good for the heart, no?) and about 45 minutes into my visit some drunk ass lady who the boy recognized as a member of the Kansas City *mah, nose in the air* elite that thinks the sun shines out of her ass because her husband is rich, bashed into another customer’s car in front of the restaurant. I’m talking nearly monster trucked her giant SUV over this guy’s little silver sports car.

Instead of saying “sorry, I suck. It was totally my fault. Lets exchange information and we’ll get it taken care of” like a normal, decent human being, this drunk bitch went on a tirade about how she hates the rain and it happened because she was all wet and there was nothing in her rear view camera (note, camera, not mirror) and the rain is coming down in sheets and he’s a huge asshole for making her give him her insurance information and making a big deal out of his smashed in front grill because hey, his car still starts right? She went on and on and on screaming and ranting. This guy must have dealt with a lot of horrendous dick heads in his life because he was so patient with this wretched woman. He could have easily called the cops and had her put in jail for drunk driving especially since there were five witnesses, but he didn’t.

At one point drunky bitch even tried to get the boy to “vouch” for her and Jim just went on polishing his glasses and gave me the wide-eyed this-bitch-is-crazy look. She started going on about the rain for the sixth time and Jim was all “or it was the two bottles of wine.” Finally she and her friend went on their way after Jim shooed them out of the bar, but before they left, he turned to me and said audibly:

“If there were only women like her left in the world, I’d start sucking cock.”

I love that man.

* * *

OK, so maybe I wasn’t my usual drunk ass, weirdo self the past couple of days, but my old tried and true domestic disabled-ness is still very much there. Believe it or not, I set off my smoke alarm for the first time yesterday while boiling water. WTF?

There must have been something stuck on the burner because the whole place filled with smoke, the shrill ass smoke alarm started going off and I had to open the front and back doors to try to air the place out and make the noise stop all while trying to keep a howling Andy from running out the open door. It was quite a sight. I’m surely everyone’s favorite neighbor.

In other news, I’ve spend the day with a Holter Heart Monitor strapped to my chest which is like a 24-hour EKG. It’s pretty sexy. I had a regular EKG last week and they found nothing. Tomorrow I’ll have an Echocardiogram, which I think is like a sonogram of the heart. All this makes me wonder just how many times it’s humanly possible for me to show my boobs to strangers in one week. At least three I guess, but maybe more if I’m lucky. More to come on this topic in the near future, but I just hope they figure out what’s going on in there. It’s really cutting into my drinking time.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

White Coat Syndrome

There was this stupid ass song that we were forced to sing for some music program around 4th grade or so that I loathed: "My heart is palpitatin' from all this syncopation when I hear a baaa-aaand..." Even with the large collection of crappy shit I was forced to sing in a jolly, jovial way completely against my will throughout elementary school, this piece of shit song definitely tops the list and has forever caused me to avoid saying the word "palpitations."

However, since my heart is doing just that (and not from all the mofoing syncopation)I can no longer avoid it and that pisses me off. My heart has been skittering around so to speak and pounding off and on since Sunday night and it feels as though a fat toddler has planted its chunky ass right in the middle of my chest making it
painful and difficult to breathe. Everything is magnified by about 10 at night which has caused a handful of panic attacks and sleeplessness making me a huge scary bitch with a skittery heart and chest pains.

This has happened before, which I assume was brought on by the stress of deadlines and contacting sources and getting photos and blah, blah, blah, the life of a full-time journalist, but now that I have a new job I'm not sure what the hell is going on and why the hell it has decided to last for three fucking days.

I'm not a hypochondriac. In fact I'm pretty much the opposite. I'll probably be one of those people that walks around with cancer and pain for years, but insists I'm fine when someone suggests I go to the doctor. I hate hospitals and emergency rooms and doctors offices and DOCTORS and their white coats and gloved hands. Nothing good happens in these places. It's full of disease and death and blood and needles and all things creepy and gross that I hate. I want nothing to do with this. The only reason I go to the doctor regularly is to get my birth control refilled because I figure having a baby is far worse than getting poked in the vag with a giant Q-Tip once a year. So, the fact that I felt the need to go to a doctor says quite a bit.

Except getting in to see a doctor within a reasonable amount of time is apparently equivalent to me spontaneously growing six inches and becoming a goddamn supermodel. Yeah, never. going. to. happen.

The first doc recommended by mom was no longer taking new patients. This was a family care physician, not a specialist mind you. The second one only took one new patient a week at 10 a.m. on Tuesdays and could get me in on April 28th. I'm pretty sure I will have had a heart attack by then. Feeling sorry for me, I guess, the lady sent me to the triage nurse station to leave a message in hopes I could get into the doctor sooner since it was a special situation.

I got a call back a few hours later from a nurse in regards to my message who asked, "Is it because of a cough?"

"No...(goddammit I'm not a fucking idiot.)"

Then she asked how old I was, scoffed at my answer of 25, told me it was probably a pulled muscle, all the doctors were booked up and I should go to the walk-in clinic.

You know how sometimes you wish it was possible to pop your head and arms through the phone and choke a bitch? Yeah, I can't remember the last time I wanted to shove my pointy-toed stiletto boot up someone's ass so badly. Yes, because every time I pull a muscle it's normal for my heart to grow a tiny sledge hammer and try to bust its way out of my chest. It's not a fucking pulled muscle, BIIIIIIIIITCH.

I called one other doctor with the same results along with my "primary care" doctor, who I don't like and haven't seen for probably 10 years who also couldn't get me in until the very end of March. This sent me into a rage and it probably didn't help that the appointment lady was a flaming dipshit who kept asking me about labs and paps and blah and blah. Then she condescendingly asked how old I was and I about lost it completely. I had to hang up the phone to avoid saying, 'look, lady, I don't fucking know and the fact that you said 'March 28th' instead of 'tomorrow' automatically means I hate you and no longer want to hear your irritating voice.'

I realize that it's close to impossible for me to have an actual heart attack or anything horribly serious at my age, but nothing is completely impossible. Why do you think they have those freaky ass shows about mystery diagnosis and shit on the Discovery Channel? Apparently these people are trained to deny prompt medical care if the patient complains of chest pains, but is under the age of 65. Um, excuse me, but that's how people DIE. I might be young, but this IS NOT NORMAL! I'm going to be so fucking pissed if I die...

So now I'm sitting here waiting for this day to be over so I can prance my ass on over to the lovely walk-in clinic full of illegals and their snot nosed children. Yes, the walk-in clinic where they treat bee stings and sprained ankles. They're going to listen to me for about 0.5 seconds then send me to the goddamn E.R., a.k.a the scariest place on Earth. Shit, I really just hate my life right now.

Monday, March 2, 2009

To prevent shopping, just add vodka

I went on a date with this total assbag one time that declared after about 35 minutes of conversation that I spent half my paycheck on booze at the bars each weekend and I would have more money in the bank if I just kicked that habit. You know, that horribly addictive and life ruining habit of having friends, being social and meeting new people. It's a total money grubbing, soul sucking bitch his assbag-ish opinion.

That one comment alone didn't make him the huge tool he is today. It only contributed to the years of bitter tool-ness he had already built up. Needless to say, I don't value this guy's opinion nor do I take it to heart since I know that comment was made in jealously because "No Friends Magee's" weekends consist of stalking girls on and trying to have sex with his poor, unwilling dog.

However, I do go out quite a bit. More than the average person? Probably. But the point is, this seemingly brilliant and "fucking duh" theory he and others have presented was proven so very, very wrong last least in my case.

Do you know what I did last Friday night? Read a book (a fucking hilarious book, by the way, that I have since finished - "Are You There Vodka, It's Me Chelsea," by Chelsea Handler), did some laundry, cleaned, gave myself a manicure, touched up my dye job and went to Target.


I found it nothing short of shocking that I actually enjoyed my lame ass Friday night too. I'm going to go ahead and blame it on the fact that I probably wasn't quite fully recovered from the New Orleans drunk-o-palooza and I went out Thursday night with the boy because heaven forbid there be any mention of me growing old and boring...or worse...maturing...

That last word in the list that summed up my old lady Friday night - Target - is more interesting than it seems partly because the typical Friday night super-mart-like store shopper is usually an enormous fat lady that makes her spandex stirrup pants work extremely hard and is a favorite conversation topic of my father's.

However, I left my spandex at home this time and didn't notice any of the aforementioned ladies because I was too busy spending nearly $200. Yes, instead of spending perhaps $30 at the bars or maybe even less depending on how generous the boys are being, I spent close to $200 at Target. Who does that?

I mean, it's Target. There's cute stuff - jewelry, shoes, etc. - but it's no designer vintage boutique. What the hell did I buy?

Well, I browsed the cosmetics section for a good half hour causing most of the damage since I have this thing for those lipsticks that stay on your lips for hours that cost $10 a pop and seem to only come off if your lips are smashed against hotel pillows in a drunken slumber, which is kind of weird because I don't know anybody else that wears bright lip color besides my 77-year-old aunt...What does that say about me? Plus, I just love all beauty supplies, which happen to be expensive.

On top of some groceries I also threw in a $16 8-ounce bottle of hairspray that promised to give me Big Sexy Hair, which I later found out actually did in fact give me Big Sexy Hair, so I suppose I got my money's worth on that one.

While I used to think these hats were dumb,
I recently changed my mind and while I was frantically rummaging around in the purses because it was almost closing time, that guy ended up in my basket without being tried on along with this guy.
My theory was I could just try them on at home and if they looked retarded, I'd take them back. Well, they looked the opposite of retarded, so no money back for me.

Somewhere along the way I decided I needed pink argyle knee socks because really? Who doesn't? I also decided socks with snails on them were a must have and that the boy needed some socks with snails on them as well in a different color since he's the weird sock king.

Crap I tell you, all crap. Do you see what happens when I don't do something constructive with my Friday night such as go to bars and drink? I shop and spend assloads of money on stupid shit.

Just the other day I was having a conversation with the boy and explaining to him why I thought he had an addictive personality since he's an occasional smokes-when-he-drinks guy:

Jim: "Lara, I smoke, like, four cigarettes a week."

Me: "Yeah, but you still smoke. You still have the desire to smoke."

Jim: "Well, I guess we all have a vice."

Me: "Oh yeah? What's my vice then?"

Jim: (pauses for roughly two and a half seconds to ponder) "Shopping."

Me: "Goddammit."

This is probably why I still don't have a credit card and take personal offense when someone tries to offer me one. The checker at Target is all, "Would you like to save 10 percent and open a Target card today?" And I just look at them, scowl and say, "Why are you trying to ruin my life? You don't even know me!"

And, why is it when everyone's talking about the importance of "living within your means" and keeping your debt under control along with all this identity theft bullshit does society force you to have a credit card in order to purchase anything substantial such as a car or a home? Can't they just call the electric or gas company and ask if I pay my shit on time? It's like credit cards are evil, but we're going to go ahead and make it impossible for you not to have one. For me, I must establish credit in order to prepare for my future in case I'm ever able to afford a house (yeah, riiight.) yet in the meantime, I would fuck up my future because I'd buy many, many shoes...and cute dresses...and socks with snails on them.

To make up for my last weekend of non-drinky-drinky, vodka and I made out A LOT this weekend causing me to stroke the hair of strangers and fall down, skinning my left knee through my jeans while Jim's old co-workers pointed and laughed at me. Yea me!

But, I spent less than $40 all weekend. Alcoholism is a much cheaper vice than shopping. I know which one I'll be siding with.

If I wasn't completely freaked out and scared of that assbag's mental instabilities, I'd totally call his ass up right now and tell him that I proved his bullshit theory completely wrong. Except I erased his number and blocked it after receiving all those verbally abusive text messages after knowing him for 48 hours. Yeah, so that's not going to happen, but at least I have scientific proof to present to any future naysayers.

Remember, if you get the urge to shop, just go drink. It's waaaay cheaper.

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