Friday, October 30, 2009

"The Glamorous, Glamorous..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Fancy Seeing You Here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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










Quit staring at my ass you pervs.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Doing Denver

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

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

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

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

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



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

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



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

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

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



AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAA! It's still funny.







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



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

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

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



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




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




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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm so hiiiiiiiiigh, you guys.


Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Hey, It's Vegas

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


OK, so...

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

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






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

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



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

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



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

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

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

"Hey, it's Vegas."

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

"Hey, it's Vegas."

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

"Hey, it's Vegas."



















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

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








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





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

View my page on Twenty Something Bloggers