Wednesday, November 7, 2012

I'm a leader, not a follower. Unless it's a dark place, then screw it, you're going first.

When I was 13 my dad told me I needed to watch "The Shining".

I hear by name him as the responsible party for ALL of the therapy I will have to endure to try and quell the overactive imagination I now own that revisits these haunting little tidbits of my life.

Here's a link for further proof

It was a rainy Saturday, my loyal confidant and partner in crime, Jennifer, was staying the night/week/some combination of an epic sleepover that never ends at my house, when we decided to finally watch The Shining. Mom decided to watch it with us too... not because I begged her... but just...yeah. We had just moved in, so we didn't have the blinds installed, and we were able to see the acres of trees and forest that was our backyard. Every clap of thunder and lightning illuminated a part of the backyard that was caped in pitch black. Outlines of trees looked like people and the actual presence of coyotes was beyond helpful to solidify this in my mind. This was the kind of spacious house that required you to run with your arms out and hit every light switch along your path just to get a glass of water from the kitchen. Because monsters. As the rain continued to pelt the windows, we sat in the dark glow of the living room tv and watched The Shining.

This was the same year that my Dad moved and re-posed the "Christmas Santa's from Around the World" so that I was certain they were alive and plotting against me.

All was going "well" until the scene where Johnny is in the bathroom and asks the butler innocently, "How long have you been here?" to which the butler replies with, "I've always been here." And that just happened to be the exact moment:
  1. The power went out
  2. Lightning struck a tree outside the window next to us
  3. Flaming tree of death was swaying in the wind
  4. I dug my nails into Jennifer's leg and drew blood
  5. Our bloody murder screams mimicked the fire alarm pitch for pitch
You know that heart warming saying:

A best friend rides in the car with you no matter how many times you nearly killed them.

No? Well, Jennifer passed that test of friendship, hands down, but we've never watched another scary movie together ever since. Partly because I now avoid scary movies at all costs, and the other part being she now has a scar to prove I'll go DEFCON 1 when pushed to the brink of fear.

This goes for Haunted Houses too. You would have to drag me, kicking and screaming to go in one of those. Again. I warned all of the guys that wanted to spend Halloween weekend at a place called "Phobia" that I have given friends black eyes out of sheer fright and have caused severe pain to a friend after he visited a blood drive when he agreed to let me hold his hand for the duration of the haunted house. My initial reaction is to fight anyone resembling a decapitated zombie clown killer that's chasing me down a strobe light filled hallway.

I don't want to sign up to have a panic attack, I can do that to myself just fine when I see a spider in the house. "Oh, hey rather large spider in the middle of my bathroom. You aren't preventing me from doing anything. Go ahead, brush your teeth, I'll wait..."

Scary movies need to be watched in the daylight followed by something of the Disney variety to cancel out the myriad of horror movie plots I've imagined. Maybe I need to watch scary movies with "stunna shades" on, that way I can stop interlocking my fingers, trying to watch the movie through a 1x1 hole in my hands.

If you're saying to yourself, "Geeeez, Amanda, calm down, it's not real.", I agree with you, but you don't fully grasp the fact that I've grown up with a Dad that liked to position dolls outside of my bedroom door, haunt me with anything said by a Speak and Spell or Furby, and inspired my "Run for Your Life: Treadmill Playlist". This list includes all carnival songs, and the ice cream truck theme song. I'll be damned if the ice cream truck doesn't drive down my street every time I'm in the shower, and for that I hate you even more.

Also,  I would like to add Furby to the list of creatures to be closely watched under suspicion of being an Animorph. I'm fairly certain they can only be destroyed by the flames of Mordor.

Just heed my warning and don't try to scare me. Don't jump out from behind a car in a parking garage or turn off the lights in the hall way and start singing nursery rhymes because I will cry. Then I'll tell my mom and she'll tell your mom and we'll all be in trouble.


I enjoy Halloween when I get to take the good candy from my nine-year old step brother's basket and silently judge the costumes that cracked out parent's choose for their toddlers. Or when I get to dress up as the Statue of Liberty and instigate several choruses of "God Bless America" to ring out in the streets over the chaos of a 4 story beer bong race commencing between a Teletubbie and a (slutty) panda bear in downtown Austin.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Wire clothes hangers should be illegal for any purpose other than roasting marshmallows.

I think I'll make it the theme this month to share some of the scariest occurrences of my life. This one is a two-fer and takes place in Arkansas. Enough said.

One night, I was hanging out in (We'll just call him GUY) Guy's dorm room, watching something like Die Hard or Gladiator with his roomie, who affectionately became my pseudo roomie too. We'll use initials and call him Bam. We're watching TV until we're interrupted by a phone alarm sounding off: it's curfew and I have to sign out of the all-guy dorm and go back across campus to my all-girl dorm.

HAH. Likely story. Guy would sign me out in the lobby and walk me outside. Once we were out of eye sight we'd round the corner of the building and climb the outside emergency exit stairs where Bam would be waiting with the door propped open and I'd sneak back into the guys dorm. Stealth. All of his buddies were in on it.

This one night, a buddy of theirs had some friends in town from back home and wanted a fun night of mischief, naturally. Our school campus was laid out so that the main lecture halls, buildings, cafeteria, student union, my all-girl dorm along with all the co-ed apartments were in one central area. Then, there was a nice 5 mile walk to the abandoned dorms called... The Twin Towers. From there, about a fourth of a  mile from The Twin Towers, was our current location, the all-boys dorm. How convenient! A bunch of boys have to walk past a vacant, eerie building and resist going inside for a peek. OHKAY.

Tonight, the guys wanted to explore The Twin Towers. I wanted nothing to do with it.

"Hey, I'm just going to stay in and watch movies while you guys go. I won't be any fun and I'll be the only girl, so go and have fun and don't get eaten by a hobo, ok?"

"Alright, but lock the door, I don't want you to get caught here after curfew."

Basically.

The guys left, I locked the door, turned off the lights, and proceeded to watch a chick flick with the volume down low. About fifteen minutes into my movie I hear a THUD on the front door and then a series of pounding fists. I freeze.

There's a couple of explanations for this: A. this is an all guys dorm and wrestling in the middle of the halls is fairly standard. Stupid looking, but standard. B. Their door is across from the elevators which means there is always noise and chaos C. Guy was on the rugby team and had a lot of friends from the team that lived on his floor. These guys were BIG, rowdy, Russian, Fiji, Dutch, barbarians that probably didn't know their own strength when knocking on a door.

After waiting for another thud that didn't come, I assumed it was a mistake and ignored it. Then a deep, unrecognizable voice came echoing through the door, "Hey little mama, you had better open this door right now. I know you're in there alone."

HOLY. HELL.

I'm frozen. There are no weapons in this damn dorm room, just two refrigerators filled with gatorade.

I'm still frozen, not speaking.

Then I hear a very recognizable voice, "Amanda, it's me, I'm just kidding. Open the door, I forgot my flashlight."

I opened the door and slapped him.

After this incident, I was easily convinced to join the goons and explore The Twin Towers.

The guys that we were with were real adventure-seeking types, we'd later have adventures cave diving, scaling a cliff, and sneaking into the school's football field after hours to smoke cigars. But right now, I didn't know anything about them except that they were the reason I was being forced to tour a condemned building at 2 am on a Friday. I had the death grip on Guy and Bam and everyone was properly pre-warned that I was a complete wuss and would scream at the sight of a shadow.

We arrived at the two identical buildings, each with ten stories of glass windows, half of which were broken and jagged on the bottom few floors. We decide to not risk getting Hepatitis and instead go through the boiler room back entrance. This just screams BAD IDEA. The guys fumble for flashlights and finally Indiana Jones themselves into the boiler room. I decided to take a running start, closed my eyes and jumped. I survived.

This place was like a mausoleum, a concrete box with massive iron machines lined up wall to wall with narrow pathways between them. Half of the group wanted to stay in the boiler room and explore with their video camera on night vision settings and then find the basement... are you KIDDING ME?! I started to bargain with the guys, to no avail: promises of making cookies and letting them watch every season of Family Guy. Somehow I'm convinced to stay, find a door and make our way through the death tower to the roof. Shit.

The door leads us to the stairwell, and each floor was a deserted hallway with wooden furniture broken to pieces and littered on the floor like a bad bar fight. No one warned me that this place would look like an abandoned mental institution after an takeover or end of the world diseased outbreak. Half of the doors to the dorm rooms were closed, and some were entirely broken off their hinges with nothing left behind but splinted shards of wood attached to bolts. A few were tied open with a string around the handle and then tied to something else in the room. We walked into one room and found a mattress crudely cut to pieces on the floor with wire coat hangers that had been uncoiled and reassembled to look like a Medieval jousting weapon. We quickly left that room.

As we continued our exploration through hobo headquarters, I was protected by a box of men around me, covering all sides, like a civil war shooting formation. Honestly, they put up with me being ridiculous more than I expected, but they were pretty freaked out too. We kept making our way up the floors, each one as terrifying as the last.

Then, on the 5th floor, I decided to open my eyes, just a peek. In doing so, I was met with a pair of hollow eyes looking directly back at us. I let out .02 seconds of the start of a blood curdling scream when someone threw their hand over my mouth. We stared with horror as someone flashed their light on the door and the life-sized poster of a bikini clad woman, whose eyes had been cut out. Classy.

We finally made it to the top floor at the emergency exit stairwell, our rendezvous point. We waited for the rest of the group to meet us since they don't believe in the rules of horror movies and decided to SPLIT UP AND EXPLORE. A few minutes pass and we're all accounted for, so we walk further until we're staring at a metal ladder placed in front of us. We climb up the ladder and open the latch door and we're now on top of the roof of the Twin Towers. This is the first time I've relaxed in the last hour and willingly let go of whoever I had been using as a human shield. 

It's actually kind of pretty from this high up, you can see every building for miles, the stars are sprinkled all over the sky. Don't be fooled, that's just me trying to convince myself that there isn't a murderer following us through the building and preparing to kill us all while we let our guards down.

Boys will be boys, so I was not surprised that they brought soda cans to throw off the roof into the empty parking lot below. I thought your backpacks were filled with survival tools and knives?! The guys attempted to throw a curve ball soda can into the other twin tower across the street when we heard a crashing noise coming from the floor below us. The shenanigans are over. A loud, clash of metal and all the fun stops.

All the guys exchanged glances, except for me. I've instinctively closed my eyes and covered them and thought of every horrible outcome. Let's set the murder plot aside and think of all the consequences other than death. What if we're stuck up here?! What if it's a police officer and we're all under arrest?! Two guys elect themselves to check out the noise. A few minutes go by, and then they emerge, unscathed. The noise was a chain linked fence that sealed this ladder and roof door from the stairwell and it had swung closed. How a gust of wind blew it closed INDOORS was a question I didn't want to pose out loud. Everyone agreed we should leave and decided to take the quickest exit, down stairwell exits all the way to the ground floor.

A few of us met up for lunch the next day; the guys were all too excited to tell me about how some of the windows that were previously broken and shattered had been boarded up over night. Awesome news, guys! That's so exciting to hear that someone was watching and following us when we illegally trespassed into that building! PLEASE, tell me more.

I then proceeded to tell them that I spent what was left of my night/early morning researching the Twin Towers and didn't fall asleep until the sun came out at 6:12 am. I told them that even though we survived the ghost hobos and police confrontations, the real reason the Twin Towers were abandoned was due to a silent killer that had been living in the walls and ceilings of the building for decades:





Asbestos.



So, that's what I did with a semester in Arkansas.

Dave, Rob, Brian, Seth, Parker, Kyle, TJ, Kevin?... I know I'm forgetting people, sorry. That night was kind of fun, thanks guys.



Some Days by The Maine

Monday, September 24, 2012

I either just heard gunshots or an entire Birthday party's worth of balloons popping. Dallas, I love you.

Things that I strongly disliked about my job:
  • My job.
  • Speed Racer: the 60 year old man that likes to turn corners like he's on wheels running from the grim reaper.
  • The woman that sits 2 offices behind me and sounds like Eeyore. Everyday she will have a VERY personal phone call, loud enough for everyone to hear about everything from family members being addicted to pain killers to the color of the dog's bowel movement. And every other word she huffs out is spliced with a long, drawn out pause. I want to unhear everything that has ever come out of your mouth.
  • The office crazy, that is more crazy than any woman should be allowed to be. The epitome of a mean girl that wasn't aware of wearing pink on Wednesdays.
  • The Security Guard, that when I asked if he could call my extension when my pizza arrived said, "No problem I'll bring it to you. I know where you sit. I see you all the time on the security cameras." Yeaaaaah, I'm creeped out by more than your 70's style mustache now. Stop smiling.

For the record, there are many people that have made my work experience enjoyable than not, even when I didn't enjoy the job.

Things that I loved about my job:
  • That one time I walked into the breakroom to hear a guy using the microwave buttons to recreate the Jaws theme song
  • All 8 times the firefighters showed up and productivity switched to "Who can fake dead and get them to come to our department? Anyone? I'll punch you and you just stay unconscious, ok? OK."
  • Finding out that our marketing VP was in a punk band in California (back in the day) which explained the tattoo and why he looked like Spicoli on casual Fridays.
  • Walking by the conference room and all I can hear is "High Way To The Danger Zone" blaring. I was happy to be at work for that 3 minutes 36 seconds.
  • Wearing fancypants work clothes. But not actual pants. I hate pants.
  • Creeper McCreepster that stalked the women in our department for a week. He's only on this list because it helped us put all of our differences aside and we formed a pact of solidarity to let the office crazy beat him up if he bothered us again. Good times.
  • Business trips to Chicago that include deep dish pizza and watching the Blackhawks. Toews, you're a stud, but your play off beard is worse than troll hair. (I really miss the NHL)
  • Winchester. The gnome.
  • Flirting with the guys in IT so I could get a new computer. Or two. No shame.
  • Passing by the shipping coordinator in the hallways and yelling "Potatoes!" followed by a fist-bump and a salute.
  • Cajun chicken pasta heaven on Thursdays, I will miss you most of all.

Now I'm sad and hungry.

I could get all sentimental and sweet... but that's not as much fun.

Once in a while it really hits people that they don't have to experience the world in the way they have been told to.

That could sum me up. I don't hold onto that little checklist of life quite as hard as most people do. I'm not opposed to doing things out of order and making it up as I go along. I think I'd really hate my life if I just went from check point to check point and ignored all the billboards for adventures that I passed along the way. I'd also hate my life if I didn't know that you can turn ruined cake batter into cookies by adding a different ingredient to the mix.

I'm not going to elaborate any more on this analogy, but I like it. That confirms it, I really am hungry.

I've moved cities. Again. I left the job that paid my rent so I could live in a beautiful apartment in between suburbia and the city, so I could get up and go to work at the job that gave me nothing but headaches and stress. I'm all too optimistic to think that I'm ready to settle for mediocre at twenty three. Where is the purpose in my purpose driven life? Where am I finding my peace and sense of self? That job has run it's course, I'm thankful for the opportunity, don't get me wrong, but I felt like I jumped ahead too many spaces. Story of my life.

I missed out on the fun, college-having, finding-yourself experiences of beer for breakfast... and lunch, LOST marathons instead of studying, when Malibu rum starts tasting like bad decisions, and guys in pastel shorts saying "brah": My LL Bean shirts wake up an hour before me to go sailing, brah -  all that schtuff.

On to the next adventure.


Fader by The Temper Trap This song can make any Monday a dance party.

Monday, September 3, 2012

When trying to convince someone to do something never use the phrase "You can wear a cape!" as a selling point. Unless you actually have a cape.

I recently learned that this is true for both men and small children.

When the new Batman movie came out, Bert (of the Bert and Ernie roomie duo) was so very excited like a little school girl about it that he almost convinced me to go to a midnight showing on a workday. Wearing capes.

I decided that if I was going to be a sleepless grouch the next day at work, I was going to bring down as many of my corporate-world working friends as possible. And wear a cape. I'm really into this cape idea, clearly. Except, in presenting my idea to the gang, not having a cape made my argument a lot less appealing than I had for seen. The whole idea went out the window. Settle for some Dip N Dots and a Sunday matinee? Yes.

So, we saw the movie, loved it and had an all too elaborate discussion about superheros and their every day lives. What if a superhero worked as a mail man as his day job or in a deli? I give you: Salami Avenger and Night Chicken. We haven't thought this idea through.

Speaking of chickens.

I've gotten into the wonderful habit of coming home from work, coating myself in bug repellent and going for a nice heat stroke. I mean jog. This was a quick jog because, it's hot as hell in Texas, and I was chased by a chicken.

Yes, I'm sure it was a chicken. A real chicken. It made a terrifying... chicken noise and decided to CROSS THE ROAD to chase me. This jog ended with me running back to the house and slamming the door and not stopping until I had a pint of ice cream in my hand.

I wish this story ended differently.

Oh, I moved out of my Dallas apartment and to the country. Ok, so Wylie isn't complete country, but... yes. It is. Compare it to Dallas and it's a reverse Beverly Hillbilly move. Please refer to the above declaration of a chicken in my neighborhood and then disagree with me.

However, I'm only here for another week. This is just a little pit stop on my adventure, but more on that another time. I'm staying here to finish out my last days at the old corporate machine and then handing in my maracas. Literally. I have maracas and I get to shake them. It's one of the few things that I'll miss about my job.

Currently my stuff is in multiple locations and I'm living with my cousin, K and her husband and their 3 kids. And by "kids" I mean little fire breathing monsters. Pre-teen and younger, sassy, fire breathing monsters that don't get tired no matter how many times you try to turn "spinning until dizzy" into a group game.

By the way, when did a ream of copy paper and an old popcorn tin with broken crayons rattling around inside stop being considered fun? I used to be all about that. I still am.

I recently had a Birthday, so that means I've gained some wisdom in the last year, right? Well, even if that's not true, my brief move to suburbia means I'm already chocked full of more knowledge than I ever thought possible:
  • DON'T HAVE KIDS.
  • EVER.
  • Middle names are for the sole purpose of letting you know when you're really in trouble.
  • The only honest people in the world are small children and drunk people.
  • Finding a Tide To Go pen in your purse is the equivalent of winning the lottery.
  • Cleaning with kids in the house is like brushing your teeth while eating Oreos.
  • Getting older means choosing an alcoholic beverage based on calorie count rather than intoxication efficiency.
  • The people who need firecracker safety tips aren't the people who read firecracker safety tips.
The last 2 weeks of a 2 weeks notice are the least productive days you'll ever have at work. I get to the office and I'm already dog tired and by 10 am I can't look at the computer for another second without my eyes melting out of my face.

You know you need to change your sleeping habits when you wake up holding the back to your alarm clock, and the battery has been ripped out...



Mars Hotel by The Mayfield Four I'll always love this song and always wish that I didn't.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

That gas station is used for only two things: picking up moonshine and getting murdered. Only two outcomes.

Here's the thing, I am hopelessly directionally challenged. I know this. I wish on every Birthday candle that I could change this. Someone, someday will have to put up with this. I'd much rather be a passenger, the one that gets to point out places to visit that aren't part of the destination, sleep, control the music, watch for police, and feed the driver Fruit by The Foot (This task is only mandatory when I'm driving).

I get incredibly stressed out when I'm driving at night in an unfamiliar location. I can not even pretend to keep my cool. Add in construction and a few "off-the-beaten-path" detours, like anywhere currently on the way to North Richland Hills, and I'm a mess. My GPS (Judy Garmin) will tell me to veer left and then a detour pops up into my real life view, not marked on my current route via GPS. My internal monologue/turmoil/rant & rave (isn't that what this entire blog is? Yes.): Take the detour down the gravel road or keep gong in this swirly loopy-loop direction that looks nothing like the road ahead of me? Or Detour? Uhhh....I ummmm.... no time to decide... Aaaaaand mistake. I'm now at the airport. Alright, back on track... another detour, this time going up and around and over to a two lane road. Oh, ok I'm officially not on a concrete road. It's OK, the highway will meet up with this road. I'm not lost... where the hell am I? Streetlights are swaying in the wind, every 3rd light is burned out... no other cars to be seen... I am officially in the setting for the movie Deliverance. Nothing good can happen here.

At this point, I've turned the radio off, and I'm basically driving with the steering wheel in my chest, somehow hoping that maybe I'll propel the car along faster. THIS IS NOT THE WAY HOME. Great, now I'm shouting to myself. I can't even control my anger and frustration enough to target the responsible party for this terrifying ordeal: Judy Garmin. And now I'm starting to think that this "detour" was part of a horror movie plot. My mind just goes there. Every time. I made it home, but I'm fairly certain that The Hills Have Eyes was filmed somewhere like Southbound Highway 114.

In the midst of all the chaos, I get the most random texts from my Dad. Like what, you ask? A picture of seals on a disco dance floor with the caption "Stop clubbing baby seals".

He might need a hobby or an intervention. In the last year, my father has discovered sending pictures in text messages. No one clap, this is not a time to celebrate. My parents have been hip and cool with the cellphone takeover since forever, so texting is not anything new. Don't get me wrong, I love that my parents text, and text like functioning members of society without all of the "c u l8tr" and "ttfn" shit, but my father has taken it to a new level. He finds memes, and sends them out in a mass attack style.

Wow, I'm at work and my phone just vibrated off my desk and into my trash can. What kind of natural disaster struck? What did Colton stick in his nose this time? Did you win the lottery? None of the above. My dad has decided that a photo-shopped picture of a child going down a slide where the end is a cheese grater or a storm trooper in the middle of a graffiti tag with the caption "Keep our Death Star Beautiful"is worth sending to me.

And my mother? She sends me email links for cooking and baking ideas and makes hair mustaches with me when the movie previews are boring. Then there was that one time we had a girls night/a few too many margaritas and ended up falling asleep watching Fraggle Rock after making an epic grocery list that consisted of Twix, Skittles, and ice cream.

Welcome to my world. It is both insane and delicious.

Mainly insane.


It's Time by Imagine Dragons I'm definitely still obsessed with this band.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

"Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life so you bought some sweatpants." -KL

You know what cures hangovers? A roomie that delivers Bloody Marys to you in your closet because you swear you've turned into a vampire and the sun is going to destroy you.

You know what causes you to drunkenly hallucinate that the fire sprinkler on the ceiling is a gecko? Not having any damn A/C in said closet.

This state is a rarity for me. A very rare, count it on one hand, unicorn-spotting occurrence. I had to discover for myself that Cachaça tastes like whiskey and tequila had a baby and you want to eat that baby. Now I know that whiskey is stronger than me. This is called learning. It's also called “Frowned Upon Friday”.

In whatever drunken state of wisdom I was in when I ventured to my closet, I thought it was a good idea to pull all of the covers off of my bed and cocoon myself in them on my closet floor. Now, this is not just any ordinary closet, but it's not quite the gateway to Narnia either; this is a massive hangover curing cave of wonder. You could fit another bed in here along with our washer and dryer. However, the layout of our bedrooms wasn't designed for hangover rehabilitation purposes, as I'm now realizing. The windows are directly across from the door to the bathroom that's directly across from the door to the closet. Based on the trajectory of the sun's rays... blah blah science blah blah we both get the blinding hallelujah glory of the sun at 7 am every morning.

I'm up way too early for someone who wasn't planning on "seizing the day". I planned on seizing my sunglasses and somehow navigating through my apartment to hunt down the number for pizza with as little interference from cabinet corners towards my hip bone as possible. Unsuccessful.

To some degree not short of brilliant, I must have been thinking ahead (or thinking with my stomach) and left myself the pizza flyer on the bar. Oh, the joy, they know my usual order by my phone number. I'm not ashamed of this, I'm relieved that I have very little talking to do and a pizza will arrive. If I crack each of the previous doors open just enough, I can remain in a dark state of hibernation with just enough light that I won't forget where the wall ends and the door begins. I've given myself enough accidental bruises by assuming that all doors are open in the dark.

Thirty minutes later and I have my pizza beside me, while I hum along to the sounds of the Internet modem, tactfully mounted on the wall so that when I sit up, I can smack my head on it. This is my own Hell. I'm too miserably hot to stay here but if I get back in my bed I will end up suffocating myself with pillows to escape the sunlight.



Either by extreme exhaustion or a mild heat stroke, I've managed to fall back asleep.


It is now 7pm and I'm ready to embrace the post hangover world we can aptly sum up as "sweatpants".



My most recent google searches: "Where to get dippin dots in Dallas" and "What are gelled nails?"


I'm okay, everyone.



Counting Sleep by Trent Dabbs You have to have a great soundtrack for spending a weekend in doors packing.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

The more things we put in our purse, the stronger we become.

One day, the fire alarm went off at work and the first thought I had was, "OHMYGODWHEREISMYPURSE?!"

I stood up, purse in hand, and saw that everyone else was looking around over the cubes to see if anyone was going to evacuate/on fire. No such luck. Our office secretary did, however, hold up her cup of water and yell, "I've got it! I'll save us!". I genuinely thought I might go into an epileptic shock from the amount of strobe warning lights beaming me in the eyes. The "alarm", which started to resemble someone cranking a cat's tail as it wailed, ceased and we were all left standing in our department with various objects in our arms.

Let's see what everyone would take with them if a fire was actually engulfing the office.

The second I heard the alarm I grabbed my purse... and nothing else. I had sense to leave my headphones plugged into my computer, because, I've already embarrassed myself once before by accidentally unplugging them with my foot and letting everyone know I was listening to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song (SHUT UP! YOU LOVE IT TOO!) and I still haven't lived that one down. Every woman had her purse in tow, but there were also random items grabbed out of sheer uncertainty and panic: a manila folder, desk plant, napkins, ruler, box of Oreos... good call.

The guys had very little in hand: car keys, a cup of coffee, one man had sense to grab his briefcase, but other than grabbing *Winchester (the office gnome) it was nothing compared to us.

*Winchester is a Texas cowboy gnome who came to us via last year's White Elephant Christmas Party. He has a habit of ending up in random places he ought not be in, but we kindly direct him back to his shelf in our shipping coordinator's office and go about our day.

The scary realization (other than the above statement of how we regard an inanimate object as a real person) was that we women put a lot in our purses. And this gives us a small glimmer of control. I have my purse, I'll survive this. Any given purse will most likely contain: Gum, make up, wallet, cellphone, car keys ... one time I mentioned needing a bike pump and the roomie chimed in, "I've got one right here!", pulls the pump out of her bag of wonder and saves the day. Mine doesn't (usually) go that far, but it's standard to find 78 cents in loose change, of which one coin is foreign and another is a Chucky Cheese game token (Delaney will then use these coins on a gumball machine and break it), band aids, band aids, band aids, a fork, Tylenol, Advil, two types of allergy medicine (I'm a one stop shop pharmacy to rival Walgreens), random jewelry, a sticky note pad (Yes, I make more lists than I care to... list), NO pens, and 3 Burt's Bees. THREE. Because I will loose one before I can get to the end. I honestly have no idea what's waiting for me at the end of a tube of chap stick. There should be an award for chap stick upkeep if it doesn't end up there at some point in it's lifespan.

Of all the purse chaos, flying turns me into the Mary Poppins of purse coordination. If I didn't come prepared, with snacks and magazines, I'd probably be that disgruntled passenger flipping out over the amount of boarding groups that come before B. Surprise! Platinum Members! Business Class! Priority Family! Small Children Travelling Alone That Like To Visit The Bathroom Seven Times On A 45 Minute Flight! Group A!

And while I'm on my airport soapbox: Don't get me all excited about arriving early if we don't have a gate, Plane Announcement Guy, it's not like I'm jonesing for more tarmac time. And to the man that decided to take the middle seat between me and another innocent passenger when there are plenty of other empty ROWS, stop trying to talk to me and peek at my ipod. Maybe I'm not really listening to music, maybe I don't want to hear about why you're flying to Nashville to see your aunt. Please put your shoes back on.

(Steps off box)

I'm as sweet as pie, I promise.

So, why does my purse consist of more sticky notes than Office Space and an assortment of granola bars and water bottles that could double as a bomb shelter survival meal for six? Just because.

Seriously though, sticky notes are taking over my life. The joke at work is that if someone took all of the sticky notes and legal pads off my desk, I'd probably write on my arms. Or crawl under my desk and hide.



Someday by Cary Brothers The majority of the songs I love from them are bittersweet, but this one is a bit more upbeat. A bit.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Thou shalt always keep a bottle of bubs on hand for special occasions. Or Wednesdays.

I'm relatively organized. I buy Birthday cards months in advance (I'll admit that I might be single-handedly keeping the Post Office alive and I'm ok with this.), I know exactly where my missing sock is hiding in the floordrobe (wardrobe + floor) that is my bedroom, and I keep all of my important paperwork in one place, clearly labeled. So, I grab the folder marked "CAR STUFF" and set it out so I can take it with me in the morning to complete my errand. On a whim, I open the folder to check that everything is there and low and behold, I find a sticky note that reads:

You lost the title.
Don't forget to get a new copy.

Things I learned while waiting my life away at the DMV:
  • I really need to get my bangs trimmed, I almost fell asleep because they were serving as blackout shades.
  • The speed in which a woman says "nothing" when asked "what's wrong?" is inversely proportional to the severity of the coming storm. Shout out to the couple across the room that decided to turn everyone's morning into an episode of Maury.
  • Beware of the toddler running around like an escaped convict and handing people soggy cheerios. By the way, where is your mother?! 
  • This child will throw up all over the waiting room floor.

This is just the classiest DMV that you ever did see. Honestly, I underestimated the amount of vomit a little person can projectile. I won't get too graphic, but I will never be able to eat applesauce again. I finally make it to work a whopping 3 hours later and I don't think I've ever been more relieved that my office smells like absolutely nothing. Other than the occasional waft of cigarette smoke/aroma of a forest fire from the emergency exit that people sneak out of, my office is usually smell-less.

This is surprising because the fire department/paramedics make appearances here at least once a month. You'd think that something exciting was going on, but that's never the case. That doesn't mean all the women will suddenly stop congregating at the window, fogging it up like children on Christmas morning to watch the first snow, it's more like a stake out post, hoping to see a shirtless fireman. Not just because they're shirtless firemen, but also because it's the middle of the week and we're all run down and desperately hoping for a pick me up of sorts.

When we reluctantly fail to witness anything close to a cast member on Dancing With The Stars, we start a message about our favorite childhood tv shows, sending youtube clips back and forth. From this conversation I had an alarming realization that Mr. Roger's Neighborhood might have greatly influenced my fashion tastes... I love a good grandpa sweater. Not a grandpa IN a sweater, I just realized that I own a shameful amount of cardigans. Now, I'm the youngest in my office, so things get interesting when I start naming the shows of my childhood. Mainly because I start singing the entire Duck Tales theme song and no one can relate. And then I get patted on the head like "awww shucks" when they've run out of "participation" ribbons.

Another childhood classic: Wishbone, one of my favorites. Of course when you give your opinion there is always someone that has to be negative and make remarks like, "I don't get it" and "That looks like a dumb show"... really? He's a dog and he's well versed in classic literature, and I'm sure he is smarter than you. Please keep talking.

What changes the tune of this conversation is the fact that Wishbone was actually filmed close by in Allen, also near where Barney was filmed (Now a printing company that I've been to several times for work - some useless DFW trivia for you). My coworker went on to tell us how sad it was for the community when Wishbone died. All three of us that actually know the show and it's awesomeness are reminiscing when my coworker casually starts in on how Wishbone died around the same time as Lamb Chop.

Nobody told me that Lamb Chop died!

That was the first time that I cried at work.

I didn't CRY cry, I just teared up a bit. It was a shock. I'm not proud of this.


No. Second. I lied.


The first was when an old boss decided to basically Salem Witch Trial me at every opportunity. The one time she gave me a compliment, "Nice skirt.", I immediately spun around to make sure she hadn't set it on fire as she walked by. I refuse to turn this into a tell-all for how evil this woman was, but she really made it difficult to love her like Jesus would. People with that much hate probably need more love than they're willing to let people give. She's gone now, we turned the sprinklers on and she melted.

No, seriously.

The boss that replaced her is heaven sent, an actual human being, and hilarious on business trips to Chicago. Yes, the one where we got lost in the city, hours before our flight home. Her remedy for calming nerves is to tell me the plot for "Adventures In Babysitting" while I audibly start praying for salvation and a road that doesn't lead us farther into the Southside of Chi-town.

By the way, trying to get to Soldier Field from the main highway is impossible. It's like a revolving door: exit too early and you smack into a wall of false hope and glass. Mainly the false hope bit. But you get to drive right past the road that DOES lead to the stadium. Exit just a little too late and you're cursing at yourself as your destination flashes before your eyes. And it's not an easy fix, either way you're left with no other exits to turn around as you're forced to endure the spin cycle around the city until you can try again. And fail again. Add one more try for good measure. Nope, missed the exit again. Spin cycle complete.

Want the drug lords of the windy city to think that you're a cop running patrol over their area? Miss that exit three times in 15 minutes and then see what kind of looks you get in a Prius. Damn you, Judy Garmin.

What up, segue.



Paper Thin Hymn by Anberlin old and new, this band can do no wrong by me.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Dear guy at Chipotle with the Power Ranger's ringtone: You are my soulmate.

I eat at Chipotle more than I would like to admit, but alas, here I am, professing my love anyways. I drive past the same one every day on my way home from work, and it's all too convenient to just pop on in and grab a burrito the size of a small child.

As for the Power Ranger business? This is the fourth time in the last year that I've stopped in my tracks because I've heard this damn ring tone. If it's the same person or a very loyal fan following in the North Dallas area, I have no idea. But I support it.

Long story short, my kindergarten boyfriend was the red ranger and I was the pink ranger and e v e r y day we would sit by each other on the school bus and talk about the Power Rangers episode we watched the day before and then what we thought the episode would be about that afternoon. Fascinating, I know. Then on Fridays I would kiss him. And we had the same favorite Van Halen song. We really had everything going for us... I think he had a mullet. Never mind.

When it comes to being dorky and owning it, I support this. Hell, I encourage it. That's not to say that this doesn't backfire a great many times. Men of the world that think it's OK to use song lyrics as pick up lines: It's not.

Stop it, or else I'm going to start using my favorite new rendition of your pick up line against you, "Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but I'm on bath salts, and you look tasty." Did I lose you? Yes? Kind of? Too soon?

I've come to recognize that there is this strange phase that happens when you start to LIKE like someone, and that we've all (probably) experienced this in some form or fashion. Sometimes it's just nerves or maybe you're taking dating advice from Night At the Roxbury, I don't know. It's not the real you, it's the goofiest and most annoying side of you that you know. I hope.

This theory has been proven wrong many times, so I'm not declaring it in a medical journal that the jerk you met at a bar will drop the act and turn into Jim from The Office. He won't. He might. Don't count on it. I'm more so talking about the awkward phase that can turn you into a total goober in front of a the object of your affection: laughing way to loud and far too often at a joke before it's even told, doing that thing with your mouth half closed and making that clicking noise while winking, using cheesy pick up lines that are songs my 13 year old sister wouldn't even touch and just using pick up lines in general.

This phase is different and unique for everyone, sometimes you recluse when you're usually outgoing, sometimes you act like a monkey at the zoo trying to show off but falling out of a tree instead etc. I find that most go for the show-off route, which in turn makes me revert back to the equivalent of my kindergarten nightmare where I punched Mitch in the playground maze.

It's the same old story. Boy finds girl, boy loses girl, girl finds boy, boy forgets girl, boy remembers girl, girl dies in tragic blimp accident over the Orange Bowl on New Year's Day.

Yes, that is a quote from The Naked Gun. Sadly. THIS, of all the sappy romantic comedies and tragic love stories, has resonated with me over the last couple of years. I guess I look at love as one of those uncontrollable forces of nature that can come from any direction at any point in time. So, with that I applaud everyone that's found the person that you just want to be around all the time in any way that you can.


Dear Chipotle,
I don't know how to quit you.


Pachuca Sunrise by Minus The Bear

Saturday, June 2, 2012

If at first you don't succeed, redefine success and celebrate your victory in a Snuggie.

The roomie and I have adopted a motto: I will if you will. This is one of the strongest bonds of bestfriendship ever created.

Feel like going to a party? I will if you will
Want to eat a dozen donuts? I will if you will
Let's plan a trip to Fiji, who needs a savings account anyways? I will if you will

Looking/acting/being ridiculous and having someone on your team being just as ridiculous with you automatically makes you feel better. Sadly, it doesn't always make you any cooler, in fact, it hardly ever does.

With that, I'm going to make a very bold statement in support of Snuggies. Never have I ever had so much fun making fun of a blanket with sleeves, but the time has come, and now I must have one. You don't have to tell me, I know Snuggies are as big of a joke as the WNBA, Smart Cars, and sporks. Let's be real here, sporks?! Who got rich by creating an eating utensil just for a grapefruit? Hmmmmm?! Anyways, the Roomie and I had a long running Snuggie joke and it lead to me finally buying one for part of her Christmas present.

We then decided to list all of the things one can do in a Snuggie:
  • Eat an apple!
  • Read the mail! (Every daily function becomes amplified when donning a Snuggie)
  • Make a pizza! (This was a terrible idea, the oven almost turned into a Snuggie inferno)
  • Wear it backwards like an open-face robe! (Please do this alone in your room)
  • Put your feet in the arm holes and wear it upside down! (This is frowned upon)
  • Hide tissues in the sleeve like grandma!
We decided that the Snuggie was awesome. So, we're on the couch, about to start a movie, the Roomie sitting comfortably in said Snuggie and myself curled up in my blanket. Then, menu screen comes on, and by sheer proximity, I'm the designated remote grabber. Of all the gin joints. It's balls to the wall cold outside of my blankety cocoon. Try and follow me here: It's as if you're in a hot tub, in December and 1 of the only 3 valid reasons for ever leaving a hot tub in December happens:

  1. You have to pee
  2. You've turned into soup
  3. Pizza guy is at the door

You raise just an inch of your body out of the water and suddenly the Artic tundra is gripping at your flesh, threatening you with death. You can feel the fierce winds of the blazing chill stab at your skin and envelope you into a frosty hell. Suddenly, you hate every decision you've ever made that lead you to this very moment that you are without a Snuggie. THAT is what it's like to have to take off a blanket and reach for the remote.

The Snuggie is also useful when you want to get out of a situation. As in, the guys want to grab dinner, but we feel like staying in and eating popcorn followed by spoons of peanut butter right out of the jar. So we reply back, "Sure thing! We're wearing Snuggies! See you in 10!" Suddenly we're uninvited to dinner and we can resume the fabulous life. We don't have to make up excuses like "Busy. Having a staring contest" or "We're cleaning the carpets" - that one is an actual excuse we've used. If you met our friend... Thor, we'll call him, you'd understand why we have some... unique "House Rules".


House Rules:
  • Use a coaster or die
  • No shoes on the carpet or else you have to remove an article of clothing... probably your shoes
  • Must put lime in Corona or put Corona back
There are also a few Unspoken Rules:
  • Don't let Amanda participate in a rap battle
  • Or skateboard
  • Or climb a tree 
  • Always share your alcohol
  • Always share your pineapple
  • It is perfectly acceptable to be late to dinner if you're watching Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles

This is a non-judging Snuggie.
Times like this I'm happy to live with my best friend.

The General Specific by Band of Horses

Monday, May 28, 2012

It was always strange to me how "this little piggy" didn't have separation anxiety

One day, the little sister, Delaney, and I were driving down the street when we saw a very old man pushing a wheelchair and in it was a very old woman. He was in trousers and a button up cardigan, buttoned all the way up to his nose hairs, and she had a pink shawl around her shoulders and a cute little basket weaved hat with a flower in it. Just like every old couple should be. Yes. Delaney and I both go, "Awwwwww" and then we continue on our drive.

It's kinda quiet, she hasn't decided to blast a Katy Perry song just yet, so I take this moment to lay some sisterly bonding down. "Delaney, when I'm old..." she's already cracking up. To her, me being 22 is OLD. Like ancient. And it's her favorite thing to tell me that I'm 40.

She's 13 and she thinks she can get away with it. Well, she can't. Today I came prepared,
"When I'm 90, you'll be 81."
She stops laughing, "That's not cool."
Ha Ha. I continue, "When I'm 90, and you're 81, will you push me in a wheelchair like that?"
"Uh, sure... of course."
"Good. I'm going to wear a bikini so I can get sweet grandma tan lines."
Delaney finally stops laughing, considers this and holds out her pinkie finger towards me, "Fine." she says.

Then we do the handshake that she created when she was 3. That is why I love my little sister. Yes, there are millions of other reasons, but this one I'm documenting. For sentimental reasons and mainly so I can remind Delaney that I have proof.

Just a few minutes ago we skyped before she had to go to bed, and when we turned the cameras on we busted out laughing because the first thing we saw was that we were both rocking the crazy pony tail, sticking up in the air, every which way and eating pizza. We're more alike than I feared.

Delaney has been my own personal Barbie doll since the moment she was born. With two younger brothers, I was practically bargaining my skip-it and beanie babies for a little sister. Telling God I'd never boil cabbage and use the water to convince my brothers it's blue Gatorade... again.

I like unassuming and creative forms of revenge.


Me: You have a Twitter?!? What for??
D: So I can see what Justin Bieber is up to.

Of course. Why didn't I think of that. I've been using Twitter for the wrong reasons, clearly.

I've had a Twitter for a few years now, I got one when I was living in China as another way to tell everyone about my adventures. This didn't last too long, as I had a Chinese cellphone with me and it lacked certain capabilities (smart phones were just beginning to show their uprising). So there's a whole 10 tweets from that period of my life. I come in and out of phases of utilizing Twitter. And by "utilizing" I mean that my posts consist of mainly hockey, food, Harry Potter, and the painful burden of being a big sister.

Like taking Colton to Studio Movie Grill, where you order food while you watch a movie at table with reclining chairs. We get there early and Colton looks around, and I already know what he's about to do... "What happens if I press this button... ?" the smirk across his face is insane as he lets his pointer finger hover over the call box for when you need to summon your server. Well, the lights are still on in the theater as people are still filing in and finding seats, people sit to my left and Colton's right, this doesn't phase him. Colton looks at me, and I'm struggling to say anything because 1- I already know the joke 2- I know he's been dying to say this for ages, given the opportunity, and 3- It's funny. Colton smiles at me and quietly (not really that quite) shouts a terribly botched gurgle of accents and then sharply draws his pointer finger down, directly on to the call box button. He then looks at me, my hand over my forehead in dismay, and he says very matter of factly, "I just blew up Africa,". I'm trying not to laugh and encourage him, but he adds, "and if our waiter takes any longer I'll detonate Guam while I'm at it!  ---- Oh heyyyyyyy, I was just saying I'd like a hamburger." Perfect cue for our waiter to show up.


Then Colton said something about the people sitting next to us smelling like soup, which I thought was absurd, until I realized he was right. And then the soup lady opened her mouth and her voice sounded exactly like what celery would sound like if it could talk, so we had to move down a few chairs. Of course, this meant that Colton had to press the "new" call box button... same waiter... less amused.

I can't take him anywhere.


Lily Two by Matt Pond PA is one of those songs that I keep coming back to, year after year.

Monday, May 21, 2012

Don't worry, the spider is smaller than you. Yeah, so is a grenade.

I had a realization while at the grocery store earlier this week, and no, it wasn't that I'm too old for Fruit by the Foot, because I'm not and quite frankly I don't give a damn if I am. I'd like to see you pry the box from my hands.

I realized that I only have 2 phone numbers memorized. TWO. And then my mind went racing through all of the scenarios that any normal, sane individual would and it finally landed on this alarming scenario: If I was kidnapped and somehow able to spastically flail around and either A) injure the kidnappers B) free myself or C) injure myself and then the kidnappers feel sorry for me and let me go out of pity - and make it to a phone, I would be forced to call either my mother - which would suck because 1. She would freak out and that would make me freak out even more and then we'd cry. Or 2. She wouldn't answer. Not on purpose, but because the woman leaves her phone on silent for decades in the depths of her mom purse amidst the crayons and crackers. Honestly, we're all 13+ so crackers don't do much to calm my nerves anymore... but yes... I do want a peppermint... And then when she realizes that her phone has been blowing up, she calls back the second I set my phone down and walk out of the room. Then I miss the call by last ring (Hello? HELLO?!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voicemail. What did you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?! So, there's option A. Mom and solid reasoning why this option is flawed.

Then there is the dreaded option B) An Ex Boyfriend. There are plenty of other people I'd rather call to come save me/kick ass/find my little brother Colton and have him come kick ass, but unfortunately, it's been pointed out to me that I do not have Jack Bauer, Bear Grylls or The Fonz's phone numbers. And only one of those people actually exists.

Please do not send old Kiefer Sutherland to free me, that man still scares me from his vampire days in The Lost Boys.

So, I would call the Ex and I'm sure he'd come save me and then I'd say something snarky, per usual, once we're safe and on the run. Like suggesting that he could use his ears to fly us to safety... then he'd probably threaten to take me back to the kidnappers himself. There isn't an option 2 to this scenario unless he chose to bring my brother and in that case our adventure home would probably resemble a mash up of Kangaroo Jack and Homeward Bound...

And that's what I was thinking about whilst at the grocery store in the produce section, deciding on whether or not to get raspberries or blueberries for breakfast tomorrow. I chose both.

It might just be me, but I enjoy going to the grocery store. Some how everything can be solved when I go to the grocery store. Everything that I need at that particular point in time is right there. Unless, it's midnight and you need something from the pharmacy, then you're screwed. But seriously, everything is organized with signs to guide you, it's the least stressful chore there is. That's not to say that things can't go wrong, just because you write it on a list doesn't mean that it magically jumps into the basket or makes it off the hood of your car because you left it there when putting the groceries away. I'm referring to the box of Fruit by the Foot that caught your eye and the decision to eat one before even starting the car. I'm good at making grocery lists that never actually make it to the grocery store.

Oh, and rambling about absolutely nothing of any significant value.


Make Believe by The Graduate

Monday, May 7, 2012

If I won a medal at the Olympics, I'd definately shout STARS during the national anthem.

That one time that I went off on a tangent about hockey a few posts back? Right here.

My dad works in construction and he used to receive "Thank You" gifts from different contractors, vendors, bosses, clients etc. One lucky day they gave him Dallas Stars hockey tickets and so began my NHL dreams.

Growing up, I was never much of a sports fan, even though the Dallas Cowboys game was always on the tv. I never got into football. I actually went to Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader Camp some 3 years in a row between the ages of 9 and 11 and the only thing I could tell my dad was how the salt and pepper are married. This was a direct quote from the "Little Miss Manners" portion that taught me when someone asks for the salt, you politely accompany the pepper and vice versa.

Let's take a moment to acknowledge this as the sweetest rule to ever apply to condiments. Maybe salt misses pepper and maybe pepper just isn't the same without salt. It's adorable, come on, stop making that gagging noise, sheeeeesh. Oh, and Troy Aikman set next to me and had the rudest table manners. Elbows on the table and everything. tsk tsk. But I got the cute costume, so in some realm it was worth it.

Yes, I can appreciate a good live game of any sporting variety. Let's exclude golf unless I get to drive the cart and have an Arnold Palmer in my hand at all times. A Drunk Arnold, if you will. Watching baseball on TV is not my idea of fun either, partially because I don't know all of the ends and outs, like why it matters that this pitcher did this or how a roster move affected the whole game or why aren't they all chewing Big League Chew?!

This is also why the roomie and I like watching sports with our guy friends that live a building over from us. Bert and Ernie, we'll call them. We can ask them all of he dumb sports questions we want and not be embarrassed. When we don't care about the team, they let us root for which ever team we think is cuter. This is why we cheered every time they showed Tom Brady's tush during the Super Bowl.

I know you're rolling your eyes, but we picked up the pizza and brought over beer, we're the best Super Bowl companions you could ask for. But if you put the Stars game on the little TV on the elliptical at the gym, I'll probably have to be carried out on a stretcher because I'll run for 3 hours.

There would be days when I was late to school because I was "sick" when actually it was because my dad was gifted tickets to a weeknight Stars game and OF COURSE I wanted nothing more than to go. Get home at midnight, no way I can make it to elementary school. Life's tough. No ponies for me, just mullet-having men knocking the teeth out of each other. Dad took me to every game he could get his hands on, bought me dozens of Stars hats (I don't wear hats), taught me the basics, and to always cheer when anyone from San Jose got the snot knocked out of them. I even had my first hockey swear. Every Dad's dream for his little girl, right?

Hockey was our thing. With younger brothers that played football non-stop, I was lucky to find a sports niche all my own. No one was more excited when Dallas won the Stanley Cup in '99. Thanks to my dad's sweet work swag, I was at dozens of playoff games in '98 and again in '99 leading up to the Cup win.

I know I'm from Texas and this is Cowboy country and blahblahblah.

Now, if only I could fit into my old Zubov jersey.


Round And Round by Imagine Dragons. My new music obsession.This whole CD has been on repeat for weeks. Thank me later.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

To the noisy boys that live above me: I'm about to go all kinds of Mr. Heckles on you

Right now, all I can hear is a poor man's rendition of "Smoke On The Water" intermingled with a drum solo by Animal of The Muppets. I'm convinced. It can be a sunny Saturday afternoon, 9pm on a Friday, or my personal favorite, 3 am on a Tuesday morning and the "music" never dies. After several hours of this racket, when I'm full of violent rage, I'm tempted to go upstairs and give the noisy boys that live above me a piece of my fist.

Then I realize that I'm in pajamas, it's chilly out, I can't locate any shoes within a reasonable distance, I have no makeup on and my hair is up in a ponytail like Cindy Lou Who - this combination will in no way convince the opposite sex to do ANYTHING. Yes, I'm going to use my God-given, womanly charms and possibly some homemade cookies to sway them to give up music and video games and join monk hood. I don't care if they're playing Christmas carols for orphans, I will personally remove every single one of their fingers to get the music to stop.

Although, I wouldn't be surprised to walk over there and find that they've been reenacting every scene from Blackhawk Down. Or they're peg-legged and blind while trying to play Dance Dance Revolution and Rock Band at the same time. I could go on. And I will, it sounds like they're doing this. Yes, I've seen every episode of Friends, so the amount of correlations shouldn't surprise you.

Once upon a time, I told everyone to rejoice because I had purchased a TomTom and would never again get lost in downtown Dallas/Austin/Houston/my own neighborhood again. After many unfortunate car rides and one particular call to my father from the corner of Malcom X Blvd and MLK Ave. in downtown Dallas, I retract that statement of celebration towards TomTom and the feeling of hope that it so wrongfully gave me. First of all, there really needs to be an "Avoid Ghetto Route" option. Secondly, I'd like it if TomTom had the decency to tell me when it was going to wimp out and stop holding a charge so I can NOT be directionless while traveling through what can only be described as scenes from The Warriors. I could be driving through Munchkin Land and TomTom would find a way to lead me down the most dimly lit, sketch back alleyway with crack whores and gangsters.

I finally got tired of yelling at TomTom and throwing it into the backseat of my car, so 2 years and 4 TomTom's later... I traded in for a Garmin. GPS systems are entirely too cheeky for their own good. So here we are, Garmin is chilling out max with me in the car, and for the sake of setting the HOME feature, I type in my address... I type in my address... I AM typing in MY address, right?! I'm now yelling at my Garmin, Judy Garmin, and it has the nerve to tell me that my home address doesn't exist. Simply nonexistent. I either live in The Twilight Zone or the end of the world is upon us.


When the World Ends by Dave Matthews Band I guess I should hate this song after all these years... but I don't.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Two situations in which I second guess myself: One way streets and confirming passwords.

I haven't posted in awhile because I've been... reading Harry Potter.

Gasp. Yes, I know, I was one of those that said I didn't want to read the books/watch the movies. Why? It just seemed like a huge band wagon and I wasn't interested then. You have a time machine? Go back and kick 3rd grade Amanda. Actually, ouch, please don't.

This late-in-life Harry Potter obsession is both good and bad: Good - I now have all of the books in my possession and there is no waiting around for YEARS to know what happened next. Honestly, you people are stark raving mad to read a book, wait a year for the next part and have to re-read the one you just read to remember what the eff is gong on. I really don't handle suspense very well, clearly. Bad - Harry Potter and Hagrid just went to Diagon Alley! Why am I so excited?! No one else is in this boat with me! Everyone has already stayed up until midnight for every movie premier and owns the collectors edition of the finished book series.

I want to be a wizard and I'm all alone. I'm predicting that my social life will flat line for the month of March. Plus, the "little" brother just told me that Harry Potter is really 3 ducks in a man suit...

On to the real point:

Someone ate a hot dog in the office today and I almost killed them.

Let me explain.

In February, roomie and I were invited to a Mavs vs. Clippers game by one of our good guy friends who received free tickets at work. Now, I have basked in the glory of free stuff from work, my Dad would get free bottles of whiskey, bacon-wrapped steaks, and hockey tickets all the time from vendors, clients and bosses. If you were ever wondering how a little girl raised in the suburbs of Dallas came to have undying love for The Dallas Stars, then this is not that story. I did, however, write that entire story, when starting this story. A massive paragraph later I realized that I was completely off topic with no way to turn the ship around, so I copied and pasted it into another post for another time.

Mavs vs. Clippers, shall we? Our friend didn't exaggerate about the great seats he had: center court, a ways below the suites, the best seats I've ever had at a Mavs game. It's looking like a pretty good night until in walks the 3 Stooges. I should start off with the smell. Imagine all of the hot dogs ever created and every foul condiment imaginable in a vat of liquid fat, steaming on a hot summer's day. I smell it first then I see it: onions, mustard, relish, chili, mayo, and radioactive sludge are all dripping from the mound of hotdogs that are walking down the aisle. And it sits right next to me. I gag. Roomie is to my left, and the woman with a bucket of hot dogs is to my right.

I've decided to give up breathing.

I haven't eaten a hot dog since I was 5. To most people, hot dogs are just a normal part of any American sporting event, but they make my stomach churn. So, still not breathing, now holding my cup of beer to my nose. A short but beefy male with... wait for it... KNUCKLE TATTOOS follows her on over. He sits down next to her and throws his arm around her, which is now directed towards my face. What do his knuckle tattoos spell? "PAIN". Literally. The 4 fingers needed to make a fist have the letters P-A-I-N on them. Knuckles sits down next to the Hillshire Farms hot dog woman who is now licking her fingers of the mustardy lava and making me wish I had a hazmat suit for the amount of carnage she's creating. Then, she mistakenly grabbed my beer and upon realizing it wasn't hers, she put it back into the holder. No harm, no foul, right? Wrong. Mustard paw prints all over my cup.

In walks the final piece of this backwoods motley crew and sits down next to Pain. This Neanderthal has got to be the sole reason there is a choking hazard warning on the bag that holds the McDonald's toys. He decided to whoop and holler every thought, nay, SOUND that his tiny hamster wheel of a noggin could churn out.

"HOOPTY HOOPTY HOOOOO! GO MAVS GET THAT BALL AND SHOOT IT! SHOOOOOOOOT ITTTTTT! AWWWW YOU MISSED IT! BUT IT'S OK! TRY AGAIN! HEY I HAVE A CAMERA ON MY PHONE! I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THAT I HAD A CAMERA ON MY PHONE!" This is the direct quote. No embellishments, no ad-libbing, those were the exact words that cemented his fate as the most hated man I've ever encountered at a sporting event. And that includes being seated next to drunken Flyers fans. (Go Stars)

While I was enduring my own ring of hell, the roomie was on Khloe Kardashian lookout. With Lamar Odom on the team, she knew Khloe was at every game, and just for funsies she scoped her out. Well, Hot Dog woman overheard us and asked us if we had found Khloe. What was I supposed to do? LIE?

YES. I should have lied. I politely pointed a few rows down and said that was her behind Kidd Kraddick, which it was. The chain of events that followed made my soul quiver. Hot Dog tells Pain and he tells the biggest idiot in the world: The Neanderthal. This man finished 7 beers before half time and never had a thought he didn't share with the world. He doesn't miss a beat in his rant with this news, "SHOOOOT IT! SHOOOOT IT! DON'T MISSSSS ITTTT! KHLOE I LOVE YOU! KHLOE MARRRRRRY MEEEEEEEEE! KHLOEEEEEE OVER HEREEEEE!" The roomie turns to me and says, "I blame you." And I did too.

I snap. Something in me tells me to shut this man up because they might stop the game, tazer him and when he's done convulsing he's going to point to me and let everyone know that I told him where Khloe Kardashian was sitting. I just know it. And I might have hoped for the first part. Now, I've been giving him the "don't pass go, please go directly to hell eyes" all night, (when Pain isn't looking, of course) and yet he shows no signs of shutting up, getting any smarter, or dropping dead.

I turn to him and calmly say, "They're going to kick you out of the game.", which he hears, and acknowledges with a "saaaaay whaaaaat?" look on his face, like he can't believe I'm actually saying that to him. Hell, I can't believe I'm actually saying that to him. The other people around us are yelling for him to shut up, and all the while he's trying to process every single morsel of backlash that's coming his way. So in the chaos I add, "If they don't kick your ass out, I will." which I might have said under my breath, quietly, so that only the guy behind me heard. He gave me a fist bump. Awesome.

That was the game. We won, we laughed, we cried when the woman ate hot dog off of her shirt. Go Mavs.

Then I decided it was safe to breathe again.

Lights Out, Words Gone by Bombay Bicycle Club

Monday, February 27, 2012

There is either an axe murderer at my window or the sprinklers just came on

Only my father would text me at midnight to say goodnight... and to not let my feet hang off the bed or else the demon from Paranormal Activity will drag me out of the room. You are the worst kind of person, DAD.

So, whilst watching "She's the Man", Channing Tatum took his shirt off and the lights in our apartment had a stroke.

We did too.

I'm going to own the fact that the roomie and I were doing laundry while watching girly movies when the power went out late last night. 

Of course my first reaction was to scream. The roomie's reaction was to laugh. I hope the serial killer gets her first. Hasn't every horror movie ever created linked "power outage" and "serial killer" together?  There was no visible reason for the power outage; the lights in our bedrooms and bathrooms worked, it was just in the living room/kitchen. No serial killer... That I'm aware of... Yet. I've always been jumpy when it comes to stuff like that. There is a good story to solidify my point that involves "The Shining" and a burning tree... I'll save it for another time.

So, I blame my father for my severe skepticism of calling any of the following things innocent:
  • power outages 
  • bridges
  • anyone you meet at a gas station after midnight
  • dolls of any variety (I'm on to you, Weebles!) 
  • and being alone in a house/apartment

The man would tell me made-up stories of "The Goat Man" while we were driving home at night in the rain. Yes, The Goat Man. I was told that he lives under a bridge, and to my 10 year old self it was the bridge at the park down the street, where else? It does not end there, at twenty-two, he is still terrorizing me to this day. (My Dad, not The Goat Man.) Refer to the 1st sentence of this post if you need a reminder/nightmares/high electrcity bill from sleeping with the lights on.

It's even worse when my roomie isn't home, then and only then do I think that Scream is in my kitchen. Of course it's only the fridge kicking in to keep our beer cold, but the sheer fact that I can't pass it off as her making the noise when I'm not convinced it's the fridge, sets my mind racing. Oh my God I'm going to die! I'm not wearing matching socks and I'm going to die.  Should I get up and lock my bedroom door? Will he hear me lock the door? What's the point of locking the door? Buying me some more time to find a suitable weapon... like this bag of Nutter Butters I took to bed with me, or my alarm clock. I'm going to die.

I always check for murderers behind the shower curtain when I enter a bathroom. Pants down (see what I did there), that would be the worst time to be caught off guard. I never thought of it before, but why don't the helpless saps running from a man with a knife in a mask just wait for the killer to take a potty break? All of that running around must make you thirsty.


I wish I could get my Lucky Charms marshmallows and cereal to a nice 3:5 ratio. Probably my only goal for the day. It doesn't help that I'm not at work, but at home, sick and kind of feel like the little alien from Men In Black that's dying in the old man robot. I sound like him too...

But honestly, I wish the electricity would come back on soon. Mainly so we can finish the movie.

Control by MuteMath because this song always makes my world brighter.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

I've tried every karate move I know and still can not kill this mosquito

Two days in a row? Yes, I'm going to start off strong and then slowly decline and disappoint you all.

I forgot to mention one of my favorite parts about going Downtown/Uptown/wherever in a city: CAB DRIVERS. This is clearly dripping in sarcasm, so please read it as such. (Someone should invent a sarcasm font already.) Cab drivers have this wonderful talent for freaking me out.

Now, what made this pub crawl (in reference to the previous post) so great was that it included cab fare for us to get our drunk asses home. How thoughtful. Well, Lisa decided to use her cab fare to get TO the first bar, and met the sweetest cabdriver that completely broke every stereotype about cabdrivers. No, he wasn't. No, she didn't. She met a very self-righteous cabdriver that proceeded to scold her for going to a bar at noon on a Saturday. This taxi driver asked her if she was married, and when she said "No", he then told her that she would probably marry an alcoholic if she ever got married at all

Maybe this is what Lisa should've said, "No, I'm not married, I'm a hooker." Shock and awe might be my favorite kind of comeback. It's usually in retrospect, though. I guess I'm not ballsy enough to actually say what's rattling around in my head while the hilarity ensues.

* Can I side note and say that one of my life goals is to find The Cash Cab? He's out there. Probably not in Dallas, but the world goes around, so I'm optimistic.

That's usually the part where I turn to someone who is far more gutsy, or in this case drunk or maybe they're not too quick on the cause and effect flowchart of actions and consequences. Either way, I can tell them the wildly outrageous action I'm thinking and sit back and smile. "You should take that tire and this rope and tie it to a tree to make a swing.". It's like, "Smell this, I think it's gone bad."

I hate that game.

I'm pretty sure that's what little brothers are for anyways. That and coming up with zombie apocalypse scenario games. Now, I've played my fair share of Nazi Zombies and Call of Duty, usually out of sheer curiosity and a few times out of determination for redemption. The flamethrower is my weapon of choice, who doesn't want to see something set ablaze in a fiery triumph? Thought so.

My Call of Duty skills are less than... they're just "less than" even with said flamethrower. I spend too much time shouting obscenities at my guy that's helplessly trapped in a corner, jumping up and down while shooting at the sky. Kind of wish there were birds so I at least had a fair shot at hitting something.

Well, the Nazi zombies, brought up a wonderful dinner conversation one day. I decided to test the little brother's zombie readiness by telling him that he has to use the 5 random objects in our current location to defeat a wild pack of brain-eaters. He did alright with a box of toothpicks, a parrot, fig newtons, floss, and a Spice Girls cd. This has now become our thing.

We randomly text message each other an assortment of items, a location, time, weather conditions, and then we wait. We wait patiently and hope for the other's survival. It's kind of our way of saying we love each other without all the x's and o's. That and quoting Fantastic Mr. Fox.

It's really not fair to call the 16 year old boy wonder "little" when he's 6'4 and can crush a coke can just by looking at it.

Another way to show someone you love them? Only a real bestfriend goes to the gym with you and then convinces you to pour cake batter on the wafflemaker. For dinner. Yes, cakewaffles are delicious.

Oh, the mosquito? It's like I'm sharing a room with a kamikaze fighter pilot vampire.

DOA by The Foo Fighters because I miss the old Foo.