Sick of borrowing shoddy Internet from my neighbors I went out and purchased a wireless router yesterday. And I swear “tech” sales people are the most misogynistic guys around, I get more respect from mechanics. I get asked about 30 times if I was sure that I could do this myself, and if I was comfortable using computers? The manager highly suggested I get the inhome installation so that they could set up security, after all they were “certified.” He looked very skeptical that I could set it up without help.
After taking five minutes to set the whole thing up I’m pretty sure a retarded monkey could get certified. You plug a freakin cord in and then you run a CD. Why the hell would I pay $100 for some greasy-faced asshole to invade my home to do this?
But I now have Internet so I’m happy, no more websites crashing just as I’m paying a bill, no more gmail chat kicking me off just when a friend is about to say something interesting, and finally being able to quickly download porn, I must watch two girls one cup again with out it starting and stopping so often — I feel like I missed parts.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I'm ready for my close up
So Friday, after the debacle that was my flat tire, I came into work thoroughly wind blown and frazzled. Instead of getting to work I decided I needed some cookies and some Internet surfing time.
As I was sitting at my desk drinking a coke and munching on Oreos (no I did not dunk them in the coke and I don’t twist the tops off either) I saw the editor and the photographer talking. I heard my name come up and then they both turned to look at me.
“Colleen has a lot of hair,” this coming from my editor.
Now I was confused, the quantity of my hair has never come up in conversation with either of these two before, actually we’ve never discussed anything with regards to my hair before (which I think is for the best). Then I find out that they need a model for next week’s issue and the criterion is: a lot of hair.
Also I think they wanted cheap and easy, wait that doesn't sound good.
So I head down to the “studio” (a little nook by the break room where we have to move around a big table and chairs) and for the next hour the photographer (who is a really cool guy but I’m pretty sure he was laughing at me the whole time) had me flip my hair around while trying to stick out my hip, and curve my torso in a way that is physically impossible. Needless to say I almost fell down a half dozen times and afterwards I was very dizzy.
But Monday came and apparently the pictures just didn’t work. So off to the “studio” again, but this time not only was the photographer there but the editor and the art director joined as well. Good times.
Actually in the end it was quite fun, except for the slightly tweaked neck, and I’m officially a cover model.
OK so you can’t tell it’s me, but in general I think that’s for the best. And the story is about being in debt so it also kind of fits.
As I was sitting at my desk drinking a coke and munching on Oreos (no I did not dunk them in the coke and I don’t twist the tops off either) I saw the editor and the photographer talking. I heard my name come up and then they both turned to look at me.
“Colleen has a lot of hair,” this coming from my editor.
Now I was confused, the quantity of my hair has never come up in conversation with either of these two before, actually we’ve never discussed anything with regards to my hair before (which I think is for the best). Then I find out that they need a model for next week’s issue and the criterion is: a lot of hair.
Also I think they wanted cheap and easy, wait that doesn't sound good.
So I head down to the “studio” (a little nook by the break room where we have to move around a big table and chairs) and for the next hour the photographer (who is a really cool guy but I’m pretty sure he was laughing at me the whole time) had me flip my hair around while trying to stick out my hip, and curve my torso in a way that is physically impossible. Needless to say I almost fell down a half dozen times and afterwards I was very dizzy.
But Monday came and apparently the pictures just didn’t work. So off to the “studio” again, but this time not only was the photographer there but the editor and the art director joined as well. Good times.
Actually in the end it was quite fun, except for the slightly tweaked neck, and I’m officially a cover model.
OK so you can’t tell it’s me, but in general I think that’s for the best. And the story is about being in debt so it also kind of fits.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Eleven years and counting
Saturday was my high school reunion, my eleven-year high school reunion. Sure most schools do 10 years but our class couldn't get our act together last year so it was slightly delayed.
I guess our class was always a bunch of slackers. During rallies and football games barely anyone showed up. And as a class that started with about 500 students our freshman year we ended with a little over 250. Not the best matriculation rate.
I guess any reunion is weird. What do you have in common with these people anymore? I have to admit though that there were a lot of really cool people that I never talked to in high school that I really enjoyed hanging out with last night.
Basically we went to a local pizza parlor and had pizza and beers for a couple of hours out on the patio. I was surprised at how many people had kids. I was really surprised to learn that one couple (who got married right after school) was expecting their fifth child.
It was really interesting to see what people were doing now, and how you would never have thought that a decade ago. One classmate, whom I had attended elementary school with) had become a luchadore (masked Mexican wrestler) for eight years (or that’s what he said and if he made it up kudos for a great story), one of the artiest girls ever turned into an engineer and there was a guy who laid oil pipelines down in Peru.
Later in the night, the families took off and a bunch of us headed down the block to what I’m sure is California’s last saloon. Boots hung from the ceiling and there were a lot of wranglers packed onto the stools. The AC didn’t work but the beers were cold and the patio was pretty nice by then.
Outside poor Deb was hassled by an old classmate, and my two other compatriots were tired so they took off. I stayed until a little after midnight hanging out with people I hadn’t talked to since the ’90s.
As I drove home I got a text that asked, “One more drink?”
And there’s always room for one more, so I changed course and headed to a local bar. That last one definitely put me over and I woke in a bit of pain this morning, but I guess reunions should not be done sober anyways.
I guess our class was always a bunch of slackers. During rallies and football games barely anyone showed up. And as a class that started with about 500 students our freshman year we ended with a little over 250. Not the best matriculation rate.
I guess any reunion is weird. What do you have in common with these people anymore? I have to admit though that there were a lot of really cool people that I never talked to in high school that I really enjoyed hanging out with last night.
Basically we went to a local pizza parlor and had pizza and beers for a couple of hours out on the patio. I was surprised at how many people had kids. I was really surprised to learn that one couple (who got married right after school) was expecting their fifth child.
It was really interesting to see what people were doing now, and how you would never have thought that a decade ago. One classmate, whom I had attended elementary school with) had become a luchadore (masked Mexican wrestler) for eight years (or that’s what he said and if he made it up kudos for a great story), one of the artiest girls ever turned into an engineer and there was a guy who laid oil pipelines down in Peru.
Later in the night, the families took off and a bunch of us headed down the block to what I’m sure is California’s last saloon. Boots hung from the ceiling and there were a lot of wranglers packed onto the stools. The AC didn’t work but the beers were cold and the patio was pretty nice by then.
Outside poor Deb was hassled by an old classmate, and my two other compatriots were tired so they took off. I stayed until a little after midnight hanging out with people I hadn’t talked to since the ’90s.
As I drove home I got a text that asked, “One more drink?”
And there’s always room for one more, so I changed course and headed to a local bar. That last one definitely put me over and I woke in a bit of pain this morning, but I guess reunions should not be done sober anyways.
Friday, June 20, 2008
And so it continues
I was driving to work, almost obeying the posted speed limit, thinking about everything I needed to get done today when a car pulls up next to me and the woman in the passenger seat starts gesturing wildly. I stared blankly back at her until she rolled down her window and informs me I have a flat tire.
Excellent, so I moved into the slow lane looking for a turn off when I hear a loud pop and my car pulls to the left. Well shit, I pull over on to the shoulder and shake my head. There’s something about me and freeways — I just like to be stranded on them. And I was only about five minutes away from work.
To top it all off I left my cell phone at home, this is the second time I’ve forgotten my cell phone and I’ve been stuck on a major freeway. Last time the accident was decent enough that a couple of cars stopped and called the police, this time I had to hoof it to the nearest call box, about a half mile behind me, and there was an exit in my path so I had to do a little traffic dodging. It was also about a thousand degrees out with gale force winds (or that could have just been the semis hauling ass past me).
I got to the call box and I talked to the nice lady who I’m pretty sure thought I’m an idiot for forgetting my cell phone, not having AAA and not knowing anyone’s phone number that could come and help. In my defense I do know two numbers; one is my old roommate from college who lives in San Diego and the other is my old boyfriend who probably wouldn’t appreciate the call. Note to self: try to memorize work’s number and that of at least one person who lives in San Jose. But at least a tow truck was on its way.
So I start my trek back to my car when I hear a honk behind me, and the slowing down of a car. I look back and it’s an old, faded green Chevy Astro Van. Now as a horror movie aficionado I should know better than to get anywhere near this guy, instead I basically skip over there and ask him what’s up. He was just being nice and offering to help but I told him I had a tow coming. Right as he was about to take off, a cop (with lights on) pulls up in front of us. I keep walking and the cop get out of his car and tells me to stop right there.
At this point I’m a bit confused as to why I’ve been told to stop but I do it because I’m not completely retarded. He then looks at the van, which suddenly decides to take off, and back at me.
“Where are you coming from?”
I laugh and tell him the car behind him, then go on to explain that I had to walk to the call box and that the guy in the van had just pulled over to be nice. I don’t think he believed me.
He then says that he’ll drive me back to my car as it is safer (my car is a good 200 yards away) but there is AC in his car so I’m excited. As we are about to take off the radio blares a thousand different codes. The officer then speaks for about five minutes with maybe two intelligible words spoken, which I translate into meaning “I’m taking a girl to her car.”
When we get there he talks code into his walkie talkie again, which I assume means, “We got there.”
Afterwards he tells me that whenever an officer transports a female they have to report the exact mileage he takes her, and that there had been incidents in the past. That didn’t really make me feel better. After about 20 minutes of sporadic, awkward conversation (he felt bad about leaving me on the side of the road) the tow truck shows up.
Now I’m kind of living out of my car right now, so to get to my extra tire I have to move the contents of my trunk into my back seat and the Bruce (the tow truck driver) is not amused. So about ten minutes later he gets started. And $70 later he finishes.
And I’m off to work two hours late — again.
Excellent, so I moved into the slow lane looking for a turn off when I hear a loud pop and my car pulls to the left. Well shit, I pull over on to the shoulder and shake my head. There’s something about me and freeways — I just like to be stranded on them. And I was only about five minutes away from work.
To top it all off I left my cell phone at home, this is the second time I’ve forgotten my cell phone and I’ve been stuck on a major freeway. Last time the accident was decent enough that a couple of cars stopped and called the police, this time I had to hoof it to the nearest call box, about a half mile behind me, and there was an exit in my path so I had to do a little traffic dodging. It was also about a thousand degrees out with gale force winds (or that could have just been the semis hauling ass past me).
I got to the call box and I talked to the nice lady who I’m pretty sure thought I’m an idiot for forgetting my cell phone, not having AAA and not knowing anyone’s phone number that could come and help. In my defense I do know two numbers; one is my old roommate from college who lives in San Diego and the other is my old boyfriend who probably wouldn’t appreciate the call. Note to self: try to memorize work’s number and that of at least one person who lives in San Jose. But at least a tow truck was on its way.
So I start my trek back to my car when I hear a honk behind me, and the slowing down of a car. I look back and it’s an old, faded green Chevy Astro Van. Now as a horror movie aficionado I should know better than to get anywhere near this guy, instead I basically skip over there and ask him what’s up. He was just being nice and offering to help but I told him I had a tow coming. Right as he was about to take off, a cop (with lights on) pulls up in front of us. I keep walking and the cop get out of his car and tells me to stop right there.
At this point I’m a bit confused as to why I’ve been told to stop but I do it because I’m not completely retarded. He then looks at the van, which suddenly decides to take off, and back at me.
“Where are you coming from?”
I laugh and tell him the car behind him, then go on to explain that I had to walk to the call box and that the guy in the van had just pulled over to be nice. I don’t think he believed me.
He then says that he’ll drive me back to my car as it is safer (my car is a good 200 yards away) but there is AC in his car so I’m excited. As we are about to take off the radio blares a thousand different codes. The officer then speaks for about five minutes with maybe two intelligible words spoken, which I translate into meaning “I’m taking a girl to her car.”
When we get there he talks code into his walkie talkie again, which I assume means, “We got there.”
Afterwards he tells me that whenever an officer transports a female they have to report the exact mileage he takes her, and that there had been incidents in the past. That didn’t really make me feel better. After about 20 minutes of sporadic, awkward conversation (he felt bad about leaving me on the side of the road) the tow truck shows up.
Now I’m kind of living out of my car right now, so to get to my extra tire I have to move the contents of my trunk into my back seat and the Bruce (the tow truck driver) is not amused. So about ten minutes later he gets started. And $70 later he finishes.
And I’m off to work two hours late — again.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
I am lame
The day didn’t start off that bad. Ok I was two hours late to work but I don’t think anyone noticed, but it was all downhill from there. I decided that I wanted a burrito for lunch, so I got one that had everything in it and brought it back to the office. I then managed to spill its entire contents (chicken, beans, rice, sour cream, cheese and guacamole) all down the front of my pants. Not a pretty look. So I head down to the bathroom and try to clean it all off in the sink, frantically rubbing at my crotch as some older lady walks in pauses, gives me an odd look, then scurries into one of the stalls and hides there until I leave. I then go back to my desk in noticeably soaking wet pants.
I had plans with some friends later in the day so to kill time after work I decided to walk around downtown. As I head back to my car around 6:30, I see one of my coworkers taking off and he mentions that he set the alarm. I get to my car and realize that I don’t have my keys. I dump my purse on to my trunk convinced that maybe the keys were hiding behind that empty pack of orbitz bubblemint gum, but to no avail. Yep, they are sitting on my desk, locked in the office and protected by an alarm that I don’t have the code to. Wonderful. I vow (and I'm pretty sure this isn't the first time I've made this promise) to have an extra set of keys surgically implanted in my arm.
So I wait around for another hour for my friend to pick me up, by this time I’m hot and sweaty, pretty sure I don’t smell that great and my shoes, which are not made for walking, are pinching the living shit out of my poor toes. I’m standing outside and about every 30 seconds some guy drives by in some '80s POS, sporting a wife beater and decides to boost my self esteem by yelling or whistling at me, good times (one guy was kind enough to drive by three times). Finally my friend picked me up and we headed to dinner.
The next day I actually caught a few breaks.
I took the bus to work and it was spare the air day so the bus ride was free (took about 40 minutes though). And I like taking the bus, people watching on the bus is fun, staring at all the carefully blank faces wondering if they actually have personalities under those facades. There didn’t seem to be any fellow walk of shamers, but as I took a shower that morning I don’t think I was that obvious either.
My shoes continued to torture my feet on my mile walk from the bus stop to the office but thankfully I’m a chick and can usually push through footwear pains as long as the shoes are kind of cute.
Of course I felt like everyone I passed knew that these were the clothes from yesterday, I could feel the judgment radiating off the homeless man at Market and Santa Clara Street. Walking in the office I just kept my head down and ran for my desk. Thankfully I think most people think the editorial group is kind of odd anyways so I doubt anyone gave me a second look.
When I got to my desk, there they were. My keys were sitting on my notepad, all shiny and unused. Also I found that my boss is out for the day so I didn’t have to explain how retarded I am to him, which is good since he would point and laugh all day because that’s just who he is.
And to top it all off I had a change of clothes in my car and I found $3 in the parking lot! Yay me!
I had plans with some friends later in the day so to kill time after work I decided to walk around downtown. As I head back to my car around 6:30, I see one of my coworkers taking off and he mentions that he set the alarm. I get to my car and realize that I don’t have my keys. I dump my purse on to my trunk convinced that maybe the keys were hiding behind that empty pack of orbitz bubblemint gum, but to no avail. Yep, they are sitting on my desk, locked in the office and protected by an alarm that I don’t have the code to. Wonderful. I vow (and I'm pretty sure this isn't the first time I've made this promise) to have an extra set of keys surgically implanted in my arm.
So I wait around for another hour for my friend to pick me up, by this time I’m hot and sweaty, pretty sure I don’t smell that great and my shoes, which are not made for walking, are pinching the living shit out of my poor toes. I’m standing outside and about every 30 seconds some guy drives by in some '80s POS, sporting a wife beater and decides to boost my self esteem by yelling or whistling at me, good times (one guy was kind enough to drive by three times). Finally my friend picked me up and we headed to dinner.
The next day I actually caught a few breaks.
I took the bus to work and it was spare the air day so the bus ride was free (took about 40 minutes though). And I like taking the bus, people watching on the bus is fun, staring at all the carefully blank faces wondering if they actually have personalities under those facades. There didn’t seem to be any fellow walk of shamers, but as I took a shower that morning I don’t think I was that obvious either.
My shoes continued to torture my feet on my mile walk from the bus stop to the office but thankfully I’m a chick and can usually push through footwear pains as long as the shoes are kind of cute.
Of course I felt like everyone I passed knew that these were the clothes from yesterday, I could feel the judgment radiating off the homeless man at Market and Santa Clara Street. Walking in the office I just kept my head down and ran for my desk. Thankfully I think most people think the editorial group is kind of odd anyways so I doubt anyone gave me a second look.
When I got to my desk, there they were. My keys were sitting on my notepad, all shiny and unused. Also I found that my boss is out for the day so I didn’t have to explain how retarded I am to him, which is good since he would point and laugh all day because that’s just who he is.
And to top it all off I had a change of clothes in my car and I found $3 in the parking lot! Yay me!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Parking tickets
I have this thing with parking tickets, I seem to collect them. I have three outstanding ones in San Mateo, San Jose (ok two in San Jose) and now, as of tonight, one in Walnut Creek. That's three different sections of the Bay Area, some that are separated by a bridge. Sure I would pay them but the moment after I get said parking ticket the stub seems to disappear. And it's not like I'm trying to not park correctly, but 2 hours tends to just fly by and I run out to my car to find that stupid white little envelope there. I wonder what would happen if I never paid them? Would they stick one of those boots on my car? How many tickets do you have to get before that happens? Because technically I'm at four. And is it per city or do you think they team up? And who keeps a meter running til 11 p.m. anyways that is just ridiculous. I think I'll just keep them in a drawer with my rejection letters for those days when I get too full of myself. Maybe this is just my version of civil disobediance, yep I'm protesting the disillusionment of the x/y generation with big government and their need to control every aspect of our lives by not paying my parking ticket. It's either that, or I'm lazy.
Monday, June 16, 2008
A challenge
I was 16 or 17 and this guy pulled into the gas station where I was filling up my extremely beat up Honda (back then I would pay for gas in change from the tips I made as a barista from a little coffee shop called Mocha Lisa, which has long gone out of business). But behind his pickup on a flatbed was this beautiful orange car. Sure it was faded and dusty and the tires were flat but you could tell it had potential. It just looked like it would be so much fun to drive. It was a 1970 Challenger and they have been one of my favorite cars ever since.The owner came up asked me if I liked muscle cars. I didn’t know too much about them but like every other American I was a fan of early model mustangs. We then stood around as he talked about muscle cars and I decided that sometime in the future I was sooo going to get me one.
I still love cars but I know basically nothing about what goes on under the hood. Sure I can change the oil and tires but that’s about it (and if given the chance I don’t do those things). So the newer model of muscle cars that pay homage to their loud, heavy and fast ancestors, but also come with warrantees, are very tempting. And when I heard that Dodge was coming out with a new Challenger I knew I would want one. But I was a little worried; the new Charger leaves a lot to be desired.
So I was both delighted and saddened when I first saw the 2008 Challenger. It looks beautiful, its can get to 60 in 5, has a SRT-8 6.1L Hemi and it corners extremely tight. But the 2008 only comes in an automatic and of course the gas mileage is a bitch.
I mean what the hell!?!
I thought GM was the only company that was douchey enough to make fun cars minus the stick (I’m looking at you corvette, and no tiptronic does not count).
Ok so Dodge is already addressing the manual issue by giving the 2009 Hemi version the option of a 6 speed manual transmission. And the top of the line 6.1L Hemi will have an impressive 425-horse power under the hood so you really can’t bitch too much at that. But do I really have to wait another year? Not that I can afford the $40,000 price tag now or in a year but who cares, that’s what loans are for.
And it just looks so freaking hot. I want one (of the 2009 anyways the 2008 were all preordered).
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The bad guy
Do you ever wonder: If my life was a movie what type of character would I be? First you have to figure out what genre you are in. Scifi/horror? Sadly, although it's my favorite, my life doesn't fall into that category (no aliens or knife wielding maniacs). Drama? Nope, although if I started fainting more maybe. So probably comedy, I get a laugh out of it anyways.
Next you go through the lists of your accomplishments. And it's not like you've ever killed anyone, but you start to realize that you aren't the hero. No you aren't even her frazzled hair friend that always makes witty comments, nope there's a good chance that you are the bad guy.
You go through the events that have led you up to where you are now, and yep it's true. That if people were watching your life they are probably wishing bad things on you and laughing when you inadvertently fall down the stairs. And you're not even a good villain, you're more one of those ones that no one is scared of, the ones that are laughably pathetic (in, hopefully, a slightly funny way).
Which is sad because I used to always think that if I got a chance to pick any role in a movie I would be the bad guy. they always seemed to have way more fun and they got really cool death scenes.
But to this I say no more. I think it might be time to truly explore my evil side. That's right no more rinsing dishes before they go in the dishwasher and I'm never letting anyone merge in front of me again.
Next you go through the lists of your accomplishments. And it's not like you've ever killed anyone, but you start to realize that you aren't the hero. No you aren't even her frazzled hair friend that always makes witty comments, nope there's a good chance that you are the bad guy.
You go through the events that have led you up to where you are now, and yep it's true. That if people were watching your life they are probably wishing bad things on you and laughing when you inadvertently fall down the stairs. And you're not even a good villain, you're more one of those ones that no one is scared of, the ones that are laughably pathetic (in, hopefully, a slightly funny way).
Which is sad because I used to always think that if I got a chance to pick any role in a movie I would be the bad guy. they always seemed to have way more fun and they got really cool death scenes.
But to this I say no more. I think it might be time to truly explore my evil side. That's right no more rinsing dishes before they go in the dishwasher and I'm never letting anyone merge in front of me again.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Children
I've heard that caring for other people's children is the best birth control and I must say it is totally true. After a weekend with my sister's kids, whom I love, I'm very sure that I am not quite ready to have my own. I do want kids but just not any time soon.
And right now I'm in Utah where I'm pretty sure everyone has five kids and is expecting the sixth to pop out any time soon. Everyone looks tired. Almost makes one never want to have sex ever again just to be on the safe side — almost.
But to be honest I do like her kids they can be so sweet and cute. And even when they are being evil I can't seem to get mad at them, of course this is probably just guilt because I rarely get to see them, because well they live in Utah and it scares me out here.
And right now I'm in Utah where I'm pretty sure everyone has five kids and is expecting the sixth to pop out any time soon. Everyone looks tired. Almost makes one never want to have sex ever again just to be on the safe side — almost.
But to be honest I do like her kids they can be so sweet and cute. And even when they are being evil I can't seem to get mad at them, of course this is probably just guilt because I rarely get to see them, because well they live in Utah and it scares me out here.
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