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