Some days I'm baffled by my own awesomeness. It takes a very special person to get two license plate violations, wake up early to cook a breakfast burrito for lunch then forget it on her way out the door, and lock herself out of her own apartment... all in one week. It's a good thing I have insurance.
Fun story: Last night I came home after a nice little trip to the gym where I simultaneously ran and giggled at the Dancing with the Stars. A coworker was in the gym with me, so we spent the majority of the show making fun of how dramatic everyone got. I mean, really? Someone actually shot his TV after Bristol Palin beat out Brandy? I actually feel really bad for Bristol. She's obvs not the best dancer on the show (hello Jennifer Grey... you have Dirty Dancing to thank), but I think she's gotten a lot better and if the ol' tea party-ers continue to vote, well, she could win. But really, I lurrrrrv Kyle Massey because as the eight-year-old child that I am, I lurrrv That's So Raven. Seriously, what's not to like about that show? It's got a hint of nostalgia with Raven (child prodigy from The Cosby Show), she's a PSYCHIC, her BFFs are a crazy veggo and aspiring-but-never-gonna-happen 'gangsta', the acting is atrocious, and she has a weird, chubby little brother who thinks he's the bees knees. And now that Kyle is all grown up, he's still the weird, chubby little boy we all know and love.
After I got bored with that, I went home to chill out with Georgey and Stel... or so I thought. They're still in their door-darting stage, so I usually have to bring things in in droves (Note: my mom calls me The Bag Lady because I can't go anywhere without at least 4 bags hanging off me. It's an embarrassing habit that I've considering seeking professional help for. You can go ahead and leave your judgments at the door.). Well, last night I walked in, set some things down (including my keys), then walked out to get the rest of my things and shut the door before G&S could dart out. Faaaaaaaaack meeeeeeeeeee. I have a bad habit of immediately locking the door once it's open, and guess what? I did it again. So I knocked on my neighbor's door for her help and while we called the maintenance people, her boxer was about to pee her pants watching G&S's little paws sticking out from under my door accompanied by an embarrassing amount of "mew's."
My neighbor, who by the way is awesome, immediately went for the credit card unlock method. When that didn't work, I tried the bobby pin approach. Ummm this doesn't work... save yourself the humiliation of trying it if you ever find yourself in a similar predicament. Then our neighbor upstairs tried everything from a wire hanger to a wrench to breaking in through the windows (thank gee-oh-dee that didn't work). Finally, we went back to the credit card and whaddyaknow... IT WORKED. Brilliant.
This all happened long before my maintenance people called me back. I even left a message on the emergency line, thinking that might heighten the importance a little. Nosegoes. Good thing I now know that my neighbors have superawesome skillz. I feel much safer in my place now. Not that I didn't already feel safe with my guard kittens, but you know what I mean.
Just add that to my list of thankfulness this season.
11/23/10
11/21/10
it's a...!
Kittennnnn! Oh yes, I adopted. Despite my rant about an unfortunate experience at a local shelter a couple months ago, I went back. Call me a hypocrite? No no no. Call me a good Samaritan.
OK: interjection point. I'm sitting in a coffee shop in my hood and am enjoying the cornucopia of individuals... just in time for Thanksgiving. There's a man sitting next to the door doing the woman cross (legs) and keeps making this weird gurgly-growly throat-clearing noise. It makes me a little nauseated I think. Or maybe the nausea is coming from my evening last night taking care of a wee one with diarrhea and her brother who threw up chicken noodley things all over Creation. I don't think I've ever smelled something quite as awful as that. And... I'm rambling.
Back to the good news. Last Wednesday I finally gave in and paid a visit to the shelter. On a mission. I checked out a few of the prospects in the older cat alley (seriously, shelters are among the saddest and weirdest places imaginable--this cat place smelled like an old sponge dipped in ammonia and looked like the inside of a loony bin), then made my way to the kitten boxes. I picked out three wee ones to take into the adoption room and voila, there was no line (thank gee-oh-dee). While waiting for the precious little babes to be fetched, I browsed the older cats one more time and in walked two little boys who clearly took 2 hours apiece on their outfits. I think they were 12. These boys were adorable and obviously gay. I was immediately enamored of the one who couldn't stop flipping his gorgeous hair, so I struck up a conversation. And let me just tell you, this conversation was much more enjoyable than the one I had about 3 hours later with a creepy cat woman at Petsmart. Somehow in recommending cat beds to me, she admitted to being a 40-year-old cat lady whose knowledge only reaches as far as her seven kitties' litter boxes. Creepy.
Needless to say, I chose two: A brother and sister who I promptly named George and Stella. They needed me. I had to. Don't judge. When George crawled up into my lap with his little white-booted paws and fell asleep purring, closely followed by Stella who snuggled up next to him, my fate was sealed. There was no turning back. For some reason people have been getting really surprised that I adopted them. Really? Are you really that astonished that I would save two kittens from the treacherous depths of an animal shelter or worse, a creepy cat lady's home where they pick a number and play charades dressed in baby clothes? Come on people. Even the little girl (See-->Africa) I babysat for last night was a skeptic:
"Do you have a puppy?" Her.
"No, but I have two kitties." Me.
"Oh, but do you have a puppy? Why don't you have a puppy?" Her.
I guess in her mind in order to legitimize having kitties, I needed a puppy. Puppies rule, kittens drool.
Anyway, I picked them up Thursday night and what did I do Friday night? I laid in bed with them curled up on and next to me watching P.S. I Love You and sobbing at all the right parts. Once I realized that I was on a slippery slope to social destruction, I vowed only to allow myself a handful of these nights. I mean come on, as a woman of 23, I should probably be spending my weekends bouncing around the bars, challenging people to dance parties, making friends right and left, right? Well, usually. When it comes to my options, sometimes I prefer a good snuggle sesh followed by waking up un-hungover. <--It's a win-win if you ask me.
Anyway, one thing I definitely will NOT be doing is writing about all of George and Stella's antics, cuteness, blahblahblah because I've read a few too many blogs written by cat- or dog-obsessed people. And. It's. Weird.
...You're welcome.
That guy is still making the gurgly noises. I'm about to throw a box of Kleenex at his Jersey-blown hairdo.
OK: interjection point. I'm sitting in a coffee shop in my hood and am enjoying the cornucopia of individuals... just in time for Thanksgiving. There's a man sitting next to the door doing the woman cross (legs) and keeps making this weird gurgly-growly throat-clearing noise. It makes me a little nauseated I think. Or maybe the nausea is coming from my evening last night taking care of a wee one with diarrhea and her brother who threw up chicken noodley things all over Creation. I don't think I've ever smelled something quite as awful as that. And... I'm rambling.
Back to the good news. Last Wednesday I finally gave in and paid a visit to the shelter. On a mission. I checked out a few of the prospects in the older cat alley (seriously, shelters are among the saddest and weirdest places imaginable--this cat place smelled like an old sponge dipped in ammonia and looked like the inside of a loony bin), then made my way to the kitten boxes. I picked out three wee ones to take into the adoption room and voila, there was no line (thank gee-oh-dee). While waiting for the precious little babes to be fetched, I browsed the older cats one more time and in walked two little boys who clearly took 2 hours apiece on their outfits. I think they were 12. These boys were adorable and obviously gay. I was immediately enamored of the one who couldn't stop flipping his gorgeous hair, so I struck up a conversation. And let me just tell you, this conversation was much more enjoyable than the one I had about 3 hours later with a creepy cat woman at Petsmart. Somehow in recommending cat beds to me, she admitted to being a 40-year-old cat lady whose knowledge only reaches as far as her seven kitties' litter boxes. Creepy.
Needless to say, I chose two: A brother and sister who I promptly named George and Stella. They needed me. I had to. Don't judge. When George crawled up into my lap with his little white-booted paws and fell asleep purring, closely followed by Stella who snuggled up next to him, my fate was sealed. There was no turning back. For some reason people have been getting really surprised that I adopted them. Really? Are you really that astonished that I would save two kittens from the treacherous depths of an animal shelter or worse, a creepy cat lady's home where they pick a number and play charades dressed in baby clothes? Come on people. Even the little girl (See-->Africa) I babysat for last night was a skeptic:
"Do you have a puppy?" Her.
"No, but I have two kitties." Me.
"Oh, but do you have a puppy? Why don't you have a puppy?" Her.
I guess in her mind in order to legitimize having kitties, I needed a puppy. Puppies rule, kittens drool.
Anyway, I picked them up Thursday night and what did I do Friday night? I laid in bed with them curled up on and next to me watching P.S. I Love You and sobbing at all the right parts. Once I realized that I was on a slippery slope to social destruction, I vowed only to allow myself a handful of these nights. I mean come on, as a woman of 23, I should probably be spending my weekends bouncing around the bars, challenging people to dance parties, making friends right and left, right? Well, usually. When it comes to my options, sometimes I prefer a good snuggle sesh followed by waking up un-hungover. <--It's a win-win if you ask me.
Anyway, one thing I definitely will NOT be doing is writing about all of George and Stella's antics, cuteness, blahblahblah because I've read a few too many blogs written by cat- or dog-obsessed people. And. It's. Weird.
...You're welcome.
That guy is still making the gurgly noises. I'm about to throw a box of Kleenex at his Jersey-blown hairdo.
11/15/10
on a mission.
I'm on a never-ending quest to be a Rosie the Riveter-esque woman. In high school my grandpa hired my brother to help him build on and landscape his acreage. Screw that, I thought... give me a freaking hammer and I'll prove that I can build things too. And I did. I mean, some days I would get flower duty or the super sexy task of painting his horse pen green, but the other days I was sawing, measuring (twice, cutting once), putting up rafters, and playing with the dogs and horses... sue me.
Oh, speaking of suing people... Friday night I went out with some friends and after leaving a jam-packed vodka bar where I was by far the only sober person, I found a note on my car that said, "Hey I'm in the white truck behind you and hit you... sue me... 931-1-jdkfnksvnjkf." Mother effer. I swung around to check out the damage on my back bumper but couldn't see anything incriminating, thankfully. All there is is a little white streak to remind me never to be as big of a douche as that guy was. In the tiniest way possible, I guess I learned a good lesson from Douche McGouche.
Anyway, last night I got home from a run and had one decision: two options. 1. put on my big girl pants and fix my bed or 2. lay in bed and forget it. Like the sensible adult I pretend to be, I chose option 1. So I grabbed some Gorilla Glue (which is still all over my hands today) and my tool box and tore shit up. Actually, I literally did. See, a few weeks ago I rearranged my bed-living room and when I picked up my bed to move it to the opposite wall, I heard a big crrrrrraaaaaaaccccckkkk and there went the back piece of my day bed, ripping off the screws. Sweet, so not only had I ruined my only sleep-on-able thing in my apartment, but it's also a family heirloom. Go figure, right?
Naturally I've been ignoring the damage for several weeks because to be honest, I had no freaking idea how I was going to fix it... until last night. I unscrewed one of the sides and SNAP the other end decided it was done being attached too. Sooo I spent about 20 minutes trying to get all of the little pieces to line up and go back in their respective holes and slots, but do you think it was working? Ha. Instead I made up my own solution involving twine, gorilla glue and a screw driver. You do the math on how that all works, but long story short: my bed is back in one (sort of) piece. One point for the lady.
I can't help but be a little bit proud of myself. Oh, and truth be told I'll probably still have it fixed for real some day.
Oh, speaking of suing people... Friday night I went out with some friends and after leaving a jam-packed vodka bar where I was by far the only sober person, I found a note on my car that said, "Hey I'm in the white truck behind you and hit you... sue me... 931-1-jdkfnksvnjkf." Mother effer. I swung around to check out the damage on my back bumper but couldn't see anything incriminating, thankfully. All there is is a little white streak to remind me never to be as big of a douche as that guy was. In the tiniest way possible, I guess I learned a good lesson from Douche McGouche.
Anyway, last night I got home from a run and had one decision: two options. 1. put on my big girl pants and fix my bed or 2. lay in bed and forget it. Like the sensible adult I pretend to be, I chose option 1. So I grabbed some Gorilla Glue (which is still all over my hands today) and my tool box and tore shit up. Actually, I literally did. See, a few weeks ago I rearranged my bed-living room and when I picked up my bed to move it to the opposite wall, I heard a big crrrrrraaaaaaaccccckkkk and there went the back piece of my day bed, ripping off the screws. Sweet, so not only had I ruined my only sleep-on-able thing in my apartment, but it's also a family heirloom. Go figure, right?
Naturally I've been ignoring the damage for several weeks because to be honest, I had no freaking idea how I was going to fix it... until last night. I unscrewed one of the sides and SNAP the other end decided it was done being attached too. Sooo I spent about 20 minutes trying to get all of the little pieces to line up and go back in their respective holes and slots, but do you think it was working? Ha. Instead I made up my own solution involving twine, gorilla glue and a screw driver. You do the math on how that all works, but long story short: my bed is back in one (sort of) piece. One point for the lady.
I can't help but be a little bit proud of myself. Oh, and truth be told I'll probably still have it fixed for real some day.
11/12/10
today.
On days like today when I can't figure out why I'm off kilter, I typically call my mom. Moms have an answer for everything. Well, at least mine does. And she's the most logical and sensical person I know, so if anyone needs to borrow her... actually... tough. I'm not lending her out.
While I was waiting for mi madre to return my call, I was wracking my brain for creative ways to cheer myself up. I also consulted a friend who sent me two links: 1. weird/random pictures of animals (they know me too well...) and 2. a website that lists awkward as hell auto-correct text and facebook conversations. It's amazing how many people want to say they just took 7 shots, but actually say they just took 7 shits. Freaking fantastic if you ask me. I also love me a good fart joke. Come to think of it, I can't keep a straight face when I even think about farts. Or say the word fart. Or fart on my ball... not that that ever happens. Ever...
I also fall back on the phrase "The best way to spread my cheer is singing loud for all to hear." This usually results in me singing old Screamers songs and typing random words into YouTube in hopes of finding a good song or video. Today: Cum on Feel the Noize. You're welcome to everyone who is now watching that video.
Hmm what else... ohhh yeeeaaaahhhhh... KITTENS!! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FtX8nswnUKU
Snazz.
While I was waiting for mi madre to return my call, I was wracking my brain for creative ways to cheer myself up. I also consulted a friend who sent me two links: 1. weird/random pictures of animals (they know me too well...) and 2. a website that lists awkward as hell auto-correct text and facebook conversations. It's amazing how many people want to say they just took 7 shots, but actually say they just took 7 shits. Freaking fantastic if you ask me. I also love me a good fart joke. Come to think of it, I can't keep a straight face when I even think about farts. Or say the word fart. Or fart on my ball... not that that ever happens. Ever...
I also fall back on the phrase "The best way to spread my cheer is singing loud for all to hear." This usually results in me singing old Screamers songs and typing random words into YouTube in hopes of finding a good song or video. Today: Cum on Feel the Noize. You're welcome to everyone who is now watching that video.
Hmm what else... ohhh yeeeaaaahhhhh... KITTENS!! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FtX8nswnUKU
Snazz.
11/11/10
death eaters.
Do you ever have conversations with people who absolutely suck the life out of you?
I did today.
Wrapping up some things in my workstation, I was just getting ready to change for a much-needed yoga class. And let me just say that my yoga instructor is extra awesome because she focuses on the spiritually healing aspects of yoga as oppose to just making her students all bendy and inverted and stuff. She reads energies, so if everyone walks into the room thinking, "OK Shauna, let's do this, but please don't kick my ass today," she knows and will base her class off that energy. Call me crazy, but I like it.
Right when I was about to leap off my ball, my phone rang. And as the dutiful little lady that I am, I answered. Damn it.
It was one of our off-site employees who wanted to know about two of our policies. <--Two of our most difficult policies to explain, not to mention the two that piss people off the most. Mind you, he's one of these hyper-active, don'tf-ckingtalkwhileI'mtalking kinds of people. But here's the problem: I would be explaining something in the most precise wording I could muster and he would interrupt me with "Yeah I understand that, but..." or "Right, yeah, but..." or "So wait... ramblerambleramble." I'm 200% surprised that my head didn't explode. He ended the conversation by telling me that he's had a lot of illnesses in his life, but I wouldn't understand because he's not as old as me... which didn't make sense at all. "How old are you?" he asked me, patronizing my every cell. "I'm 23." Me. "Well I'm 62 so I've got a few years on you." You don't sayyyy.
When I finally hung up the phone, looked at the clock and realized that I'll go yet another week Shauna-less and much less enlightened, I put my head down and could feel the tears burning in my eyes, just daring me to blink them out. I envisioned myself as Harry Potter, which I often do, but this time I was getting the life sucked out of my by a real-life death eater. I always thought Harry should spray mace in their eye sockets or, better yet, jam a twinkie in their mouths when they come after him. Instant diversion.
I did today.
Wrapping up some things in my workstation, I was just getting ready to change for a much-needed yoga class. And let me just say that my yoga instructor is extra awesome because she focuses on the spiritually healing aspects of yoga as oppose to just making her students all bendy and inverted and stuff. She reads energies, so if everyone walks into the room thinking, "OK Shauna, let's do this, but please don't kick my ass today," she knows and will base her class off that energy. Call me crazy, but I like it.
Right when I was about to leap off my ball, my phone rang. And as the dutiful little lady that I am, I answered. Damn it.
It was one of our off-site employees who wanted to know about two of our policies. <--Two of our most difficult policies to explain, not to mention the two that piss people off the most. Mind you, he's one of these hyper-active, don'tf-ckingtalkwhileI'mtalking kinds of people. But here's the problem: I would be explaining something in the most precise wording I could muster and he would interrupt me with "Yeah I understand that, but..." or "Right, yeah, but..." or "So wait... ramblerambleramble." I'm 200% surprised that my head didn't explode. He ended the conversation by telling me that he's had a lot of illnesses in his life, but I wouldn't understand because he's not as old as me... which didn't make sense at all. "How old are you?" he asked me, patronizing my every cell. "I'm 23." Me. "Well I'm 62 so I've got a few years on you." You don't sayyyy.
When I finally hung up the phone, looked at the clock and realized that I'll go yet another week Shauna-less and much less enlightened, I put my head down and could feel the tears burning in my eyes, just daring me to blink them out. I envisioned myself as Harry Potter, which I often do, but this time I was getting the life sucked out of my by a real-life death eater. I always thought Harry should spray mace in their eye sockets or, better yet, jam a twinkie in their mouths when they come after him. Instant diversion.
11/9/10
life-ish camp.
Last night I was watching a late-night news-y special on some retreat place that is designed to make gay guys un-gay. Hmm. Right. Because I had so many issues with the premise of this show, I stayed awake far past my granny-pants bedtime to watch it.
First thing's first. I should probably state my opinion on the matter. Gay people are born gay. Straight people are born straight. Although I'm very happy with the fact that I'm attracted to men, I didn't choose to be because that's just how I'm designed, which is the same as a woman who's attracted to a woman, man and man, penguin and penguin... you get the point. People, if I could or would ever preach anything to anyone, it would be this: Focus your energy on yourself. Instead of casting stones, get yourself in check first. If you do in fact find that you're a divine being, then go ahead and work your magic, but chances are you're a normal, flawed human just like the rest of us. With that being said... shushup and take care of yourself because you probably need it. <--Damn, that's needlepoint shit if I ever saw it.
Now that you know where I'm coming from, I'll get back to the story.
The reporter opened with a feature on this guy named Preston who was a devout Mormon fighting his sexual attraction to men. Growing up he was tormented with the thought that no one would accept him if he came out, so he held off on dudes until his early twenties. Two years after that, he married a woman. And for the past few years he's been attending this Camp Un-gay in an effort to channel his gayness and change into a straight man. Like I mentioned once before, I have so many problems with this I don't even know where to start.
Next they filmed him in session at Camp Un-gay and it was actually kind of disturbing. The two men who run it reminded me of Olive Oil and Stimpy. Stimpy was interviewed and quoted as saying that he was formerly "gay-identified" but now feels and acts like and is a straight man. I didn't believe him for a second. Stimpy, who has no formal training or education, referred to himself as a Life Coach and tagged along like a chubby puppy behind wherever Olive Oil the psychologist would go. It wasn't even close to being as cool as the Ambiguously Gay Duo, mostly because they didn't wear spandex and fly around on top of each other or drive a penis car. Instead they were shown sticking pieces of duct tape on men that said both discriminating and encouraging words... like that's gonna help. There was also a lot of passionate embracing, hand-holding, holding each others' gazes a little bit too long, and lotssss of crying. I have absolutely no problem with a man who cries, but a group of guys sobbing over a tape recording of The Itsy Bitsy Spider is just ridiculous. "Get in touch with that little boy you once knew. Go back to that place," cooed Stimpy as the men wiped each others' tears and rubbed each others' backs and legs.
I think it goes without saying that this little camp was nothing more than a scheme for Stimpy and Olive Oil to make a few pennies and attempt to brainwash these poor guys. Thankfully at the end of the show the reporter interviewed two guys who had attended the camp and had nothing good to say about it. Finally, someone was talking sense. I was sick of listening to that Preston guy and his wife giggle about being attracted to the same type of man. (Good for her for being cool with it I guess.) These two anti Camp Un-gayers had more sane things to say in their two-minute spot than Stimpy, Olive Oil and their faithful followers did in the other 58 minutes of the show.
I don't really know how the reporter kept a straight face the entire time because it was pure shenanigans going on in that place. Oh, and good news... Preston's wife is expecting.
First thing's first. I should probably state my opinion on the matter. Gay people are born gay. Straight people are born straight. Although I'm very happy with the fact that I'm attracted to men, I didn't choose to be because that's just how I'm designed, which is the same as a woman who's attracted to a woman, man and man, penguin and penguin... you get the point. People, if I could or would ever preach anything to anyone, it would be this: Focus your energy on yourself. Instead of casting stones, get yourself in check first. If you do in fact find that you're a divine being, then go ahead and work your magic, but chances are you're a normal, flawed human just like the rest of us. With that being said... shushup and take care of yourself because you probably need it. <--Damn, that's needlepoint shit if I ever saw it.
Now that you know where I'm coming from, I'll get back to the story.
The reporter opened with a feature on this guy named Preston who was a devout Mormon fighting his sexual attraction to men. Growing up he was tormented with the thought that no one would accept him if he came out, so he held off on dudes until his early twenties. Two years after that, he married a woman. And for the past few years he's been attending this Camp Un-gay in an effort to channel his gayness and change into a straight man. Like I mentioned once before, I have so many problems with this I don't even know where to start.
Next they filmed him in session at Camp Un-gay and it was actually kind of disturbing. The two men who run it reminded me of Olive Oil and Stimpy. Stimpy was interviewed and quoted as saying that he was formerly "gay-identified" but now feels and acts like and is a straight man. I didn't believe him for a second. Stimpy, who has no formal training or education, referred to himself as a Life Coach and tagged along like a chubby puppy behind wherever Olive Oil the psychologist would go. It wasn't even close to being as cool as the Ambiguously Gay Duo, mostly because they didn't wear spandex and fly around on top of each other or drive a penis car. Instead they were shown sticking pieces of duct tape on men that said both discriminating and encouraging words... like that's gonna help. There was also a lot of passionate embracing, hand-holding, holding each others' gazes a little bit too long, and lotssss of crying. I have absolutely no problem with a man who cries, but a group of guys sobbing over a tape recording of The Itsy Bitsy Spider is just ridiculous. "Get in touch with that little boy you once knew. Go back to that place," cooed Stimpy as the men wiped each others' tears and rubbed each others' backs and legs.
I think it goes without saying that this little camp was nothing more than a scheme for Stimpy and Olive Oil to make a few pennies and attempt to brainwash these poor guys. Thankfully at the end of the show the reporter interviewed two guys who had attended the camp and had nothing good to say about it. Finally, someone was talking sense. I was sick of listening to that Preston guy and his wife giggle about being attracted to the same type of man. (Good for her for being cool with it I guess.) These two anti Camp Un-gayers had more sane things to say in their two-minute spot than Stimpy, Olive Oil and their faithful followers did in the other 58 minutes of the show.
I don't really know how the reporter kept a straight face the entire time because it was pure shenanigans going on in that place. Oh, and good news... Preston's wife is expecting.
11/1/10
the dmv.
I knew this day was bound to happen, but didn't really expect it to be a reality for at least another 2 to 17 years. I'm not going to complain that it has come sooner than later, but I'm still trying to wrap my head and my emotions around it. What I'm referring to is missing living in a small town. There, I said it. I miss smaller towns. Ugh, who am I? Let me explain before I talk myself out of my love for this city.
Today I drove my little red star--Jennifer--to the DMV to get my registration, taxes (woof) and title taken care of. <--Nothing about getting that done made me very happy except that I don't have to worry about it anymore. So I stood in line for about 40 minutes before almost getting sent away for not having my VIN verified. Come on people, no one tells me these things and it's getting a little old. I've been missing memos since I was four. Anyway, my choice of locations was between Ghetto Spot #1 or Ghetto Spot #2. I tried #1 last week and left immediately after seeing a curly skullet, so I tried my luck with #2 this week. And let me tell you, there's some quality people watching at these places. I finally got my stuff taken care of, dropped the gov some more Gs, then headed outside with the security guard to get my VIN checked and plates put on. Mind you, the security guard (I'll refer to him as Security Steve) was standing around complaining about just having thrown out his back so if someone decided to mess with us, it was up to me to defend the two of us. I felt nice and safe.
Not a second later I heard someone screaming and looked up to see a woman dinosaur running down the sidewalk flailing her arms all over the place and spouting out unintelligible phrases. "Don't look directly at her," Security Steve says to me. "It will just make things worse if she catches you looking." HOLY SHEET. I wanted to look up so bad. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her jumping around hitting street signs acting-a-fool. Clearly she was on something and clearly if I could have kicked her in the schnoz so she'd shut the eff up, I would have. But since I was wearing a skirt and Security Steve said NO, I opted to stay on my safer side of the street. Next she jumped into her little blue Chevy and after a little more yelling at this poor old man who was unfortunate enough to be in the passenger's seat, she sped off. I prayed she wouldn't come barreling around the corner and smash into me because I'd looked at her.
After that, I returned to some idle surfacey chitchat with Security Steve and somehow blurted out that I had a degree in psych (why the eff do I do this?) soooooooo naturally he spilled his guts. "OK, here's a scenario. Give me your psychological opinion," he says to me as if I'm a freaking professional. "Why would a woman leave her husband and three kids?" he asks me--and instantly I know I'm not even close being to the first person who's gotten asked this question. So I pulled out my corncob pipe and Mister Rogers sweater and answered, "Sounds like she's selfish and has some internal issues she needs to deal with." And of course it was his wife. And of course she left him for his neighbor. And of course his kid got hit by a car a couple months after that. And of course his six year old is dealing with suicidal tendencies. Ummm WHAT? All I needed was to register Jennifer, but instead I was handed a steaming plate of drama. Thanks, Security Steve.
Something tells me that the simplicity of small town life would help to avoid these types of situations, but then again small towns have their own form of drama. I don't know what's worse: the disaster that was me trying to get my car registered today or having your high school teacher come up to you and ask if the rumors are true, that your parents are buying the plot of land next to your house to build a Walmart... For now I think I'll enjoy the perks of being a cosmogirl. All this culture biz has got to pay off at some point.
Today I drove my little red star--Jennifer--to the DMV to get my registration, taxes (woof) and title taken care of. <--Nothing about getting that done made me very happy except that I don't have to worry about it anymore. So I stood in line for about 40 minutes before almost getting sent away for not having my VIN verified. Come on people, no one tells me these things and it's getting a little old. I've been missing memos since I was four. Anyway, my choice of locations was between Ghetto Spot #1 or Ghetto Spot #2. I tried #1 last week and left immediately after seeing a curly skullet, so I tried my luck with #2 this week. And let me tell you, there's some quality people watching at these places. I finally got my stuff taken care of, dropped the gov some more Gs, then headed outside with the security guard to get my VIN checked and plates put on. Mind you, the security guard (I'll refer to him as Security Steve) was standing around complaining about just having thrown out his back so if someone decided to mess with us, it was up to me to defend the two of us. I felt nice and safe.
Not a second later I heard someone screaming and looked up to see a woman dinosaur running down the sidewalk flailing her arms all over the place and spouting out unintelligible phrases. "Don't look directly at her," Security Steve says to me. "It will just make things worse if she catches you looking." HOLY SHEET. I wanted to look up so bad. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her jumping around hitting street signs acting-a-fool. Clearly she was on something and clearly if I could have kicked her in the schnoz so she'd shut the eff up, I would have. But since I was wearing a skirt and Security Steve said NO, I opted to stay on my safer side of the street. Next she jumped into her little blue Chevy and after a little more yelling at this poor old man who was unfortunate enough to be in the passenger's seat, she sped off. I prayed she wouldn't come barreling around the corner and smash into me because I'd looked at her.
After that, I returned to some idle surfacey chitchat with Security Steve and somehow blurted out that I had a degree in psych (why the eff do I do this?) soooooooo naturally he spilled his guts. "OK, here's a scenario. Give me your psychological opinion," he says to me as if I'm a freaking professional. "Why would a woman leave her husband and three kids?" he asks me--and instantly I know I'm not even close being to the first person who's gotten asked this question. So I pulled out my corncob pipe and Mister Rogers sweater and answered, "Sounds like she's selfish and has some internal issues she needs to deal with." And of course it was his wife. And of course she left him for his neighbor. And of course his kid got hit by a car a couple months after that. And of course his six year old is dealing with suicidal tendencies. Ummm WHAT? All I needed was to register Jennifer, but instead I was handed a steaming plate of drama. Thanks, Security Steve.
Something tells me that the simplicity of small town life would help to avoid these types of situations, but then again small towns have their own form of drama. I don't know what's worse: the disaster that was me trying to get my car registered today or having your high school teacher come up to you and ask if the rumors are true, that your parents are buying the plot of land next to your house to build a Walmart... For now I think I'll enjoy the perks of being a cosmogirl. All this culture biz has got to pay off at some point.
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