The awesome part about living in the middle of the desert? Not too many people can find you, unless you want them to. Which is actually really good for my social misfit-ness. Because, let's face it. If I were to live in the big city, I'd lose my mind with all of the noise and people and stuff, and my head would be all, What the fuck are we doing here? PACK YOUR SHIT. I WANNA GO HOME. So, aside from the godforsaken heat and occasional boob-sand (for all of you non-desert folk, that's sand that gets kicked up by the mysterious desert winds and manages to lodge itself inside the canyon that is your cleavage), my home pretty much kicks ass.
But there is one, horribly awful piece of awful-ness that isn't as tolerable as boob-sand and sun rays of death ... Shitty internet service. I've been living on my cell-phone's data plan for-fucking-ever, and I just couldn't take it anymore. Because there would be times when I'd be in the middle of typing a report for work, or writing a blog post, or surfing the internet for random cool shit like what ninjas do on vacation, and the whole goddamn signal would shut down and I'd lose everything, and I'd be all, whhhyyyyy?!?!?!?! And the cellphone data plan gods would be all, because fuck you, that's why. Or, there would be times when all the shit would work perfectly, and then ... I'd.fucking.run.out.of.data. And then I'd be all, nobody get on the internet for the next six days because we don't have any more data, and THEY WILL NOT GET OVERAGE CHARGES OUT OF ME.
And then I broke. Because as much as I'd like to think that I would love to live in Tombstone times, truth is that unless The Oriental had internet and refrigerated air, I'd be all, yo Doc, we gotta bounce. So I bought myself some wifi. And IT. IS. AWESOME.
When the internet installer guy came out to the house he was all, ok so where do you want your satellite? And I was all, where ever the hell you want to put it. And he was all, k, whatever. And I was all, yeah just make sure that motherfucker is wifi-ed up.
And then a little while later, it was all done, and the guy was like, k check your computer or your phone to see if it connects. And then I entered the code, and then I saw the wifi fan show up, and then I saw the fan start to light up, and I was all, SWEET MOTHER OF WIFI SIGNALS, IT LIVES. And then I kind of wanted to cry. And as I held back a sniffle, I softly whispered, I love you, Internets.
And now that I have wifi, I'm really looking forward to getting the Netflix. I've heard excellent things about it.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Saturday, July 26, 2014
You Will Never Win
Best friends keep you sane. And by keep you sane, I really mean, KEEP YOU FROM LOSING YOUR SHIT.
Because. They. Understand.
They understand when you tell them about how people insist on trying to talk to you from across the house and you can't hear a goddamn word, and so you yell, "WHAT?!" 13 fucking times until you realize THAT YOU WILL NEVER WIN, and get up from where you're sitting to go find out that the lamp in one of the bedrooms needs a new light bulb.
And then your best friend is all, don't feel bad dude, let me tell you about how every time I try to sit down and get work done at home, I put in my headphones, and people walk around and argue with each other and then whisper-yell, "sssshhhhh!! she's trying to work!!!"
Your best friend understands when you tell the story of when you and your cousin took your Grandma to go run errands and you realized that the elderly can fucking out-talk Oprah. BECAUSE THEY SAY WHATEVER THE SHIT IS ON THEIR MIND.
And then your best friend will be all, I know. I still get step-by-step directions on how to cook food. Literally. Step. By. Step. Because keeping my family alive for 15 years has convinced no one.
The BFF understands when you talk about how you don't have the vision of how shit should turn out, and somehow manage to fuck up the easiest parts of life.
And then the best friend is all, ok. chill the fuck out. you. are. not. alone. And then they go into the story of when they went out of town, somehow managed to end up lost, in the dark, in the shadiest part of the city, and got pulled over by the same cop. Twice. Within an hour. For forgetting to turn on the headlights.
And then when you leave, you just feel better. Better about yourself. Better about your friends. Better about life. Because everybody deals with shit. And everybody has people that drive them crazy but couldn't live without. And everybody's afraid that they're fucking shit up all the time. And everybody has a story that ends with "THIS IS BULLSHIT". But it's the bullshit that keeps things interesting and gives you stories to tell. So go on, people ... live your life. Survive the bullshit. Tell the tale. And when you feel like you're gonna lose your shit, call your BFF. They'll help. They always do.
Because. They. Understand.
They understand when you tell them about how people insist on trying to talk to you from across the house and you can't hear a goddamn word, and so you yell, "WHAT?!" 13 fucking times until you realize THAT YOU WILL NEVER WIN, and get up from where you're sitting to go find out that the lamp in one of the bedrooms needs a new light bulb.
And then your best friend is all, don't feel bad dude, let me tell you about how every time I try to sit down and get work done at home, I put in my headphones, and people walk around and argue with each other and then whisper-yell, "sssshhhhh!! she's trying to work!!!"
Your best friend understands when you tell the story of when you and your cousin took your Grandma to go run errands and you realized that the elderly can fucking out-talk Oprah. BECAUSE THEY SAY WHATEVER THE SHIT IS ON THEIR MIND.
And then your best friend will be all, I know. I still get step-by-step directions on how to cook food. Literally. Step. By. Step. Because keeping my family alive for 15 years has convinced no one.
The BFF understands when you talk about how you don't have the vision of how shit should turn out, and somehow manage to fuck up the easiest parts of life.
And then the best friend is all, ok. chill the fuck out. you. are. not. alone. And then they go into the story of when they went out of town, somehow managed to end up lost, in the dark, in the shadiest part of the city, and got pulled over by the same cop. Twice. Within an hour. For forgetting to turn on the headlights.
And then when you leave, you just feel better. Better about yourself. Better about your friends. Better about life. Because everybody deals with shit. And everybody has people that drive them crazy but couldn't live without. And everybody's afraid that they're fucking shit up all the time. And everybody has a story that ends with "THIS IS BULLSHIT". But it's the bullshit that keeps things interesting and gives you stories to tell. So go on, people ... live your life. Survive the bullshit. Tell the tale. And when you feel like you're gonna lose your shit, call your BFF. They'll help. They always do.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Mint Chocolate Chip. Always.
Ok. So I haven't written a post in a while. I know this. And I have no valid excuse other than to say that I've been on vacation, and my spirit has apparently shunned all forms of responsibility including, but not limited to: checking email, returning texts, watching the news, cooking valid meals, and plucking my eyebrows. But this morning, I finally did check my email because I was like, oh shit, work's probably gonna start again soon. I should probably check to make sure that it hasn't already started and that I haven't started off a new term with spectacular flakiness.
But, luckily, I haven't missed the opening day, but it is just around the corner. And my responsibility-shunning spirit, that had been so full of joy and had finally recovered from last year's sleep deprivation, wept a little and called the calendar a dream-killing douche-canoe. And then, the sadness and responsibility crept into my body like Emily Rose's demons, and I had the choice to stay my course, and get ready to go back to work, or leave and become a rodeo clown. But I didn't think that being a rodeo clown would pay all of my bills, and if you have to supply your own barrel, I'd be screwed anyway, so I accepted defeat, slowly slumped to the ground and whispered, I choose to stay.
On the upside, though, this summer I found out that my local Baskin-Robbins has a drive-thru. I'm pretty stoked about that.
But, luckily, I haven't missed the opening day, but it is just around the corner. And my responsibility-shunning spirit, that had been so full of joy and had finally recovered from last year's sleep deprivation, wept a little and called the calendar a dream-killing douche-canoe. And then, the sadness and responsibility crept into my body like Emily Rose's demons, and I had the choice to stay my course, and get ready to go back to work, or leave and become a rodeo clown. But I didn't think that being a rodeo clown would pay all of my bills, and if you have to supply your own barrel, I'd be screwed anyway, so I accepted defeat, slowly slumped to the ground and whispered, I choose to stay.
On the upside, though, this summer I found out that my local Baskin-Robbins has a drive-thru. I'm pretty stoked about that.
Friday, June 13, 2014
It's Like A Tattoo, Except Not Really
Yesterday was a big day. I got my very first pedicure. Ever. Of my whole life. I'm 31 years old, by the way. I had made it a goal for this summer to get a pedicure on account of the fact that I was pretty much the only person in my age-group, and possibly the planet, who had never been pedicured before. (I should probably explain here, that I had never gotten a pedicure until yesterday because I was completely terrified of it, and was sure that my feet would be all cut up and hurt, and then I'd be all, my nails are beautiful, but you can't tell on account of all the bandages and blood). And so my aunt was all don't worry, I'll make an appointment for you with my pedicure lady, and she did, and so it happened.
It was pretty awesome when it was all said and done, but I think I was seriously missing some pedicure etiquette or something like that, because it was kind of an awkward experience, and the lady was looking at me like I was completely stupid until I told her that I had never gotten a pedicure before, and she was all ohhhhhh, ok, no worries then, have a seat.
And I stood there. Like an idiot. Because I had no idea how to get in the chair. It's not like a normal chair, yo. There's a plate on the arm rest, and a bowl for your feet to cook in, and I kept looking all around the chair for some sort of step, or footplate, or some sort of sign that said, "GET IN THE CHAIR LIKE THIS, DUMBASS". But there wasn't one, so I had to look and the lady, and she was all, wow. you really haven't done this before. ok, get in the chair like this. She didn't call me a dumbass, but I figured it was implied.
After I got myself situated in the chair of clusterfuckness, I was told about the massage feature, and the lady said, ok, look, you can adjust it with these buttons here, however you want it. some people like the massage chair, some people don't. it's up to you, but let's try. And she turned it on, and the back and the sides of the chair started to expand and contract and started to suck me into the material, and it was like a total sensory overload, and I FLIPPED THE FUCK OUT. And the lady was super calm and was all, ok. we'll just turn the chair off for this one. And I was like, holy shit, that was a close call, thank you for not suffocating me with this chair of hideousness.
And then I was supposed to put my feet in the bowl to get boiled, which is apparently normal, but I was hesitant because I don't really think that feet should ever get boiled. And I was all, uh, is this safe? because I really need my feet for, you know, walking and general movement kind of purposes. And the lady was like, yes, it's safe. we're gonna soak your feet, not cook them. Again, she was too nice to call me a dumbass, but I figured it was implied.
Anyway, when I finally did get my feet soaked and massaged by water jets of awesomeness, it was fucking glorious, and I was all, sweet baby Jesus, WHY have I never done this before?! And just as I was starting to relax, the lady opened up a box full of mysteries, and pulled out more metal instruments than the fucking dentist. And my brain was all, shit. that's how they do this. they trick you with the water jets, and then pull out the instruments of torture, and you're screwed because you can't move because the chair is closed around you, and your feet are in a bowl of slipperiness that'll break your face as you fall while trying to escape. And as I faced the inevitable, I looked at the chair of entrapment like, well played, asshole. well played.
But as it turned out, the tools were for beautifying, not torturing, and that shit didn't hurt a bit. The lady did ask why my nails were so short, and I explained that I had cut them myself the day before because I didn't know if that was part of the pedicure process. And she smiled, and said, yes. yes it is. I can take care of that for you next time. And again, she was too nice to call me a dumbass, but I figured it was implied.
So, a file and a sugar scrub later, shit was finally normal again, and I picked the polish, and it was done. And it was awesome. My younger cousin was right -- once you get one pedicure, you're gonna be hooked. I kind of equate it to a tattoo, that way. Except my tattoo was painful, and there are no water jets of awesomeness at that place.
It was pretty awesome when it was all said and done, but I think I was seriously missing some pedicure etiquette or something like that, because it was kind of an awkward experience, and the lady was looking at me like I was completely stupid until I told her that I had never gotten a pedicure before, and she was all ohhhhhh, ok, no worries then, have a seat.
And I stood there. Like an idiot. Because I had no idea how to get in the chair. It's not like a normal chair, yo. There's a plate on the arm rest, and a bowl for your feet to cook in, and I kept looking all around the chair for some sort of step, or footplate, or some sort of sign that said, "GET IN THE CHAIR LIKE THIS, DUMBASS". But there wasn't one, so I had to look and the lady, and she was all, wow. you really haven't done this before. ok, get in the chair like this. She didn't call me a dumbass, but I figured it was implied.
After I got myself situated in the chair of clusterfuckness, I was told about the massage feature, and the lady said, ok, look, you can adjust it with these buttons here, however you want it. some people like the massage chair, some people don't. it's up to you, but let's try. And she turned it on, and the back and the sides of the chair started to expand and contract and started to suck me into the material, and it was like a total sensory overload, and I FLIPPED THE FUCK OUT. And the lady was super calm and was all, ok. we'll just turn the chair off for this one. And I was like, holy shit, that was a close call, thank you for not suffocating me with this chair of hideousness.
And then I was supposed to put my feet in the bowl to get boiled, which is apparently normal, but I was hesitant because I don't really think that feet should ever get boiled. And I was all, uh, is this safe? because I really need my feet for, you know, walking and general movement kind of purposes. And the lady was like, yes, it's safe. we're gonna soak your feet, not cook them. Again, she was too nice to call me a dumbass, but I figured it was implied.
Anyway, when I finally did get my feet soaked and massaged by water jets of awesomeness, it was fucking glorious, and I was all, sweet baby Jesus, WHY have I never done this before?! And just as I was starting to relax, the lady opened up a box full of mysteries, and pulled out more metal instruments than the fucking dentist. And my brain was all, shit. that's how they do this. they trick you with the water jets, and then pull out the instruments of torture, and you're screwed because you can't move because the chair is closed around you, and your feet are in a bowl of slipperiness that'll break your face as you fall while trying to escape. And as I faced the inevitable, I looked at the chair of entrapment like, well played, asshole. well played.
But as it turned out, the tools were for beautifying, not torturing, and that shit didn't hurt a bit. The lady did ask why my nails were so short, and I explained that I had cut them myself the day before because I didn't know if that was part of the pedicure process. And she smiled, and said, yes. yes it is. I can take care of that for you next time. And again, she was too nice to call me a dumbass, but I figured it was implied.
So, a file and a sugar scrub later, shit was finally normal again, and I picked the polish, and it was done. And it was awesome. My younger cousin was right -- once you get one pedicure, you're gonna be hooked. I kind of equate it to a tattoo, that way. Except my tattoo was painful, and there are no water jets of awesomeness at that place.
 |
| These are my toes. They didn't get boiled. |
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
You're A Real Motherfucker, Candy Crush
I stopped playing Candy Crush a few months ago. Actually ... a LOT of months ago. And I kind of forgot why, so I opened up the app today to play a round, and it took me all of 3 minutes to remember that the game is an asshole that wants to steal my joy. And possibly murder puppies and Santa Claus.
Here's how the shit went down ....
Here we go! ... Some candy crushin' bout to start in here.
Ohhhh. That's the level that I left on.
Fuuuuuccckkkk. Yeah, I remember this level now.
Sonofabitch, with the stripes. Dammitt!! I forgot that I needed a million of the stupid stripes!
Aaaarrrggghhh!!!!! I ran out of moves!
Shit. Try again.
Shit. Try again.
Shit. Try again.
Shit. Try again.
Ok, it's gonna happen this time. It's gotta happen.
Fuck.
What the shit, Candy Crush? Why are you making stripes impossible?
Fuck you, bombs! I don't need bombs! I. NEED. STRIPES.
Holy shit! I only need one more!!!!
One more, bitch! Ha! Who's the dumbass now, Candy Crush?!
The fuck? No. Why is it over? I only needed one more. I didn't get it yet. This shouldn't be over yet.
What the hell just happened?
I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
Oh, here it is.
Zero moves left. One stripe to go.
Shit. Try again.
(Time to next life: 16:37)
You're a real motherfucker, Candy Crush.
Here's how the shit went down ....
Here we go! ... Some candy crushin' bout to start in here.
Ohhhh. That's the level that I left on.
Fuuuuuccckkkk. Yeah, I remember this level now.
Sonofabitch, with the stripes. Dammitt!! I forgot that I needed a million of the stupid stripes!
Aaaarrrggghhh!!!!! I ran out of moves!
Shit. Try again.
Shit. Try again.
Shit. Try again.
Shit. Try again.
Ok, it's gonna happen this time. It's gotta happen.
Fuck.
What the shit, Candy Crush? Why are you making stripes impossible?
Fuck you, bombs! I don't need bombs! I. NEED. STRIPES.
Holy shit! I only need one more!!!!
One more, bitch! Ha! Who's the dumbass now, Candy Crush?!
The fuck? No. Why is it over? I only needed one more. I didn't get it yet. This shouldn't be over yet.
What the hell just happened?
I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
Oh, here it is.
Zero moves left. One stripe to go.
Shit. Try again.
(Time to next life: 16:37)
You're a real motherfucker, Candy Crush.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Cyndi Lauper, Captain Hook, and John McClane
Confession: I am HORRIBLE at remembering people's names. Basically, unless I literally hear your name every day, or I've known you my whole life, it's gonna take a few minutes for your name to come to mind. BUT ... I can remember a face forever. And so, what eventually happens is that I can remember what people look like, or who they remind me of, or something unique that they did, but not their name, and so when I need to tell another person about them, I usually end up saying shit like ...
Dammit. I forgot to get that printout from Cyndi Lauper.
Or the guy from the Christmas party that got drunk and busted out moves nobody ever even knew he had ... Hey, have you heard from Michael Jackson lately?
Sonofabitch, I have to go to the main offices, and my report was late. Voldemort is gonna totally avada kedavra my ass.
Shit. I locked myself out of the office. Can you call John McClane to come let me in?
But the awkward part is that nobody else usually knows who I'm referring to because they're all better at remembering people than I am. So when I ask about where the hell Captain Hook left the toner for the copy machine, I usually get horrified looks from people, and they say, "You mean Steve?? Uh, he went to go unlock the supply room with the master key". And I'm all, "wtf? what happened to John McClane?" And they're like, "Um, ok, John McClane is, in fact, Carlos, and he only has the master key for the outlying buildings." And I'm all, "ohhhhh, ok, got it. but, John McClane always unlocks my door for me when I forget the key, and I'm not in the outlying buildings." And they're like, "Because Carlos always goes to get the key for you from Steve." And I'm like, "who?" And they're all, "Captain Hook. John McClane always goes to get the key for you from Captain Hook." And I'm like, "Ohhhhh, ok, perfect. I get it now. You gotta use the right names, otherwise nobody'll know who the hell you're talking about."
Monday, May 26, 2014
Tip Your Hats, Y'all
Happy Memorial Day, folks. No jokes or smart-ass comments from me today. Just sincere respect and gratitude for the men and women who serve(d) this awesome country of ours. Because only here would I get to live the life that I love, with the people that I love, and be a part of this blog with you, and enjoy the seemingly stupid, simple pleasures that we often take for granted. So thank a soldier today. And if you don't happen to see one, then just send a silent thanks up into the universe, take a quiet minute, and watch it radiate through the atmosphere.
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