Saturday, June 27, 2009

Texty Magee

How many times a day do you think women around the world complain about the state of dating these days? I'm going to guess a shitload mainly because I'm too lazy after my afternoon of floating on a raft in the pool to provide an actual estimated number and because I'm among those that complain.

As I suddenly find myself back out in the scary depths of the dating world, (please kill me now) I find it harder and harder to stay positive each time I come back to this place. It's like being trapped in a techno-tastic dance club overflowing with sneery, popped collar doucherockets, pompous suits with airs of entitlement, tatooed, fat white trash, unambitious lumps of crap that reek of pot, asexual mama's boys with arthritic thumbs from their XBox-alism, ganstas, closeted homosexuals....Shall I go on?

See? Cynical as all hell, but I have many reasons for this attitude. There's one thing in particular about this trainwreck called dating that especially makes smoke come out of my ears and that, my friends, is text messaging. Since the beginning of time, men have grabbed their crotches and proclaimed that because they have these two giant friends hanging between their legs, they are brave, strong, macho and world conqueringly fearless - the epitome of "MAN." Except as men continue to evolve, their giant friends and all that they apparently symbolize are shrinking rapidly. They no longer use them and therefore no longer need them. At this rate, by next year, some men will be completely ball-less...or perhaps it's already happened.

Case in point, when did it become acceptable to get to know somebody through text messaging? Now, I'm not completely chastising the technology because I think it's perfectly fine in certain situations - in a crowded bar where a phone conversation is not possible, at work when you're not supposed to be yaking on the phone, when you're with your friends and you don't want to be rude and leave to talk on the phone, to send a simple message such as "on my way" as in, I'm on my way to your house to pick you up, so be ready - see a pattern here?

However, it's not OK for a guy to send a text message instead of calling a woman on the initial contact after meeting and it's not OK to just text back and forth for no other reason except the convenience of hiding behind "lol" and "idk" instead of actually using your vocal chords to communicate like a normal, considerate person. What the fuck? You're trying to get to know each other to see if you would like to date are you not? How do you do that when sarcastic humor, true meanings, genuine laughs, sighs and sincerity are completely missing or lost in translation? How lazy and socially inept can you be?

Take for instance the text message I received Thursday evening. It was from an unsaved number that I didn't recognize and all it said was:

"Hi Laura!"

Ummmm, huh? First of all, that's not my name. Second of all, how in the hell am I supposed to know who this is? And, no, I didn't text this back to the mystery number because after I thought about it for two seconds I realized who it was.

Last Friday we went to a free concert that Ida Maria - one of my new loves - was headlining. As I was busy rocking out, some guy came up to me and started talking to me about how he couldn't find his coke head date who had apparently ditched him. Now as charming as that approach was, I wasn't particularly interested in the guy, but he also wasn't terribly douche-rific either. When the concert was over, I said bye and started to walk away, he asked the inevitable question and I called out my number over my shoulder thinking I would never hear from him or see him again...until this delightful text message appeared on my phone.

It has to be him since he's the only rando I've given my number to and haven't heard from in the past nine months or so and the area codes match. I ignored it of course because first of all, is he retarded? And second of all if the man really wanted to talk to me he would, how you say, "grow a pair" and call me. What a wanker.

I realize chivalry is hard to find these days and most women have come to terms with this, but are you kidding me? Excuse me for wanting and expecting to hear a voice rather than read my way, tiny message by tiny message, into someone's life. I also realize and immensely appreciate the power of the written word - I'm a writer for fuck's sake - but there's a time and a place for it.

So, men, next time you're faced with the ever so difficult decision of "shall I call or text?" Stop, think really hard and just for good measure, reach down and grab your crotch just to make sure evolution hasn't gotten to you yet, take a deep breath and dial the phone number instead of being a giant, ball-less pansy ass. Believe me, no woman is EVER going to be disappointed that you called rather than texted.

I'd really love to get out of this aforementioned horrific, techno-tastic dance club full of douche as soon as possible and if men would just follow this simple, common sense rule of dating, it would be a decent start to the journey towards the exit.

Friday, June 26, 2009


The art of shopping (yes, I said art because the fact that shows like "What Not To Wear" exist prove that shopping and dressing yourself fabulously is in fact an art) brings me great joy. A special tingly sensation comes over me when I go vintage shopping even though I never have much luck. People had different shapes back in the day, which apparently means that everybody was either teeny tiny or huge compared to me, so if I bring back even one piece from a vintage shopping excursion I nearly piss myself. Yeah, I have a problem.

However, Wednesday's spontaneous vintage adventure brought up a whole new fail that had nothing to do with size. I went to my hair stylist that afternoon and basically said, "See this black mop of hot ass on my head? Please get it the fuck off me," and she obliged. The heat and humidity makes me all delirious, so I'm glad I didn't just pull a Britney Spears, steal her clippers and shave the entire thing off. It's a pretty drastic change - an angled bob and you can see the back of my neck, but my stylist is quite talented, so I didn't worry too much while she hacked six pounds of hair off my head.

Anyway, when I was done and covered in tiny hairs from my cut, I spied a little store kinda near the salon and decided to stop in despite my new found chest hairs. It was a cute store, so I browsed a little, picked some stuff out and headed into the dressing room. Skirts? Bust. First dress? Bust. Second dress?...YAY! Adorable! However, before I got too excited and lost control of my bladder, I had to flip it around so I could get it zipped up all the way to see the full effect. But said zipper was being quite pissy - a centimeter up, a centimeter down, then it just wouldn't move at all. I wiggled around a little more trying to get it to move and it wasn't until the bottom part of the zipper separated that I realized, 'Shit...SHIT! I'm stuck in this goddamn dress!'

You'd think a faulty 40 to 50-year-old zipper would be fairly common except this dress was not old, but vintage inspired and the only non-vintage thing I had brought into the room. I stood there strategizing for a second - maybe I should go get the lady to help me? Nope, no way in hell am I going to get the lady who will probably cut my naked ass out of the dress, then make me pay for the shreds.

OK, so now not only am I stuck in the dress, but I'm stuck in this dressing room and in this store until I figure out how to get this thing off me. I've already been in here an awkwardly long time and she probably thinks I'm taking a crap in here or something...I begin to wiggle around again trying to either pull the dress up over my head or down over my hips, now sweating profusely, topless, hopping around frantically in this tiny room with a crumpled up, broken zipper dress stuck around my waist, trying not to cuss audibly with only a curtain separating this hot mess from the rest of the world.

Nothing was working and the funny thing was, it wasn't like I was some fat ass trying to squeeze into something that was two sizes too small. This dress was my size. It fit! I wanted to buy it! It was made for me! So much so that it wouldn't come off! While I'm glad I found out the zipper was a cheap piece of shit before I bought it, being stuck in the damn thing out in public rather than in the privacy of my own home proved to be rather inconvenient. Oh my god...OH MY GOOOOOOD! What am I going to do?

Just when I was about to call the fire department, the zipper detached from one side, in other words, it broke completely and I breathed in the sweet air of dress freedom. At this point, I didn't even give a rat's ass that I had just screwed up the merchandise. If I hadn't tried it on, it was bound to happen to the next person, therefore, not my fault dammit. Plus, I was a bit traumatized by my near death-by-dress experience.

I sat down for a second before trying on the last dress I had brought in, then without touching it, one of the little string belt loops popped off the dress. What. The. Fuck. Apparently I was a caveman today "Harna Smash!" and this was my cue to get the hell out of there. I then left most of my items in the room, casually took the asshole zipper dress back to it's home amongst what were surely other asshole zipper dresses and calmly ran the fuck away from the store.

I know, I know, it was kind of a dick move and frankly it was pretty out of character for me, but a.) that really pissed me off because that shouldn't happen, b.) I'm unemployed and can barely afford a non-broken dress and c.) I was EMBARRASSED! There, I said it. I doesn't happen very often, but there ya go.

While I'm now slightly frightened of vintage shopping, like they say about all fears, you have to face them and just try, try again...I'll just be trying at another store where they don't associate my face with busted dresses.

* The pic is an Anne Taintor design - love her stuff.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Yoga With A Twist

Having a 4-foot tall, lispy, grandmother bobble head doll for a yoga instructor seems to put a different twist on the whole "yoga experience."

I've been going to a yoga class every Wednesday evening to aid in my quest for peace, serenity, relaxation and hotter arms and much to my surprise, I've embraced it, enjoyed it and continue to go back. I tried yoga once in college, said 'laaaaaaaaaame,' then never went back, until now.

Talk of "energies" and holistic healing automatically makes my eyes roll around in my skull like a snotty, disgruntled teenager because it's hokie; impractical. This is probably why I never embraced religion either...or Santa Claus. But, with the state of my life right now, I'm willing to try just about anything for a little inner peace.

I've come to respect the practice of small, reasonable doses. I see and feel the benefits of the movements, the breathing, the concept of letting go and clearing your mind, but when shit starts getting overly philosophical, I hit a wall and throw in the towel.

This is why I like the Wednesday night instructor. She's constantly saying, 'yoga is for you, the individual. Use it how you need it and want to use it.' So, I do. You can tell that yoga is a hobby and a love of hers, but she has a perfectly normal, un-yoga-obsessed life outside of the classes she teaches at the gym. She jokes during class and talks about things that are of this world. She never forces the idea on you that yoga will aid in your digestion or cure any terminal diseases you might have.

However, this was not the case with Saturday's crazy train. I'm pretty sure this woman, though probably quite friendly, lives in an alternate universe, stands on her head while watching TV and balances on one foot while doing dishes. Everything in her life revolves around the deepest and most strict interpretation of yoga. Her hybrid Toyota is surely plastered with bumper stickers advertising her dedication to her craft such as "Yoga is Life," "Yogis Do It Better" and "Chaturanga This!" all picturing a human silhouette twisted into a pretzel. Although perhaps not the last one since it's slightly threatening and she made it quite clear that "we're not violent" on several occasions.

Glassy eyed with a goofy, euphoric perma smile and an air of unstable, she flew through the hour-long class, without a thought to the beginners like me, lisping the entire time about the setting sun and massaging our organs or something, spitting yoga terms and floating on a cloud of crazy. Arms outstretched, she gazed at the ceiling while holding her positions, an eerie smile still spread across her giant face, and flung her tiny, 60-something year old body into contortions that made me look like a dumpy, immobile blob of a human. After balancing on her hands with her knees resting on her elbows like a tripod, she later suggested we go into "monkey pose" and flicked her little legs into the splits.

At one point, the authentic song she selected grew quiet as she continued to lisp and breathe into the headset microphone. Suddenly, the quiet, soothing part of the song was shattered with loud Indian-like chanting blaring through the speakers, "aaaaahhhh, oooooooohhh, IIIIIeeeeee" and she began to lisp-yell to be heard over the music. Quite the relaxing atmosphere, especially since I was holding in the urge to burst into laughter all while trying to wrap both legs around my neck.

It reminded me of when I'd go to midnight mass with many a boyfriend on Christmas Eve and crack up in church as soon as the pastor started chanting. Call it heathenistic if you must, but it just strikes me as absolutely hilarious....Every. Single. Time. I simply can't help it.

Perhaps I'll just stick to Wednesday least until I've learned to touch my feet to the top of my head and have a good, solid levitation down.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Deep *SIGH*

God fucking dammit. I went three whole days without feeling bad and now here I am feeling sad about the break up. Somebody just punch me in the damn face and tell me to snap the hell out of it. What can I say? I have a soul.

I'll be meeting my friend Caroline at a drinking/shopping event in about an hour, so that should probably lift my spirits since I can't quite think of anything better than drinking and shopping...especially when done together. And, there's a free concert tomorrow, so I can't really complain.

I am also quite disappointed that the Wendy's fairy also decided to skip my house yesterday when handing out coupons for free breakfast sandwiches. I noticed these big ass door hangers on the knobs of all my downstairs neighbor's doors and apparently Wendy's fairies are too lazy to fly up stairs because I didn't get I took matters into my own hands...and stole one off somebody else's door.

What? I'm fairly sure (fairly being the key word) the cat guy moved out, so it would have gone to waste anyway. Yeaaaah! Free breakfast for me tomorrow...if I get up in time.

Well, Hello There Week 8...You Bastard

I'm now in the middle of week number 8 of unemployment. Two mothertrucking months without work and what do I have to show for it?

--- A thriving herb garden, one dead hanging plant due to aphids (fucking aphids! Whores!) and the ability to use those herbs in many ways to cook for myself and others. Behold cilantro chicken with cilantro rice, gourmet quesadilla with chives, salad and raspberry mojito that I made for Kate, Sam and myself a few weeks ago, which was delicious if I do say so myself:

Wait...did I just say cook? Yes, I may have to change the subtitle of this blog because unemployment has turned me into a slightly less domestically disabled Kansas chick. I may just make a good housewife one day...except I still don't actually like cooking and now that I've outed myself on the Internet, if I ever do find a nice, non-fucktard-ish man to marry one day, I could run the risk of him actually expecting me to have dinner on the table when he arrives home from work (however, if he actually is in fact a non-fucktard, he won't) to which I will reply, 'sorry, I was too busy scratching my ass all day...there's some pizza in the freezer and the oven's right there. Have fun and make me some while you're at it.'

--- An extremely scholarly Jack Russell Terrier with an extensive vocabulary because living alone and unemployed forces you have conversations with the dog...a LOT.

"Professor Andrew J. Finkelstein"

--- A slightly hotter physique due to the extra yoga and kickboxing classes I can now take advantage of with all this extra time...that is when I'm not busy floating in the pool handing out my resume to everyone I see or sitting on my ass eating ice cream cleaning my apartment.

Now, keep in mind that this is only slightly sexier than I was before and it is an actual photo, so you can see some blemishes here and there like my ripped abs and my full C cups popping out of my swimsuit - soooo, embarrassing, but I like to be as open and honest as I can on this blog.

--- Many, many more doggie friends...and the start of a goal to help others.

Laaaaaaaaaazy asses:

This is Andy and Kate and Sam's dog Frank being disgustingly cute last week. I watched Frank a.k.a Dingo, a.k.a. Fatmo, for a few days while his parents were out of town and was very proud of him for avoiding my shoes and only chewing up non-important items such as colored tissue paper and a plastic hanger. What a festive yard Kate and Sam will have after a weekend with Auntie Harn!

I also had my volunteer training session at the Humane Society on Saturday like I had talked about and found that it's a lot less involved than I thought - no feeding, no cleaning up shit - just hanging out with the dogs or cats or doing office work. It's a little disappointing because I want to feel like I'm actually helping instead of just playing. Of course today I went in for the first time to actually volunteer and hung out with a couple of lovely young pit bulls who gave me lots of slobbery, jowl-y kisses on my face and muddy paw prints on my shirt. I think my favorite part will be the adoption events where I'll actually be able to tell potential owners that, 'this dog is fucking awesome,' except I probably won't say 'fucking' since that's a bit abrasive for the very young and the very old and the very righteous, but it's going to be hard since it's just such a good way to get your point across.

and last, but most certainly not least...

--- I'm a newly SINGLE woman with a new outlook.

Sometimes is takes a while to realize when somebody in your life is no longer bringing you happiness, but is in fact bringing you down. Reflecting back on the last several months, I see that my life began taking a nosedive right around January and has continued in that downward motion since then...until I figured out what my problem actually was. I learned at a young age that some people are just poisonous and as long as they're in your life, they'll continue to suck the life out of you. No badmouthing, no name calling, no petty bullshit - Let's just say I took a bold step earlier this week that should have been done a long time ago and I see it as a learning experience...and we'll leave it at that.

That one little (read: HUGE) thing has had a remarkable affect on my mood and my behavior - I'm not worried or anxious or pissed off or sad or disappointed all the time anymore - I'm relaxed and open and HAPPY and myself again...Nearly fucking euphoric I tell you...weights being lifted...sighs of relief...and it's amazing how your life instantly lifts once you remove yourself from a bad situation.

Such as Tuesday night - I didn't really want to go out, but my friend Erin had called and asked if I wanted to go out for a drink with her and her friend Whitney. Finally, I threw on a crappy tank top, pulled my hair back, decided to meet up with them and ended up having the time of our lives. Drinks, dancing on stage, dueling pianos, a drunk guy backing his ass up on Erin multiple times, getting called out by said dueling pianists, laughing hysterically, an unexpected, but pleasant run-in with a guy I used to date in college, an unexpected and strange run in with my world geography teacher from high school (wtf?), '90s music galore, a sweaty guy doing the worm and we even met several pleasant guys, one in particular. But, most importantly, I had FUN with the girls. No worries what-so-ever...although I think they regretted it slightly since they both had to be up at the ass crack of dawn for work the next morning. Ouch.

Except there's still one little thing that's still kind of bothering me...


Eh, minor details...

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Recapping the Moments of My Life

Kate while riding in my backseat: "You have the most random shit in your backseat - blanket, towel, paper towels...hubcap."

Me: "Actually that's not a hubcap, that's a stovetop grill that your future husband gave me, so even better."

Kate: "What? I didn't know such a thing existed."

Lacey in front seat: "Neither did I."

Me: "Me either."

What they didn't know is just last week, I also had an antique typewriter clacking around back there and before that, two boxes of blue dishes. Often times you will also find a Jack Russell Terrier seizing around back there in case it wasn't evident by the layer of white needle-like hair covering all surfaces. I wouldn't advise you to look in my trunk.

Another important piece of information is that this conversation took place while driving to a regional air guitar competition in which Lacey was a judge.


I went to Bed, Bath and Beyond yesterday and managed to dodge most of the happy smug couples with their wedding registry scanners on my quest to find some shelves for my living room.

After wandering aimlessly for a while, I began to notice that it was apparently hat day at BB&B and sadly I had not received the memo. All the employees were walking around wearing firefighter hats. And not like the real ones. I'm talking the bright red, plastic children's hats that say "Fire Chief" on them and are meant to fit on a child's small head....they looked..."special."

After I found my shelves I began to wander again, but after about three people in ill-fitting plastic hats asked me if I needed a cart for my 2.5 pound box I had tucked under my arm, I decided I needed to get the hell out of there.

I headed to the register where I was greeted by another cockeyed fireman's hat wearing dude. Now this is the ultimate in employee degradation. It's worse than the McDonald's visors or crap brown UPS uniforms, but not quite as bad as the giant wiener hat Ashley had to wear on the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. I'm just glad my unemployment pays me more than I would make working here or this would be my fate right now. My red, plastic, Fire Chief fate. Except I'd probably get out of wearing one because I have this abnormally large head. I would look like my little boys on my St. Patrick's Day tiny hat adventure and it would keep falling off into the aisles creating a hazard for customers.

Me to checker guy: "I bet you're thrilled it's hat day."

Checker guy: "*smirks* It's fire safety month, so we'll be wearing these all month long."

Well, in that case, I'll be back in July.


My parents and I were sitting on their couch Monday night eating dinner and watching all that Monday night television has to offer when somehow the topic of huge cheeseburgers came up.

Dad: "What do they call Hardee's out West?" (reminiscing about when they lived in Reno, Nevada a few years ago)

Me: "Carl's Jr."

Dad: "Yeah, Carl's Jr. One time they were advertising the guacamole burger and it was one of those commercials where this giant burger falls from the sky and guacamole sloshes all over the place. Well I got a guacamole burger once and it was goooood, but there was no neat way to eat it. It just gets everywhere."

Me: "What I don't understand is how somebody finishes one of those things. You would take these monstrous shits."

Mom: (sneering up face, but laughing)

Dad: "....Yeah, monstrous, well-lubricated shits."

Me: "Dad just took it a step further."

Mom: (cracking up)

Me: "....And that's why I like him."

(Trio of laughter)

Monday, June 8, 2009

Love Thy Neighbor...Unless (S)He's a Dickwad

Apartment living means lots of new neighbors at different times and I guess it's been a couple of months since the family-o-weirdos moved in downstairs.

At first I just started noticing a little boy with a blonde mullet tearing around the area on a scooter, their patio overrun with basketballs and toys and the grass around their entrances littered with tiny plastic dinosaurs and matchbox cars. I'm thinking great, I thought this community was just under the white trash radar, which prevents people who think it's OK to leave shit on their lawn and allow their child to run around with a mullet from moving in. If a rusted out car or a giant bathtub painted to look like a cow hide shows up as lawn decor, I'm complaining dammit.

Then I started noticing the rest of the family - a baby, an older couple and a younger couple, therefore I'm fairly sure six people live in a two bedroom apartment. What I assume is the daddy of the family also likes to zoom around on his extremely loud crotch rocket with his shirt completely unbuttoned allowing his chest hair to flap in the breeze like a giant douche. One time I walked past daddy and mullet boy on the sidewalk while walking the dog and daddy looked rather strung out on something. His eyes were slits and he gave me a sideways glance, but had no expression on his face. I smiled and said hi like most normal people do when they pass by somebody, or at least normal people in the Midwest, and he just stared at me silently and blankly all slitty eyed. I was like, fucking great, not only are they hillbillies, but they're rude crackheads too. I'm gonna be so pissed if their meth lab blows up and kills me dammit.

Every time I walk Andy past them, they shield their children and sort of cower as if I have leashed a full grown African lion and decided to walk him around the neighborhood to allow him to prey on small, blonde mullet-ed children who don't pick up their toys. It's a DOG and it's not even a big dog. He loves everybody. He might piss on you with glee, but that's about it.

I pass by, smile and say "Hi!," and not only do they not return the greeting, but they stare at me like I'm the anti-Christ. I don't get it.

Usually they're pretty quiet, but at one point I noticed that they weren't speaking English. OOOOH! OK! I thought, they're from another country and they're just kind of disoriented and trying to get used to the environment. This may also explain Daddy's perpetual open shirt. I'm guessing Germany for some reason. I'll have to eavesdrop a little better next time they speak. We hosted a German exchange student when my sister was in high school and there were definitely some cultural differences and language barriers that were gradually resolved before we all felt completely comfortable, but then it was like having another sister. I'll cut them some slack for the cultural shock, but I'm pretty sure there are still manners in Germany and they can understand and acknowledge a simple greeting.

I saw the young couple and their kids at the nearby park yesterday - daddy's hairy nipples waving at me from underneath his unbuttoned shirt, blonde mommy at his side pushing a stroller with a happy, screechy infant inside and mullet boy hanging from the playground equipment. I, of course, flash a friendly smile....and they stare at me. Silent, blank, creepy, slitty-eyed stares. I'm all, if you're going to be fucking creepy, just ignore me and don't look at me because now you're going to haunt my dreams with your "Children of the Corn" likeness.

OK, so they sort of have an excuse. The chick next door on the other hand, does not. She's just an asshole. Her boyfriend is always extremely friendly and smiley and always says hello. On the rare occasions that I do see her, she acts extremely annoyed that there are other humans on the planet besides her and how dare they be near her the moment she's decided to emerge from her lair. This is usually followed by a loud, pissy sigh and lots of eye contact avoidance. Never once has she smiled or initiated a greeting. I always say hi and sometimes when she's feeling like just a regular bitch instead of a completely heinous bitch, she mutters something back under her breath. This has become sort of game to me. I feel like greeting her in a ridiculous way every time just to see what kind of a reaction I get out of her. I'd be all, "Hel-LOOOOOOOOOOO! (opera voice)" or "HAAAAAAAAAY! What up HO?!" But, this may prove to be a fatal experiment because then she'll probably look at me, then lasers will shoot out of her eyes and kill me instantly. I will not let that bitch take me down.

Are your neighbors this wretched or have they all just decided to move in next door to me? Maybe they won't resign the lease.

- Photo at - awesome site BTW.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

Um, Can I Just Walk My Dog?

I walked down the hill at the dog park towards the lake with Andy, who was actually being a non-douche and trotting just a few feet ahead of me stopping to turn around every few minutes to check in, when I sorta kinda noticed this older man, maybe 50, sitting on a bench off to the right, his black dog sitting at his feet, a faint satisfied smile spread across his face.

Thinking nothing of it, I continued down the hill and perched on the rock wall a few feet from the water while Andy tore around the area, sniffing butts and splashing around in the lake. The man and black dog, which I quickly found out was named Emily from the way he was baby talking to her in this creepy high pitched voice that most people would turn off as soon as they left their house, soon came down and sat near me on the rock wall.

Several minutes and encounters with the irritating baby talk to other dogs pass before the man asks me, "Is this one yours? What kind of dog is that?"

I gave him my usual answer of Jack Russell Terrier and maybe something else, but he's a shelter dog so we'll never really know.

"Well actually you can," he said. Then starts this strange mannerism of staring off into the sky and swirling the fingers around in a circle against what looked like a clear, plastic CD case on top of some papers and a magazine he was holding in his other hand. He searched and swirled and searched and swirled and stared and analyzed and talked to himself and came to the conclusion that Andy was without a doubt 50 percent Jack Russell and 50 percent American Pit Bull.

Why yes, a pit bull is exactly what comes to mind when I look at this 20 pound terrier:

It's like looking at a shitzu mix, reaching into your ass, then telling the owner that the "mix" part is surely Tyrannosaurus Rex.

I just smiled politely and went back to watching the dogs, but as he got up to leave, Emily took a liking to me, which sparked another strange swirling episode. Dammit Emily.

He stood a few feet in front and to the side of me while swirling and muttering, "....10, 20, 30....140 percent," then declared that I was 140 percent, someone that not only did things for others, but went out of my way to help them. Well, I guess I'm glad his swirly hand didn't say I was an asshole.

I then noticed that he had a big blue crystal around his neck like all psychic-y and shit. Then I sort of put it all together.

"Oh, so you do readings on animals and people?"

"I do readings on just about everything," he said, pointing up at the sky at a streak an airplane had left and blabbing on and on about how it was fucking up the world or something and the government was covering it up. He swirled his fingers on his magical all knowing CD case and figured out there were four world fucking up chemicals in the said streak.

What. The. Fuck.

At this point I'm thinking he seems a Ted Bundy sort of way. I'm thinking schizophrenia perhaps? And started picturing his house plastered in unrelated newspaper clippings scribbled with code in red ink - very "A Beautiful Mind." Then I thought maybe he's just like one of those JFK conspiracy theory people - not necessarily crazy, just a little odd and obsessed.

There was more talk about "energies" and "neo-hydro-something or others." Then I asked him what his little swirling technique was called and much to my surprise he said, "well I don't know, but Einstein said that nothing is solid and when you find the right answer, it gets sticky."


I humored swirly man who informed me that his CD case was not actually magical and I could do this technique on the palm of my hand. He went through a few scenarios that my extremely practical self couldn't quite grasp. I swirled my fingers against my palm and felt no stickiness when the apparent "correct answer" was announced. Dammit Einstein.

There was more talk about how much education he had and how he tries to teach people this technique, but he's one of the best at it in the world. Theeeen, he randomly declared matter-of-factly that the murder of some kids a few years ago was traced back to a church that apparently used them as human sacrifices. Yep, he went there.

Then he continued on his way, but before he headed up the hill, he turned to announce that he taught psychology in inner city schools for many years and they use some sort of energy to dumb down the kids, then money is taken away from these schools and given to private schools. Then he condemned organized religion. Then some white trash chick sitting with her boyfriend decided to try to argue with him in a very uncouth, bitchy way and that's when I put my figurative ear muffs on until I was sure he was gone.

He wasn't rude or mean or molestery, so there was no reason for me to be anything except polite to him, plus if he was nuts, I wanted him to be on my side, but I had a feeling white trash chick was pretty much snatchy to everyone she met anyway.

Several minutes later, Andy had followed some Rottweilers up the hill, so as dusk set in, I headed back up the hill to retrieve him and head back to the car. As the woods surrounded me before I broke into the clearing I thought, will swirly man jump out of the bushes with a chloroform soaked rag? Are my ninja skills up to par if this happens?

I found Andy and saw swirly man and Emily off in the distance, stopped trapping talking to a few other women. Oh ladies, for the love, just say hello and keep walking. I wonder how long they stood there.

Seriously, can I just walk my dog?

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