Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Le Hunt De Denver

I’m on a plane to Denver on a kamikaze mission to find a place to live. Failure is not an option…I will win at this shitty little game. I’m so annoying while apartment hunting that I even annoy myself. There were many tears shed the last time I did this and perhaps one psychotic episode, which involved me throwing myself on the ground and kicking and screaming like a toddler. If you don't believe me, just check out my archives from spring 2008. I can’t say that something similar won’t happen this time, but maybe I’m a little more prepared with my daily maps and schedules.

I’ve talked to more strangers than I would have ever cared to through craigslist including one dude named Chuck, who answered the phone after several rings with garbled, strained and slightly pissy speech:

“Can I help you?”

I could tell Chuck was probably an enormous fat man with eight chins that I had interrupted while he was in the middle of devouring a pastrami sandwich.

“Is this Chuck?” I asked timidly.

*Garble BAH! Garble Garble* The phone cuts out, then nothing.

I didn’t call back.

The apartment of my dreams might have gotten away from me with that phone call, but probably not if Chuck’s in charge.

By the way, the flight attendant looks like Pricilla Presley.

Also, the dude that checks your ID and boarding pass before you go through security looked like fat LL Cool J and he verbally molested me under his breath. He was all, “(quiet mutter) look at you and your sexy ass self.” Wha?

Then, security shut down and we had to stand around for all eternity, which prompted some creepy asswipe to ask me if he could cut in front of me in the security line because he “had been standing there for 20 minutes and was going to miss it if he didn’t.” As if I hadn’t been standing there just as long and as if they would just let planes take off when most of the passengers were stuck in stand still security. Dumbshit. I told him to fuck off ask one of the security people about his little problem, not me. Why is it that people magically transform into retards as soon as they set foot in an airport?

I’m thinking about purchasing a taser when I get there just in case I have to go buck wild crazy ninja on someone’s scary craigslist rapist ass. I’m also not afraid to punch a leasing consultant in the mouth if they try to get all pushy. Other than that I’m cool, calm and collected…or the exact opposite of that.


****


OK, day one is done. No punching or tasering necessary. I did find a place I liked, a little further east of the city than I would have like, but nice and put down a small, refundable deposit to hold it until I look at the rest of these joints. One lady didn’t show up to the appointment, but the apartment was like a jankety ass prison from the outside and it made me all shivery just looking at it’s nastiness, so perhaps it’s good she was a flaky biotch. Then, one of the other places that I was pretty excited about called and said they rented all of their apartments….god dammit!

Eh, take the good with the bad. I have four, possibly five to look at tomorrow, then it’s time to sign my life away…and accept the fact that I will be utilizing public transportation…a LOT.

Now, I’m off to dinner with friends….while my Mom stays in the hotel room swilling vodka that she asked my friend Whitney to pick up for her on her way to pick me up from the hotel. I think I might have stressed her out a little today…

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Buggin'

Monday evening...

The scene: Me, sitting on my living room floor, lovingly cleaning a year's or more worth of dust off all of my picture frames, updating the pictures, wrapping them in bubble wrap, then placing them in a box. The packing has begun...

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something stir across the rug a few feet in front of me. I look up and do a double take before I realize that it's a motherfucking CENTIPEDE squiggling it's nasty, ho ass across the floor at roughly the speed of light.

"WHA?...WHAA....AAAAAAHHHH! Where'sashoewhere'sashoewhere'sashoe...Where is a GOD-damn SHOE!"

Find flip flop, place on foot and stomp the ever living shit out of the bastard which, by the way, is apparently made of steel because it wouldn't DIE!

When I was sure it was smashed into tiny pieces, I just left the shoe there and decided I should probably wait to pick it up...at least until I stopped shitting myself and my heart lowered itself out of my throat and back into my chest. How in the hell did a centipede get into a second floor apartment? Then, light bulb — the boxes I just brought in from my car have been sitting in my parents' basement for god knows how long. Fucking grooooooooss. Now I'm afraid to touch the other boxes. At least the exterminators are scheduled to come on Wednesday anyway.

I continued my packing, but then every few minutes I'd think about that million legged fuckface and a cold shiver would go down my spine. Uuuugh. I really, REALLY hate bugs.

I've gotten pretty brave since I've been living by myself — I've mercilessly slaughtered a wasp in the shower of my old apartment with a broom/Doc Marten combination; I've flung a book (while screaming) at a spider and I've gotten pretty good at busting out my cork wedges to dramatically smash any silverfish that dares to slither it's bitch ass down the wall — all by myself. Go me.

But, there are just some things I can't do. While I handled the centipede situation as well as could be expected (my friend Kate would have turned herself inside out if placed in a similar situation.), I never want to do that again. EVER. AND, when it's time to clean out my storage unit in the garage, I'm out. Nope. Not doing it...Oh Daaaad...

Yeah, so there's like six things in there, but I opened it up the other day to get some windshield wiper fluid and the spiders were out of control and the force of the shivers and hebby jebby feelings bouncing around in my body....no, just NO. I'm calling my Dad and since he's such a nice dad, he will come over, pull everything out, shake it off and make sure nothing is going to crawl on me and eat my face.

Now, I bet you're all, 'you're moving to Denver and daddy isn't going to be there to save you. What will you do then?'

Ah, yes, well, I've been single for a year now...and that's long enough, which is why the first order of business once I get settled in Denver is to conduct interviews for a boyfriend.

Here are my stats:

I have soft skin, good hygiene and I make a really good lasagne.
(along with many other shining and remarkable qualities)

Here is what I expect from him:

He must kill bugs and not be a douche.
(along with some other minor things that I will secretly screen for during the interview process)

It's a fool proof plan.

Fuck you, centipedes. I totally win.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Spring Cleaning

There's a lot of purging going on over here, as in, throwing or giving away everything I own before I move to Denver.

OK, more like organizing, letting go and getting shit done. This whole two month deadline thing is scarily motivating. The best treasures I've uncovered are the ones in my photo/scrapbook box in my parent's basement. Most of the stuff is from college with a few things from the first year after graduation. I just kept finding myself bursting into laughter or reading intently as I went along. Here are some of my favorite gems:

- A picture of me blearily shitfaced on my 21st birthday with my arm around a fat, bald grinning cop in Aggieville.

- About 600 pictures from a trip to Cancun I took with three other girls our junior year many of which include guys. LOTS of guys. We nicknamed most of them by the part of the country they came from, i.e. "The Maine Boys." That was one of the best trips I have ever taken.

- My bleach blonde, tan, ripped self that was obsessed with wearing very tiny clothing and almost always holding a can of Natty Light. Of course, I could do that when I was 19 or 20 because my metabolism hadn't yet taken a shit on me forcing me to work so hard to stay in shape and I didn't look like an old lady trying to re-live the glory days. But, most of all, because I was a different person then. It's amazing what a few years and a few life changing events will do to, or rather, for your psyche. I didn't start feeling "old" until 2010...especially when I was at a bar right before my 27th birthday and some 60-year-old dude looked me up and down and said, "damn, you look good for 26." Um, what? I wasn't aware that comment was applicable when you were still in your 20s. BAH!

The subsequent purging of said tiny clothes I was wearing in the pictures happened earlier tonight too. Over and over again, I held up a scrap of fabric from the bottom drawer, had a fond flashback of me wearing it to a party freshman year when a guy I liked from one of my classes came up and talked to me or something along those lines...then remembered that I hadn't worn it since, came to the conclusion that I might have a problem, then tossed it in a goodwill pile. I'll let somebody smaller and younger make some memories with it now.

- Oh the sorority-tasticness. Black and gold kites and pansies out the ass. Apparently I kept every single motherfucking thing I ever received that was sorority related. You should see my collection of t-shirts, which are now cut up and laid out on my living room floor while I attempt to fashion them into a jankety ass, sewn together mess of a blanket. I can't remember when I've had more fun. Balls.

- A tiny tube of toothpaste my friend Whitney and I stole from the hotel room of some British soccer players we met in Reno one summer.

- A couple of journals — one full of extremely embarrassing rants that I promptly ripped up and literally put through the shredder and one that was full of poems, some of which were actually good. I kept that one.

- Cards from various occasions. The ones from graduation made me cry.

However, what I enjoyed most were the hoards and hoards of love letters. I had forgotten how much I made the boys swoon in my day. Riiiiiiiight. Anyway, a few were cards from the guy I lived with a few years ago in which the relationship ended in a fiery, explode-y, painful car crash of douchebaggery. The sentiments back then were quite the opposite though.

Most of them were actual love letters from the Marine I dated on and off from the time I was 19 to 21. I remember writing letters back and forth like we were old souls with him on the East coast and me in the middle of nowhere Kansas. Some of the words were just sickening and made me want to projectile vomit on the wall and smack myself in the face, but a lot of it was pretty damn adorable. He'd draw hilarious pictures in the margins and send me little gifts along with the letters. I remember being disgustingly head over heels for this guy, as he was for me, but it was one of those innocent, juvenile kind of loves. The kind where you run off and elope at 19, then wake up a few years later, pregnant, staring at the cracked ceiling of your double wide (or in this case, base housing) and say, "What the fuck happened to my life?" Divorce comes next along with the mourning of your wasted youth. I'm just glad I was smart enough to stay in school rather than become a military wife. There's nothing wrong with it, but it's definitely not the life for me.

We eventually drifted apart like the fate of most extreme long distance relationships, I found out he slept with somebody else, then I said, bye dude. But, I have nothing, but good memories of the whole thing. He's married now and I hope he's happy...whatever he's doing.

I'm keeping most of those letters...Remi and my kids will get a kick out of them. They'll be all, 'how cute, is that how guys treated women back then? Serenaded them with love letters?' Then I'll recall all of the times guys ever so romantically asked me out via text message among so many other douchey moves and I'll respond, 'nope, he was a rare breed.' That is unless my future husband takes a damn hint. Of course he's probably not going to be so amused by those letters...

Towards the end of my dig, I found a Valentine's Day card from the boyfriend I had senior year. I've lost touch with him, but he was a decent, nice human being, so I can't make fun of him too much. But, I have to share. We had maybe been dating two or three weeks at the time, so the awkwardness of V-Day obligations was painfully obvious. First of all, he mentioned that he bought the card on Valentine's Day about three seconds before he came over...yada, yada....then the last couple of lines read:

"If you like me as much as I like you, well then I'm a pretty lucky fella. Happy Valentine's Day, bub."

I flung myself backwards in hysterical laughter. No, "Bub" was not a nickname he had for me. This was just "bub" as in "You got that right, bub." Or "hey bub, get out of my way." Really? I wonder if he gave me a good night handshake or pat on the back at the end of that night. I don't recall.

I think the funniest part was I could actually see and hear him saying this as I read it. It was so typically him, which is probably why we didn't work out. Well, if he ever reads this: I hope you're happy, bub.


Well, I've only made a small dent in the purging process so far, I'm afraid. Why, oh why do I have so much crap? Priceless, hilarious, awesome crap?
 

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