I would be lying if I said I never want to get married.
I know I can be all fire and brimstone and shit, and I sure as hell love having my own little hovel I can call my own, but on occasion, it can get a little dull.
However, as much as I’d like to make some poor sucker miserable one day, I’m not so sure about the actual wedding part.
Once, when Lucy first got engaged, she, my mom and I were sitting around discussing some wedding shenanigans. Probably talking about, oh I don’t know…place settings? What color underwear Lucy will be wearing? Whatever. In the midst of this, my mom turned to me with a blissful sigh and said, “Just think, one day we can plan your wedding!”
My reply? “uh…can’t I just elope?"
Mom: (with angry mom death stare) "that is NOT funny."
Me: "Well, isn’t that what you did?"
This was apparently the wrong answer.
Lucy’s wedding was the shit. We had tacos, piñatas, a load of booze, no bouquet toss (which I detest); my dress cost $30, and I got the do the Carlton dance. There are a few ideas from her wedding I might borrow, like not having a bouquet toss (again, HATE), tacos, and most definitely piñatas. There are a few other details though, that might earn me a court order barring me from planning my own wedding:
1. The wedding party will walk down the aisle to “The Final Countdown”, while I will walk down the aisle to “Get Down Tonight”
2. A bouncy castle, sumo suits or a ball pit. Possibly all three.
3. If I don’t get tacos, I want an In n Out truck.
4. Having the groomsmen and the bridesmaids do a dance-off, a la West Side Story, complete with snappy fingers. They can decide who will be the Jets and who will be the Sharks.
5. All the groomsmen will wear eye patches.
6. At the reception, have midgets walking around with sombreros that are also chip and salsa receptacles.
7. Have my first dance be "Stayin' Alive", complete with choreography.
8. Be married by a priest that sounds like the one from Princess Bride (if I get hitched at La Purisima, this is entirely possible), and he HAS to say, "Mawage is wat bwings us togevah, today"
Don't hate just because you didn't think of it first.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Un Rinconcito en el Cielo
I fucking hate funerals.
I know this is a redundant statement, because in all honesty, who (besides morticians, funeral directors and just creepy people in general) likes them? It’s like a really bad party where everyone gets together to reminisce and cry about the stiff, regardless of whether they were a good person or a worthless shitbag.
In my lifetime I have only been to six funerals, and yes, they were ALL good people. I would not have gone if they hadn’t been. I am sometimes honest to a fault, and I despise hypocrisy. I have said before that when certain people (who I have the great misfortune of being related to) snuff it, I’ll subsequently throw a party to celebrate that they are no longer around to poison society. At the very least I might attend the funeral to make sure they are dead.
Two months ago, I went to the memorial service of a dear, dear friend who was practically family. During the service, people were asked to share any stories or memories they had. This led to several church members approaching the pulpit to talk about how much of an inspiration Raul was, how strong he was in his faith, what a firm believer he was, etc. This I will not, or ever, challenge. In the face of a terrible and, eventually losing battle, Raul was strong and never lost faith that God was with him, no matter what was going to happen. He was a great kid and would have made a great police officer.
As a child, Raul was a right pain in the ass.
My parents were the best man and matron of honor at Raul’s parents’ wedding. My only memories of that day were waiting FOREVER at the park for the goddamn pictures to be taken already, and getting my chair upchucked (with me still in it, thank you very much) by some drunken fat guy trying to catch the garter. That shit hurt. Fucker. Anydangway, we have pretty much known Raul since his in-utero days. He was an adorable kid with eyes full of mischief, chubby cheeks and a bucktoothed smile that told you he was up to something and you’d better damn well run or hide the valuables.
Whenever my parents announced Raul and his parents were coming over, we’d groan internally and quickly go through the house, putting the breakable stuff on high shelves and locking our bedroom doors so we wouldn’t get our stuff stained, broken or set on fire. He is the only four-year old I have ever seen ride a full-sized mountain bike. He was driving before I even got my learner’s permit and left more girlfriends than I can count. He repeatedly asked my dad when they were going to steal a cow and make tacos.
Once, when I was around 8 or 9 years old, I was lying on the living room floor on my back watching TV. Raul was about 3 or so, and consequently weighed about thirty pounds, or whatever the average weight is for a toddler. Cue the running jump on little toddler feet, followed by a powerful leap, landing a perfect cannonball on my exposed torso. I deflated like a Goodyear slashed by a crazy ex, and at that moment, truly understood the meaning of ‘having the wind knocked out of you’, except it felt more like ‘having the wind (and any other internal organs) mercilessly pounded out of you by an insane and rabid child’.
He was stubborn, mischievous, occasionally obnoxious, always entertaining. He was also sweet, brave, and unfailingly kind.
I will always think of him as my guardian angel.
I know this is a redundant statement, because in all honesty, who (besides morticians, funeral directors and just creepy people in general) likes them? It’s like a really bad party where everyone gets together to reminisce and cry about the stiff, regardless of whether they were a good person or a worthless shitbag.
In my lifetime I have only been to six funerals, and yes, they were ALL good people. I would not have gone if they hadn’t been. I am sometimes honest to a fault, and I despise hypocrisy. I have said before that when certain people (who I have the great misfortune of being related to) snuff it, I’ll subsequently throw a party to celebrate that they are no longer around to poison society. At the very least I might attend the funeral to make sure they are dead.
Two months ago, I went to the memorial service of a dear, dear friend who was practically family. During the service, people were asked to share any stories or memories they had. This led to several church members approaching the pulpit to talk about how much of an inspiration Raul was, how strong he was in his faith, what a firm believer he was, etc. This I will not, or ever, challenge. In the face of a terrible and, eventually losing battle, Raul was strong and never lost faith that God was with him, no matter what was going to happen. He was a great kid and would have made a great police officer.
As a child, Raul was a right pain in the ass.
My parents were the best man and matron of honor at Raul’s parents’ wedding. My only memories of that day were waiting FOREVER at the park for the goddamn pictures to be taken already, and getting my chair upchucked (with me still in it, thank you very much) by some drunken fat guy trying to catch the garter. That shit hurt. Fucker. Anydangway, we have pretty much known Raul since his in-utero days. He was an adorable kid with eyes full of mischief, chubby cheeks and a bucktoothed smile that told you he was up to something and you’d better damn well run or hide the valuables.
Whenever my parents announced Raul and his parents were coming over, we’d groan internally and quickly go through the house, putting the breakable stuff on high shelves and locking our bedroom doors so we wouldn’t get our stuff stained, broken or set on fire. He is the only four-year old I have ever seen ride a full-sized mountain bike. He was driving before I even got my learner’s permit and left more girlfriends than I can count. He repeatedly asked my dad when they were going to steal a cow and make tacos.
Once, when I was around 8 or 9 years old, I was lying on the living room floor on my back watching TV. Raul was about 3 or so, and consequently weighed about thirty pounds, or whatever the average weight is for a toddler. Cue the running jump on little toddler feet, followed by a powerful leap, landing a perfect cannonball on my exposed torso. I deflated like a Goodyear slashed by a crazy ex, and at that moment, truly understood the meaning of ‘having the wind knocked out of you’, except it felt more like ‘having the wind (and any other internal organs) mercilessly pounded out of you by an insane and rabid child’.
He was stubborn, mischievous, occasionally obnoxious, always entertaining. He was also sweet, brave, and unfailingly kind.
I will always think of him as my guardian angel.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Holy F*cking Shitbags Batman, It's HOT!
You wanna know how hot it was last week, kids?
So hot, I ate hummus with my finger (I was hungry too, obviously) because I didn’t have any pita chips, did not want to venture outside in search of pita chips and sure as HELL did not want to turn on the oven to make pita chips.
So hot that I opened my freezer several times to put things in it, only to leave said freezer door open and let cold air blow over my simultaneously dry and sweaty face.
And, more importantly, so hot that I didn’t wanna use my own potty.
Anyone who knows me knows that there are few things I am squeamish about. Burping is funny. I have seen, touched and smelled many icky things during my time as Da Man and I have no qualms with discussing them. Preferably with REALLY delicate people, and the more inappropriate the setting (weddings, people’s parents’ houses, church) the better. I am also bothered by the fact that in the 2-year duration of last relationship, I heard Boy burp once (he claimed it as an accidental hiccup) and I absolutely never, EVER heard him fart.
My family adheres to a particular saying, one that, if you have been paying attention kiddos, I used as a previous blog post.
“It always comes back to poo.”
We could be having a Socratic seminar about the situation in Darfur, or the condition if public schools, or church gossip. Somehow the conversation will somehow make an eventual transition to doody. We’re just those kinds of somistificated peeps
There are however, certain things I AM squeamish about, things that I myself will admit are kind of…well, off.
1.) Being touched by anyone who is not related to me. There are very few exceptions to this rule, and most of them are either female or gay. Everyone else pretty much needs my blessing. If I am familiar with you, I might make the contact as short as humanly possible (a high-five maybe, or a knuckle bump?). If you and I are strangers, expect to get yerself a one-way ticket to I-kick-your-assville. My mom would be happy about this because my don’t-fucking-touch-me-Asshole attitude means I ain’ts no skankalicious hobag.
2.) Dead aminals. I see squished bunnies, mice and lizards on my running trail all the time and it always makes me cringe inside, and on the occasions that they are directly in my path and I don’t see them until the last second, I yelp and leap out of the way so I don’t step on them. I also go around them when driving, or direct Fig over them so I don’t hit them with my tires. I accidentally rode my bike over a baby bird once at the park when I was a kid and the incident has haunted me ever since (read: it gives me the yuckies).
Oddly enough, dead PEOPLE don’t bother me. When I was in the academy one of the happy fun time field trips we took was to the county coroner’s office to watch an autopsy. When we filed into the hallway and I first spotted the little nekked Mexican man lying on the table, for a split second I thought, “Holy guts and ballsacks, it’s Dad’s brother So-and-so!” (It turned out not to be, but the fact that for that second I thought it was and felt no sadness told me what a real cold bitch I is.) Anydangway, we stood around for an hour or so watching this guy get cracked open and various organs and slimy things taken out and measured. After we walked out of the building and piled into the Mysterymobile, I promptly announced I had a hungry and wanted a cheeseburger. With bacon.
3.) Feet. In my opinion, feet beat out armpits, taints, underboobs or any other nasty part of the body you can think of. They are the ugly sisters of hands. Granted, they do most of the work, what with carting my ass around all day and repeatedly being slammed into the ground when I feel like running around, and on occasions when I am bored and I’m going to shower afterward anyfuckingway so everything will invariably be clean eventually, I will take out those little toe separator thingies and put color on my toenails. Mostly because when I try to paint my fingernails I almost always get bored while they dry and try to read, learn sing language, or do origami and I fuck them up. Plus I am Veiny Manlyhands so painting my fingernails pretty colors just looks fucking stupid. But yeah. Dry feet, crusty feet, fat feet, flat feet, fake feet. Grosses me out. On the plus side, for you mens out there, if you decide you hate yourself and want to hang out with me a lot and stuff, this means I will never, EVER ask you to rub my feet because that’s just really gross. That also means however that I will never touch yours.
4.) Warm toilet seats. Growing up, I always wanted to be the first one in the bathroom so I could sit my bare ass on a cool, unsoiled (ha) commode. To me, the fact that it was still cold meant it was sterile and unpolluted by anyone else’s buttgermies. I DETESTED using the bathroom after anyone else. If Jeebuz himself came over and announced he had to blow a holy dookie I probably would have told even the Son of God that no, I did not want to sit on a toilet that felt warm and slightly oily and he was just gonna have to wait, even if that meant I wasn’t getting any fish or bread.
Remember how I first started this post and I mentioned I didn’t like using the potty when it was hot? Well in the span of this entry I wrote about the weather, feets, not being skanky, and the academy. I also talked about poo.
It always, ALWAYS comes back to poo.
So hot, I ate hummus with my finger (I was hungry too, obviously) because I didn’t have any pita chips, did not want to venture outside in search of pita chips and sure as HELL did not want to turn on the oven to make pita chips.
So hot that I opened my freezer several times to put things in it, only to leave said freezer door open and let cold air blow over my simultaneously dry and sweaty face.
And, more importantly, so hot that I didn’t wanna use my own potty.
Anyone who knows me knows that there are few things I am squeamish about. Burping is funny. I have seen, touched and smelled many icky things during my time as Da Man and I have no qualms with discussing them. Preferably with REALLY delicate people, and the more inappropriate the setting (weddings, people’s parents’ houses, church) the better. I am also bothered by the fact that in the 2-year duration of last relationship, I heard Boy burp once (he claimed it as an accidental hiccup) and I absolutely never, EVER heard him fart.
My family adheres to a particular saying, one that, if you have been paying attention kiddos, I used as a previous blog post.
“It always comes back to poo.”
We could be having a Socratic seminar about the situation in Darfur, or the condition if public schools, or church gossip. Somehow the conversation will somehow make an eventual transition to doody. We’re just those kinds of somistificated peeps
There are however, certain things I AM squeamish about, things that I myself will admit are kind of…well, off.
1.) Being touched by anyone who is not related to me. There are very few exceptions to this rule, and most of them are either female or gay. Everyone else pretty much needs my blessing. If I am familiar with you, I might make the contact as short as humanly possible (a high-five maybe, or a knuckle bump?). If you and I are strangers, expect to get yerself a one-way ticket to I-kick-your-assville. My mom would be happy about this because my don’t-fucking-touch-me-Asshole attitude means I ain’ts no skankalicious hobag.
2.) Dead aminals. I see squished bunnies, mice and lizards on my running trail all the time and it always makes me cringe inside, and on the occasions that they are directly in my path and I don’t see them until the last second, I yelp and leap out of the way so I don’t step on them. I also go around them when driving, or direct Fig over them so I don’t hit them with my tires. I accidentally rode my bike over a baby bird once at the park when I was a kid and the incident has haunted me ever since (read: it gives me the yuckies).
Oddly enough, dead PEOPLE don’t bother me. When I was in the academy one of the happy fun time field trips we took was to the county coroner’s office to watch an autopsy. When we filed into the hallway and I first spotted the little nekked Mexican man lying on the table, for a split second I thought, “Holy guts and ballsacks, it’s Dad’s brother So-and-so!” (It turned out not to be, but the fact that for that second I thought it was and felt no sadness told me what a real cold bitch I is.) Anydangway, we stood around for an hour or so watching this guy get cracked open and various organs and slimy things taken out and measured. After we walked out of the building and piled into the Mysterymobile, I promptly announced I had a hungry and wanted a cheeseburger. With bacon.
3.) Feet. In my opinion, feet beat out armpits, taints, underboobs or any other nasty part of the body you can think of. They are the ugly sisters of hands. Granted, they do most of the work, what with carting my ass around all day and repeatedly being slammed into the ground when I feel like running around, and on occasions when I am bored and I’m going to shower afterward anyfuckingway so everything will invariably be clean eventually, I will take out those little toe separator thingies and put color on my toenails. Mostly because when I try to paint my fingernails I almost always get bored while they dry and try to read, learn sing language, or do origami and I fuck them up. Plus I am Veiny Manlyhands so painting my fingernails pretty colors just looks fucking stupid. But yeah. Dry feet, crusty feet, fat feet, flat feet, fake feet. Grosses me out. On the plus side, for you mens out there, if you decide you hate yourself and want to hang out with me a lot and stuff, this means I will never, EVER ask you to rub my feet because that’s just really gross. That also means however that I will never touch yours.
4.) Warm toilet seats. Growing up, I always wanted to be the first one in the bathroom so I could sit my bare ass on a cool, unsoiled (ha) commode. To me, the fact that it was still cold meant it was sterile and unpolluted by anyone else’s buttgermies. I DETESTED using the bathroom after anyone else. If Jeebuz himself came over and announced he had to blow a holy dookie I probably would have told even the Son of God that no, I did not want to sit on a toilet that felt warm and slightly oily and he was just gonna have to wait, even if that meant I wasn’t getting any fish or bread.
Remember how I first started this post and I mentioned I didn’t like using the potty when it was hot? Well in the span of this entry I wrote about the weather, feets, not being skanky, and the academy. I also talked about poo.
It always, ALWAYS comes back to poo.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
I Is Flexible
I told myself I wouldn't pull another entry from my archives, considering I only have two archive entries left. Scratch that. After posting this, I will have one entry left. So sue me. It was 109 degrees today. Too hot to wear pants, let alone think. This is yet another entry from last year, during my first adventures in unemployment. Enjoy!
I’m not sure what’s worse. Just how bad daytime TV is, or the fact that I’m sitting here watching Kathy Lee and some token black lady who acts white talk about their weekends in the Hamptons.
I have now entered the profession of Full-Time Slacker.
I would like to make it perfectly clear that I have tried to avoid that. The day after I got sacked I got up (eventually) and began looking for both temporary and permanent employment. I called every Starbucks in the area and finally found one that was looking for hopefuls whose sole aspiration was to wear green aprons and make 90 Caramel Frappachinos for spoiled high schoolers. Bingo! Health insurance! Unfortunately the search for a second job yielded very little, unless I wanted to earn money convincing Orange County’s virgins and night owls to, "call this number to chat live with sexy singles!"
Which is why I now find myself on the couch almost daily watching badly dressed single moms trying to find their babydaddies, or even badlier dressed 14-year olds telling the world that they wanna have a baby and there ain’t nuthin they mama or nobody else can do ‘bout it.
Which brings a dilemma: go out and have a damn life but be tempted to spend money I don’t have, or stay in all day to the point that I start to creep out the neighbors? All I do at this point is go running and then to the gym, and there’s only so much of that I can do. But this is starting to get serious. I’m now weirder than our pot-smoking neighbor who plays rock at 4 in the morning and who we once found in the pool at 9:00 p.m. yelling about how Jesus was from Lebanon and that “those damn towelheads were all haters.”
I know! I’ll try that Bikram Yoga stuff my friend Therese is always raving about. Sure, I’m not allowed to wear socks and the room is set to 105 degrees, but it’s just stretching for ninety minutes! How hard can it possibly be?
Finding the place is easy enough. The receptionist greets me and I pay her the $29 for the 2-week intro package.
“Have you done hot yoga before?” She asks.
Actually, I had done yoga at some other place a few months before. It was a little dull and I felt I never quite fit in on account of the fact that I wasn’t Korean. Plus, after a few sessions of dancing around to “It’s Raining Men”, I decided to find a new yoga joint that was more yoga-ish.
The receptionist directs me to the exercise room and recommends that I find a spot to set my mat and towel down. The whole room feels like a hut in central Mexico in the dead of summer and smells like an 8th grade boy’s locker room after a game of flag football. Seriously, haven’t these people ever heard of air fresheners? All people do in here is sweat. You’d think they’d have the foresight to spray a little Febreeze now and then. To make matters worse, the whole room is lined with mirrors so I’ll be able to see myself try to put my knees around my neck.
People are beginning to trickle in for the last class of the day. I unwillingly take note of every midriff bared to reveal a perfectly taut tummy. I glance at myself in the mirror. There’s something wrong with these mirrors. Are they supposed to make you look squat and round? I almost expect to sprout hair on my feet and prance away to The Shire with Elijah Wood. Although if he shaved the gnarly facial hair that wouldn’t be so bad. And no foot hair. Ew.
The instructor walks in and of course she is tall and toned. She launches right into the class and now I’m grateful for the mirrors; without any instruction I have to look at the people next to me to know what pose to do next. There are a couple of exercises I am able to do well and others that I could do if I did away with that skeleton I am so keen on keeping. By the time class is over I look like I got locked out of my apartment during a sweaty rainstorm. I get in my car and immediately my body heat fogs up all my windows. I’m damp all over so I lean forward as I drive so I won’t soak into my upholstery. Note to self: bring a towel tomorrow.
This is how each of my days now progresses: I get up thinking I have something to do, when in reality all I do is run and then go sweat in a giant sauna for an hour and a half. I try to change it up, like riding my bike to my yoga class. It’s a few miles away so I consider it time well spent, until after three days my left shoulder starts to hurt and I realize I’m badly sunburned. Worse yet, with my variety of sports bras and tank tops over the last three days my back now looks like the lattice pattern on top of a pie. Plus, I have a mountain bike, which means the seat is as hard as a rock and my butt now feels like the jail snitch’s. And I hate carting the yoga mat around in my backpack, which isn’t big enough to carry it so I have this huge black tube hitting me awkwardly on the back of the head as I pedal. Driving is okay.
As the last few days of my intro package comes to an end, I realize I can stand longer in bow pose (balancing on one foot with the other being held up above your head. No, I never got that high up), I’m getting closer to the splits and I can kneel on the floor and then arch my back so that I’m almost lying down, staring at the back wall. Impressive! It makes up for the constant flow of hippies that come in wearing Crocs and drive away in their Toyota Priuses, the flatulent people who let ‘em rip and hope no one notices (newsflash: the room is dead quiet; we can HEAR you!), and that odd dude who thinks its ok to come to class in his Fruit Of the Looms.
I am flexible! I am pliable! I am…about to finish my yoga membership. Shit. Evil bastards! This was their plan all along! Draw me in by showing me the crazy contortionist crap I can do and then ask me to join for five times the amount I originally paid. I’m onto their diabolical plan now. Unfortunately for them, I was willing to shell out the $29 for the intro classes, but there is no more blood to squeeze out of this unemployed (albeit now flexible) turnip. And with that, my hot yoga days are over.
I’m not sure what’s worse. Just how bad daytime TV is, or the fact that I’m sitting here watching Kathy Lee and some token black lady who acts white talk about their weekends in the Hamptons.
I have now entered the profession of Full-Time Slacker.
I would like to make it perfectly clear that I have tried to avoid that. The day after I got sacked I got up (eventually) and began looking for both temporary and permanent employment. I called every Starbucks in the area and finally found one that was looking for hopefuls whose sole aspiration was to wear green aprons and make 90 Caramel Frappachinos for spoiled high schoolers. Bingo! Health insurance! Unfortunately the search for a second job yielded very little, unless I wanted to earn money convincing Orange County’s virgins and night owls to, "call this number to chat live with sexy singles!"
Which is why I now find myself on the couch almost daily watching badly dressed single moms trying to find their babydaddies, or even badlier dressed 14-year olds telling the world that they wanna have a baby and there ain’t nuthin they mama or nobody else can do ‘bout it.
Which brings a dilemma: go out and have a damn life but be tempted to spend money I don’t have, or stay in all day to the point that I start to creep out the neighbors? All I do at this point is go running and then to the gym, and there’s only so much of that I can do. But this is starting to get serious. I’m now weirder than our pot-smoking neighbor who plays rock at 4 in the morning and who we once found in the pool at 9:00 p.m. yelling about how Jesus was from Lebanon and that “those damn towelheads were all haters.”
I know! I’ll try that Bikram Yoga stuff my friend Therese is always raving about. Sure, I’m not allowed to wear socks and the room is set to 105 degrees, but it’s just stretching for ninety minutes! How hard can it possibly be?
Finding the place is easy enough. The receptionist greets me and I pay her the $29 for the 2-week intro package.
“Have you done hot yoga before?” She asks.
Actually, I had done yoga at some other place a few months before. It was a little dull and I felt I never quite fit in on account of the fact that I wasn’t Korean. Plus, after a few sessions of dancing around to “It’s Raining Men”, I decided to find a new yoga joint that was more yoga-ish.
The receptionist directs me to the exercise room and recommends that I find a spot to set my mat and towel down. The whole room feels like a hut in central Mexico in the dead of summer and smells like an 8th grade boy’s locker room after a game of flag football. Seriously, haven’t these people ever heard of air fresheners? All people do in here is sweat. You’d think they’d have the foresight to spray a little Febreeze now and then. To make matters worse, the whole room is lined with mirrors so I’ll be able to see myself try to put my knees around my neck.
People are beginning to trickle in for the last class of the day. I unwillingly take note of every midriff bared to reveal a perfectly taut tummy. I glance at myself in the mirror. There’s something wrong with these mirrors. Are they supposed to make you look squat and round? I almost expect to sprout hair on my feet and prance away to The Shire with Elijah Wood. Although if he shaved the gnarly facial hair that wouldn’t be so bad. And no foot hair. Ew.
The instructor walks in and of course she is tall and toned. She launches right into the class and now I’m grateful for the mirrors; without any instruction I have to look at the people next to me to know what pose to do next. There are a couple of exercises I am able to do well and others that I could do if I did away with that skeleton I am so keen on keeping. By the time class is over I look like I got locked out of my apartment during a sweaty rainstorm. I get in my car and immediately my body heat fogs up all my windows. I’m damp all over so I lean forward as I drive so I won’t soak into my upholstery. Note to self: bring a towel tomorrow.
This is how each of my days now progresses: I get up thinking I have something to do, when in reality all I do is run and then go sweat in a giant sauna for an hour and a half. I try to change it up, like riding my bike to my yoga class. It’s a few miles away so I consider it time well spent, until after three days my left shoulder starts to hurt and I realize I’m badly sunburned. Worse yet, with my variety of sports bras and tank tops over the last three days my back now looks like the lattice pattern on top of a pie. Plus, I have a mountain bike, which means the seat is as hard as a rock and my butt now feels like the jail snitch’s. And I hate carting the yoga mat around in my backpack, which isn’t big enough to carry it so I have this huge black tube hitting me awkwardly on the back of the head as I pedal. Driving is okay.
As the last few days of my intro package comes to an end, I realize I can stand longer in bow pose (balancing on one foot with the other being held up above your head. No, I never got that high up), I’m getting closer to the splits and I can kneel on the floor and then arch my back so that I’m almost lying down, staring at the back wall. Impressive! It makes up for the constant flow of hippies that come in wearing Crocs and drive away in their Toyota Priuses, the flatulent people who let ‘em rip and hope no one notices (newsflash: the room is dead quiet; we can HEAR you!), and that odd dude who thinks its ok to come to class in his Fruit Of the Looms.
I am flexible! I am pliable! I am…about to finish my yoga membership. Shit. Evil bastards! This was their plan all along! Draw me in by showing me the crazy contortionist crap I can do and then ask me to join for five times the amount I originally paid. I’m onto their diabolical plan now. Unfortunately for them, I was willing to shell out the $29 for the intro classes, but there is no more blood to squeeze out of this unemployed (albeit now flexible) turnip. And with that, my hot yoga days are over.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Oldies But Goodies. Kinda.
I wrote this entry over a year ago and didn't post it because at the time I didn't think it was funny yet. However in light of my new found unemployment status I thought I'd share. For obvious reasons I don't want to disclose the department or any specific names. In any case, this way is more amusing and it feeds my need to insult people and be extremely vulgar. Enjoy!
This is most definitely the last type of meeting I would have expected to have today. I’m sitting in a conference room with my jail commander, whose paunchy, pale visage makes him look like a dry vagina. Next to him is my Lieutenant. This guy is probably about 45 and still parts his hair on the side a la Leave It To Beaver.
Both of them have just informed me that as of this minute I’ve been dismissed and am now no longer employed with the Sheriff’s Department, they are not required to tell me why and I am not allowed to ask. Captain Vagosaurus is looking at me with an idiotic grin like someone told a joke he doesn’t get but doesn’t want anyone to know he doesn’t get it because then everyone will know he’s a fucking idiot. This smile, more than anything, makes me sit silently, waiting for him to say, “just kidding!” and then snort-laugh and tell me why I’m really there, like maybe someone saw me doing 95 mph on the toll roads or they heard that I called a male inmate a bitch and now he wanted to sue me for slander because he’s the pitcher, not the catcher. Still smiling, Labia-Face slides a paper towards me with the Department letterhead. Printed on it is everything he just told me. It pretty much amounts to three sentences. He tells me where to sign and launches into a speech about where and when to hand in my equipment. It slowly dawns on me that I’m not being Punk’d and Ashton Kutcher isn’t going to jump out from under the table in one of his stupid trucker hats. My heart drops to my feet and all of a sudden my bones have turned to Jell-o. Seriously? I’ve just gone from sheriff’s deputy to the unemployment line in about 10 seconds. I'd really like to stand up and fiercely tell the fucktards that theirs mothers should have swallowed them instead. But I start blubbering like a girl.
Tears are streaming down my face; they bring me tissues but I can’t seem to reach over and take one. With my hands shaking, I sign where they ask me to and nod where I think I’m supposed to. They say something about when and where I can turn in my equipment. At this point I’m not listening anymore. What does it matter? I’m finished. A female corrections officer comes in and I realize they mean they want my equipment now. Like, I’m supposed to take it off and hand it over just like that. She walks with me to the locker room to collect what I have. I hand over everything as I take it off. I cry harder as I take my badge off my shirt. She looks at me sympathetically.
“What the hell is going on?” She whispers.
“I don’t know.” My voice sounds weak and defeated, yet completely incredulous to the entire situation.
“Did something happen? Were you in a PERS?” She presses.
“No,” I sniff. “I had no idea this was coming.”
The locker room door opens and we both fall silent. She sighs and shakes her head, looking at the floor. We begin going through my locker, separating everything that belongs to me and putting all the issued stuff in the box. Oddly enough, that box had appeared in the locker room about three weeks ago. Idly I wonder if it was placed there for this specific purpose. The deputy is delicately trying to hurry me along; as if the quicker I’m out of the building the better. Whatever the reason I sense her urgency and want to get away from this place as soon as possible. I change into what I came in wearing: my white t-shirt, a pair of black Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. I stare down at my feet, which are now wrinkled and pale from being in my boots all day. I wish I had worn shoes. Then at least I wouldn’t have to face Captain Vag with black lint on my toes.
I stuff everything I can into my purse and carry everything else. My fingers are tangled in the laces of my two pairs of boots but I won’t let anyone help me. Lt. Cowlick is outside the locker room with Smokey Joe, my now unloaded gun, magazines, and baton in his hands. Labia-Face is nowhere to be found. Without a word I take Smokey and the magazines and stick them in my purse, which is now so full and lumpy it looks like Wynona Ryder’s purse after a trip to Saks. I push past them both and head to the elevator, but they come with me. I cringe as I realize I’m being “walked out”, the phrase I’d heard before in hushed tones to describe another poor soul who’d been dismissed from this department. It dawns on me that this is a literal term. My face burns with humiliation as we walk into the lobby. Torres is working the front. Torres is in a PERS. His wife went to the captain when she found out her husband was screwing another deputy and when asked, Correctional Deputy Skank lied through her teeth but he sang like Ambiguously Gay Aiken on American Idol. He gets to stay and still have a job. I used to think he was a nice guy.
I hope he gets herpes.
This is most definitely the last type of meeting I would have expected to have today. I’m sitting in a conference room with my jail commander, whose paunchy, pale visage makes him look like a dry vagina. Next to him is my Lieutenant. This guy is probably about 45 and still parts his hair on the side a la Leave It To Beaver.
Both of them have just informed me that as of this minute I’ve been dismissed and am now no longer employed with the Sheriff’s Department, they are not required to tell me why and I am not allowed to ask. Captain Vagosaurus is looking at me with an idiotic grin like someone told a joke he doesn’t get but doesn’t want anyone to know he doesn’t get it because then everyone will know he’s a fucking idiot. This smile, more than anything, makes me sit silently, waiting for him to say, “just kidding!” and then snort-laugh and tell me why I’m really there, like maybe someone saw me doing 95 mph on the toll roads or they heard that I called a male inmate a bitch and now he wanted to sue me for slander because he’s the pitcher, not the catcher. Still smiling, Labia-Face slides a paper towards me with the Department letterhead. Printed on it is everything he just told me. It pretty much amounts to three sentences. He tells me where to sign and launches into a speech about where and when to hand in my equipment. It slowly dawns on me that I’m not being Punk’d and Ashton Kutcher isn’t going to jump out from under the table in one of his stupid trucker hats. My heart drops to my feet and all of a sudden my bones have turned to Jell-o. Seriously? I’ve just gone from sheriff’s deputy to the unemployment line in about 10 seconds. I'd really like to stand up and fiercely tell the fucktards that theirs mothers should have swallowed them instead. But I start blubbering like a girl.
Tears are streaming down my face; they bring me tissues but I can’t seem to reach over and take one. With my hands shaking, I sign where they ask me to and nod where I think I’m supposed to. They say something about when and where I can turn in my equipment. At this point I’m not listening anymore. What does it matter? I’m finished. A female corrections officer comes in and I realize they mean they want my equipment now. Like, I’m supposed to take it off and hand it over just like that. She walks with me to the locker room to collect what I have. I hand over everything as I take it off. I cry harder as I take my badge off my shirt. She looks at me sympathetically.
“What the hell is going on?” She whispers.
“I don’t know.” My voice sounds weak and defeated, yet completely incredulous to the entire situation.
“Did something happen? Were you in a PERS?” She presses.
“No,” I sniff. “I had no idea this was coming.”
The locker room door opens and we both fall silent. She sighs and shakes her head, looking at the floor. We begin going through my locker, separating everything that belongs to me and putting all the issued stuff in the box. Oddly enough, that box had appeared in the locker room about three weeks ago. Idly I wonder if it was placed there for this specific purpose. The deputy is delicately trying to hurry me along; as if the quicker I’m out of the building the better. Whatever the reason I sense her urgency and want to get away from this place as soon as possible. I change into what I came in wearing: my white t-shirt, a pair of black Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. I stare down at my feet, which are now wrinkled and pale from being in my boots all day. I wish I had worn shoes. Then at least I wouldn’t have to face Captain Vag with black lint on my toes.
I stuff everything I can into my purse and carry everything else. My fingers are tangled in the laces of my two pairs of boots but I won’t let anyone help me. Lt. Cowlick is outside the locker room with Smokey Joe, my now unloaded gun, magazines, and baton in his hands. Labia-Face is nowhere to be found. Without a word I take Smokey and the magazines and stick them in my purse, which is now so full and lumpy it looks like Wynona Ryder’s purse after a trip to Saks. I push past them both and head to the elevator, but they come with me. I cringe as I realize I’m being “walked out”, the phrase I’d heard before in hushed tones to describe another poor soul who’d been dismissed from this department. It dawns on me that this is a literal term. My face burns with humiliation as we walk into the lobby. Torres is working the front. Torres is in a PERS. His wife went to the captain when she found out her husband was screwing another deputy and when asked, Correctional Deputy Skank lied through her teeth but he sang like Ambiguously Gay Aiken on American Idol. He gets to stay and still have a job. I used to think he was a nice guy.
I hope he gets herpes.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
I Like Food.
I quit.
Tuesday night, I made it home after dodgeball. I was feeling slightly irritable due to the fact that we lost, I couldn't find my brother when I went to pick him up from school so I stood for twenty minutes thinking he was being raped (it is Santa Ana, after all), and the monstrous headache from lack of food. I opened my fridge, intent on chugging some water before showering and going to bed, and I ended up making an egg sandwich.
Now before you hand off judgement and call me a quitter, let me outline my reasons for quitting.
1.) My overwhelming exhaustion was not allowing me to work out. I did pretty good at dodgeball, but I was tired of slugging through my day constantly feeling like I needed to sleep for hours. I knew that I wouldn't be able to do anything at the gym except lie on the weight room floor and drool a little bit.
2.) My mom is already concerned that I have some sort of eating disorder. When I talk to her on the phone she always asks me what I have eaten that day. Chances are I will be going to her house this weekend. It will be pretty hard for her not to notice I haven't eaten anything all day, since as soon I get there she sits me down and I (willingly and eagerly) stuff my face.
3.) Nothing was happening! I have always had a very sluggish metabolism, and I was primarily hoping that this adventure would help me clean house, so to speak. But that was an utter letdown too. Although I have to say yesterday was a change. For those of you who think TMI, I'll leave it at that.
4.) I missed food. 'Nuff said. I got an ad in the mail from Sprouts and looking at all their pretty produce made me sad. Now I will probably go to Sprouts on my lunch hour and buy tasty things.
So that's the deal. I might give it another go when I am better prepared for it, or when I'm NOT headed for a three-day weekend where at least one barbecue is inevitable. But for now, I'll keep my toxins. Theoretically, aren't all the preservatives I have consumed allowing me to live longer?
Tuesday night, I made it home after dodgeball. I was feeling slightly irritable due to the fact that we lost, I couldn't find my brother when I went to pick him up from school so I stood for twenty minutes thinking he was being raped (it is Santa Ana, after all), and the monstrous headache from lack of food. I opened my fridge, intent on chugging some water before showering and going to bed, and I ended up making an egg sandwich.
Now before you hand off judgement and call me a quitter, let me outline my reasons for quitting.
1.) My overwhelming exhaustion was not allowing me to work out. I did pretty good at dodgeball, but I was tired of slugging through my day constantly feeling like I needed to sleep for hours. I knew that I wouldn't be able to do anything at the gym except lie on the weight room floor and drool a little bit.
2.) My mom is already concerned that I have some sort of eating disorder. When I talk to her on the phone she always asks me what I have eaten that day. Chances are I will be going to her house this weekend. It will be pretty hard for her not to notice I haven't eaten anything all day, since as soon I get there she sits me down and I (willingly and eagerly) stuff my face.
3.) Nothing was happening! I have always had a very sluggish metabolism, and I was primarily hoping that this adventure would help me clean house, so to speak. But that was an utter letdown too. Although I have to say yesterday was a change. For those of you who think TMI, I'll leave it at that.
4.) I missed food. 'Nuff said. I got an ad in the mail from Sprouts and looking at all their pretty produce made me sad. Now I will probably go to Sprouts on my lunch hour and buy tasty things.
So that's the deal. I might give it another go when I am better prepared for it, or when I'm NOT headed for a three-day weekend where at least one barbecue is inevitable. But for now, I'll keep my toxins. Theoretically, aren't all the preservatives I have consumed allowing me to live longer?
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Want Nap.
Day 2
Nothing much to report...except I cheated a little bit and had a piece of cheese last night. And apparently you are absolutely NOT supposed to have dairy. Meh. Rules are meant to be broken!
All I can say now is that I am extremely tired. Not tired like, I-haven't-had-any-food-so-I'm-death-camp-weak tired, just sleepy. Like, I could really use a nap all the time. Isn't that kind of counterproductive to my eventual goal?? :/
Nothing much to report...except I cheated a little bit and had a piece of cheese last night. And apparently you are absolutely NOT supposed to have dairy. Meh. Rules are meant to be broken!
All I can say now is that I am extremely tired. Not tired like, I-haven't-had-any-food-so-I'm-death-camp-weak tired, just sleepy. Like, I could really use a nap all the time. Isn't that kind of counterproductive to my eventual goal?? :/
Monday, August 30, 2010
It Always Comes Back to Poo.
I'm lazy.
I have always known this. After my sister's wedding, I was in danger of falling face first into the fire pit because I was so tired. Whenever I hang out with friends, there is the inevitable part where my sister sidles up to me and whispers, "Dude, why don't you head home/go lay down?" because, as an astute observer, she has been watching my eyes roll back into my head for half an hour. The last straw (to me, anyway) that told me my exhaustion had reached massive proportions was last Saturday, where I realized I was nodding off before midnight in a noisy, crowded bar in West Hollywood.
In an effort (as little effort as possible) to bring my energy level up just a teensy bit, I have decided to give this whole 'master cleanse' thingamajig a shot. I can't eat anything for 10 days, have to drink salt water, and never stray far away from a bathroom. What could go wrong?
I can think of a few snafoos already...
Day 1
I stopped by Sprouts on my way home last night and bought some lemons and maple syrup. Which apparently costs 10 freakin dollars when you buy the real thing. Fuck. Makes me want waffles.
I have the recipe stuck to my refrigerator, apparently I can make the batch for the whole day and just take it to work with me. The part that I feel is going to majorly suck however, is the salt water flush.
Yup. It's exactly what it sounds like.
You know that rhyme, 'water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink' ? Well, the reason you can't drink salt water is because your body doesn't absorb it, therefore you don't get any hydration (who says my blog isn't educational?). So basically the purpose of the salt water flush is to go in as salt water, and then come back out, bringing any friends it might have met along the journey.
And BIG DEAD JESUS it tastes gross.
It took me three tries to get it all down, and I only gagged once. Yay for me!
Around 9:00 am I took my first taste of the lemonade-syrup-cayenne pepper concoction. Wasn't too bad, the only thing is it's weird to DRINK something spicy as opposed to eating it.
Seeing as its only day 1, there's not much else to report. But according to everything I have read, this process promises lots of other adventures like bad breath, oily skin, frequent potty trips, and bad acne. YAY!
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
By The Balls.
So I know I promised my readers (all two of them) a super-smashing blog on my online dating adventures, but as usual, general laziness plus other things thwarted my efforts yet again. So I’ll come back to it later. Plus every day I check my profile finds new shit to write so I think I might just archive it all until I finally decide to get rid of the profile.
I’ve started playing dodgeball! Last season my brother in law Steve joined a league, and I stupidly declined the invite to join. I went to a game and it just looked so durned fun I decided to join next season. Plus as Lucy said, it would make an excellent outlet for my shiny, happy fits of rage.
Three weeks ago, I was all ready for my first game. I was convinced of my athletic prowess and had visions of the great catches and throws I would make. I’d be invincible. I’d be untouchable and fast as lightning.
Awesome.
Ten seconds into my first game and it became obvious that this would not be the case. I spent 90% of my time doing a spastic, retardo-dance in an effort to avoid getting hit at all costs. I made no fabulous catches, no amazing throws. I was however, able to dodge like nobody’s business. So much that, in a few games, I found myself the last (wo)man standing. And let me tell you, an empty dodgeball court can be a lonely place.
So sad.
More often than not, the other team would make quick work of pelting me with dodgeballs fairly quickly. Other times, I actually made it a decent length before getting hit.
I had to sit out the second week due to a death in the family. Last week, I was back in action and ready to dodge like never before!
Or so I thought.
The very first game I was the first one tagged out. As the games ensued, I was able to get a bit of my dodge-mojo back and was a harder target. There we were, fighting the good fight, knocking over the black lady because she was heavy and an easy target, hitting the bald guy because he was obviously on steroids and hard as nuts to hit. This team had one really tall guy too, with long monkey-arms. Lurch was able to get his hands on a ball and sent it full tilt at me. Now, on a person of normal height, this would have been a direct hit to center mass. Guess where I got nailed. 
Sweet.
My only regret? No one recorded it.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
There's a (Slight) Chance I'm Going to Hell
Lucy and Steve, like many a married couple, scored a shit-ton of sweet swag when they got married. Which, in turn, means I also scored a shit ton of swag, just on a smaller scale. Lucy got a shiny new blender, I got the old one. New ceramic containers? Score for me! No more keeping my flour and sugar in the bag like a schmuck. Mixing bowls, knives and wooden knife block, etc., all those things made their way into my kitchen after the blessed event.
Now, I consider the wedding registry thing to be a necessary evil. Sure, on the one hand, its seems a bit presumptuous to just tell people what you want then to buy for you, but then again, If I by chance ever happen to sucker some poor schlub into a life of wedded miser-uh, bliss with me, I’ll be damned if I have to return three blenders, sixteen sets of pot handles, five crock pots, and two vacuums.
There are still those who print out the registry and go, “WHAT? You don’t need an iron, I’ll buy you something you can REALLY use, like a diaper bag or a deep fryer!” and proceed to buy random shit you don’t want or need.
When Lucy and Steve left on their honeymoon, I happened to have a spare key to the place and I planned on surreptitiously sneaking in to do a load or two of laundry. I thought I was being really sneaky because I technically hadn’t asked. I justified it by telling myself I was just doing laundry, not having a wild sex orgy in their living room, right? Right?
I walked into the living room, kicked off my shoes (not being rude, this is actually an apartment rule), and all around the living room and dining room were the signs of wedding aftermath. Boxes of bottles of wine were stacked in the corner (I made a mental note to ask for a few bottles later); a popcorn maker, two Spot Bots, and various other already-opened wedding gifts were lying about. The magnum opus, however, sat propped up on Steve’s bean bag chair in the corner. I stared at it with mixed awe and horror, all I could utter were the words, “Oh…my…God…” 
That's right. To ensure my sister's house would be a blessed, happy, holy place, someone had given her a big dead Jesus.
That's right. To ensure my sister's house would be a blessed, happy, holy place, someone had given her a big dead Jesus.
Now, imagine you’re me for one second here. Your standing in the religious spectrum is shaky to begin with. The last time you went to mass, some Mexican kid with a bowl cut crawled under your chair and the Asian family with four kids (all under age five) sitting next to you wouldn’t shut the hell up, you walked out before you pulled little Eusevio out by the ear and screamed at the Asian kids that the devil was going to eat their faces if they didn’t shut it. I’m pretty sure my reserved parking space in Heaven was revoked when I was nine and looked up “sex” in the dictionary. I already felt guilty because I was technically using my sister’s washing utilities without asking, and now I have this, sad, bleeding, face to remind me I'm going to spend the afterlife in eternal suffering, probably being forced to watch reruns of Jersey Shore or Twilight movies.
The only reason I have agreed to return to the apartment since is that BDJ now graces the bottom shelf of the coffee table. His little sad, plaster eyes can't pierce my soul there.
*NOTE: I went back to edit the post and the past paragraph wasn't working to my liking, I naturally went into a murderous rage and snapped, "Oh my MOTHERF***ING GOD!"
...and that, my friends, is why I'm going to hell.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Standby To Copy...
Sorry folks...I know I said I'd start blogging again and I'm working on my next post, so be patient. Blasphemy takes time. (that statement will be explained when I finally get to the damn post)
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Technology Hates Me
So back in February, I decided that I didn’t want to wait until April to update my phone, seeing as how the current one and I had stopped getting along. We no longer saw eye to eye. Phone found it necessary to delete text messages and shut off at random intervals.
(note: I tend to anthropomorphize things. A lot. Like, my car, guitar, and gun all have names. So if this bugs you, it’s probably in your best interest to stop reading. )
So I decided to terminate my relationship with Phone. I went to Verizon with the intent of getting a nice, simple little flip phone because I think flip phones are nifty. I walked out with a Blackberry. It was free and I wanted one. So there.
This has turned out to be both a good choice and bad choice all at once. Good choice, because it has maps and I get lost easily, so when that happens I no longer panic and yell at random people (I do that anyway. More on that later). I have interwebs, which I am too cheap to get for my laptop, and when I forget my IPod I can listen to Pandora at the gym. Bad because 60% of the time it does something and I have no idea why and then I panic because I think I spent all this money on a lousy phone.
I have gone to the Verizon store for phone issues several times in the last month. Every time, the salesman will explain gently what the issue is, pat me on my yellow-helmet clad head, and send me on my merry way. Last time though, I think I was in the right. Observe:
Me: I’m having phone issues.
Verizon Guy: What seems to be the problem?
Me: the LED light keeps flashing, even when I don’t have any type of notification.
VG: That happens sometimes. (He then goes on to tell me about some other lady who came in with the same problem and she hadn’t checked a missed call and it made him look smart and the lady look stupid.)
Me: But I don’t have any missed calls (read: no one calls me).
VG: It can be a bunch of other things, like Facebook maybe? Text messages? Updates?
Me: NO. I delete all text messages after I read/reply to them, it’s not Facebook, THERE IS NOTHING MY PHONE IS TRYING TO TELL ME. It just keeps flashing and I don’t like it.
VG: (repeats the drivel he said before about stuff I haven’t checked)
Me: IT’S NOT THAT. (unsaid: moron.)
Verizon Guy then proceeds to take the back off my phone, take out the battery and thus restart the phone. That’s IT? That’s the magical solution?
He then tells me that the next time it does that, bring the phone in. So basically if I get a text at work and the light does not stop flashing even after the text has been read, replied to and deleted, I have to let the light flash for hours until I can take it to the Verizon store to have them look at it. Thanks Verizon. You rock. Not.
(note: I tend to anthropomorphize things. A lot. Like, my car, guitar, and gun all have names. So if this bugs you, it’s probably in your best interest to stop reading. )
So I decided to terminate my relationship with Phone. I went to Verizon with the intent of getting a nice, simple little flip phone because I think flip phones are nifty. I walked out with a Blackberry. It was free and I wanted one. So there.
This has turned out to be both a good choice and bad choice all at once. Good choice, because it has maps and I get lost easily, so when that happens I no longer panic and yell at random people (I do that anyway. More on that later). I have interwebs, which I am too cheap to get for my laptop, and when I forget my IPod I can listen to Pandora at the gym. Bad because 60% of the time it does something and I have no idea why and then I panic because I think I spent all this money on a lousy phone.
I have gone to the Verizon store for phone issues several times in the last month. Every time, the salesman will explain gently what the issue is, pat me on my yellow-helmet clad head, and send me on my merry way. Last time though, I think I was in the right. Observe:
Me: I’m having phone issues.
Verizon Guy: What seems to be the problem?
Me: the LED light keeps flashing, even when I don’t have any type of notification.
VG: That happens sometimes. (He then goes on to tell me about some other lady who came in with the same problem and she hadn’t checked a missed call and it made him look smart and the lady look stupid.)
Me: But I don’t have any missed calls (read: no one calls me).
VG: It can be a bunch of other things, like Facebook maybe? Text messages? Updates?
Me: NO. I delete all text messages after I read/reply to them, it’s not Facebook, THERE IS NOTHING MY PHONE IS TRYING TO TELL ME. It just keeps flashing and I don’t like it.
VG: (repeats the drivel he said before about stuff I haven’t checked)
Me: IT’S NOT THAT. (unsaid: moron.)
Verizon Guy then proceeds to take the back off my phone, take out the battery and thus restart the phone. That’s IT? That’s the magical solution?
He then tells me that the next time it does that, bring the phone in. So basically if I get a text at work and the light does not stop flashing even after the text has been read, replied to and deleted, I have to let the light flash for hours until I can take it to the Verizon store to have them look at it. Thanks Verizon. You rock. Not.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Shouldn't I Be Working?
So I decided to start blogging again. I deleted the other one because the last time I wrote in it I had just gotten fired from RSO and eeehhh yeah. Kind of a bummer.
Besides, if I wasn't here typing random, meaningless drivel, what else would I be doing? Working, you say? Earning my $13 an hour? Such silliness. I will not hear of it. Away with you.
Anydangway, I decided to start blogging again because too much damn stuff happens to me daily that I keep thinking I need to write down because I find it amusing/interesting. You might not, though. Please don't hate me.
Aside from not working, this is what else I do with my time:
RAWR!!
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