Sharp objects

Now I’ve been trawling the Internet for years. I love all the hate and snarkiness. One of my favorite comments on forums is about skinny girls and their sharp knees. Bag of antlers is another favorite. I don’t know who came up with it but it’s great, have you seen those scrawny bitches? They really do look like a big skin colored bag was pulled over a plethora of antlers.

I like making fun of people that probably have eating disorders.

And this makes me quite the hypocrite. Because I’m 5’7” and barely over 100 lbs. I’ve always been tiny, but never thought of myself as a bag of antlers.

That is until this last week when proof was given to me, beyond a shadow of a doubt that in fact I am not a human female and instead I truly am a bag of sharp, pointy antlers.

I came to this conclusion because I don’t have any furniture, so I’ve been sleeping on an air mattress (yep I’ve been basically camping in the new place) and every night it deflates at least four times. My coworker, sick of me bitching about it, dragged my lazy ass to the bike shop and made me buy a patch kit. That was last Tuesday.

The mattress is now so covered with black patches it looks like it has the bubonic plague. And I’ve used up all the glue. I think I might have to switch to silvery, magical duct tape, because that fixes everything.

And still every night there has been a new freaking hole. So that means that at night some needle sharp appendage of mine punctures the mattress sending me slowly to the floor.

Every night.

Hence: bag of antlers. But I hear that look is hot so I’m good.

Mating habits of automobiles

For some reason I just haven’t been having the best of luck with cars this year. Maybe life is telling me I should ride a bike or take the bus. But within the last year I got stranded on the freeway at 2 a.m. (in complete zombie make up and no it wasn’t Halloween, why?) because something in the transmission sheared off and destroyed the drive shaft, killed the battery, I totaled my car (on the freeway yet again and they had to stop all four lanes of traffic too), bought a slightly sketchy used car, had the engine light turn on the next day, and got a flat on the freeway (for which I had no jack, I really seem to love these freeways).

So today as I’m headed to work I wasn’t totally shocked to see that my bumper was about three inches lower than it should be. It looked about ready to fall off; if I had some duct tape I would have used it. I’m guessing from the paint scratches on top of the bumper that some big truck or SUV tried to mount my little Honda in a fit of lust and proceeded to bang the bumper off.

So instead of buying shoes that fit I’m off to get my car repaired … again.

Who came up with line dancing anyways?

I went out with a couple of friends on Saturday night. They wanted to go country dancing and the only place even remotely in the area is the Saddle Rack (twenty minutes away, which means I have to drive, and can’t drink, much, which makes the country bar lame). It’s actually quite huge with two dance floors, a billiards room, two bars, a beer station and an oxygen bar (because when I think cowboy I think oxygen bar).

For about two years in high school I went through a country faze so I knew about every seventh song, but none of the synchronized dances. Although they did have the electric slide, which thanks to many weddings and school functions I still know. And the floor was packed, for some odd reason it was short person night so when I glanced around it was a sea of bad highlights and cheap cowboy hats. I got many glares because I have ADD and got bored with the electric slide about two steps in and just started twirling (towards freedom). This is not the thing to do, people their take their electric sliding very seriously.

The other thing about the bar was that they play slow songs, which sucks because then people ask you to dance. I had to turn down at least three AARP card carrying members, one of which I’m pretty sure was wheeling around his oxygen tank with him, as well as a guy that came up to my waist. A friend later said I was cold to do this, but I saw those guys going around to every girl in the joint with a pulse, I wasn’t special to them, and I’m looking for something meaningful not just once around the dance floor (total lie).

It did feel more like a high school dance than other clubs. When Footloose came on everyone ran onto the dance floor and proceeded to jump around all landing on my feet. Old Time Rock n' Roll was another favorite as was Ring of Fire, seriously people got extremely excited for badly sung Johnny Cash covers, I mean I think one guy was screaming and crying at one point. Everyone in there was part of a birthday/bachelorette/bachelor party, I have never seen so many sashes sans swim suit contest in one night.

The age range in the place was different than most places. There were people in their early 20s to late 80s (yep those were the bastards trawling for chicks too) there. I got ran over by some old man in his wheel chair on the dance floor. As I checked out the tread marks on my back I swear I heard him yell, “Get off my lawn!”

Tolerance and shoes

It’s official I have lost my once amazing alcohol tolerance. And by amazing I mean back in college I could put back a whole six pack (yep that’s right be amazed) within 6 hours and not feel ill the next day.

I recently found I couldn’t do that anymore. The other night I went out with a friend, I had one gin and tonic and another beer and a half, in the span of five hours and I was spinning. And the next morning I awoke to a pounding head and rolling stomach. What the hell?

But I’ve decided instead of getting upset about this and drinking myself into oblivion (half a beer), I will take this as my body’s way of trying to save money. No longer will I have to buy a bunch of beers to get a good buzz, nope instead I can just smell my friends’ beverage and be on my merry way.

Anyways on to the night of my pathetic showing. We started out at a rather trendy bar near my place, where a strong gin and tonic had me kind of wobbly (or it was the shoes that are smidge too big but super cute). We didn’t stay there long.

Then we were on to one of two decent English pubs in San Jose. The service there is horrible, but at least it’s consistently horrible every time we go and sadly I think it’s my favorite place in SJ. And I’m pissed because we saw what was the beginning of a good row, but had to move to the back because there was an open table and you can’t just pass up prime real estate at a crowded pub, and I’ve already mentioned that my shoes were too big.

Anyways we sat down and were joined by another friend, and then another and then by the band that didn’t open for the band that played music in the park but that was the second band to play, and then by the girl that goes around the country to different festivals doing henna tattoos, and finally by a really gay man that seemed to be hitting on every women there.

I was kind of stuck in the corner, and therefore couldn’t get away. Stuck in the corner across from the pseudo-gay man who kept talking about his art and how capitalism is ruining it for everyone and would I like to see pictures of some of his work? Dear God NO! I’d rather stick this hot-curry drenched fork in my eye and swirl it around.

“Um, OK” Wait what? That was not what I meant to say.

I mean who brings their portfolio to a bar anyways? So now I’m leafing through what seems to be a five year old’s finger paintings with wires stuck through them at random intervals.

“That one is a memorial to Sept. 11.” Pointing to what looks to be puked up blueberry jello and a butterfly. What the fuck was with the butterfly?

At this point I realize I’m about to start screaming, so I stand on the bench and vault over it just to get away. I give myself a 7.5 for creativity but I just couldn’t stick the landing (shoes again, not my balance). I’m not always that subtle. But realizing that might seem kind of mean I turn and say.

“Um, I need to find my friend.” Yes because that will fool him, what with the acrobatics and everything. Ok actually he’s an idiot and probably thought nothing of it.

Finally we left that den of retardedness and headed to more of a dive. Here there were a bunch of rockabilly chicks trying to look hard, hot and anti-establishment all at the same time while basically only pulling off the I-have-cleavage-please-stare-at-it look and the oh-so-popular no-that’s-not-a-tattoo-I-just-haven’t-showered-in-a-couple-of-days (yay hyphens!).

Then we headed home. At this part of the night I became very wobbly, I think my shoes were actually getting bigger. I finally made it home but I fell out of my shoes twice, I swear they basically fit when I left.

Downtown crazies

I’ve become crazy (ok a few of you might say the become part is redundant), but it’s out of necessity.

Living and working downtown I’ve gotten a lot more attention than I’m used to or that I want. It’s not that I’m anything special (no I’m special but it takes getting to know me to realize just how “special” I am), I think every woman that has stepped foot downtown gets it be she wearing a burlap sack or fishnet body suit. During the middle of the day I get catcalls or guys stopping their cars asking if I can join them. Ok that last one is only in a certain part of town where I was informed a lot of prostitutes hang out, but I mean what kind of prostitutes solicits guys on the street in business casual? Although yeah me on being mistaken for a whore!

The thing is I’m not really good at just ignoring people. If they talk to/email/call me I have to reply back, it’s this horrible need within me. So I’ll get a, “Hey gorgeous, how you doin?” and I’ll of course answer.

“I’m good, except I didn’t sleep so well last night because my air mattress keeps deflating so I have to wake up five times a night and refill it, but I haven’t found a bed yet and I don’t want to just go buy one because I’ll have it for awhile. How are you?” Wrong question to ask.

I had one guy say (in a deep rather disturbing voice, that sounded like he was about to have an orgasm) “Ooh yeah just keep talking, uh huh, oh yeah. Talk to me baby that’s right.” I had to go home and take a scalding shower I felt so dirty.

So I’ve finally found a way around this. I talk to myself. Whenever I see someone coming near I start to babble incoherently to myself, I also gesticulate wildly so it looks like I’m having a loud epileptic fit. Seems to work. I still get looks but now I find people walk a little faster to get past me and they don’t stop to chitchat.

Sure I’m now adding to the loonies found downtown but it’s kind of fun.

Snippets from the week

So this has been a rather weird week for me.

First off I learned that my x is moving back to Santa Barbara. This hit me a little harder than I thought it would and I ended up crying in the bathroom at work. But my eyes turn a bright green when I cry, much prettier than their normal hazel, although sadly people usually only notice the blotchy red face. And I ran into a wall on my way to the bathroom because I was trying to hide my face and I couldn’t see. Yelling “Aw fuck!” after making a banging noise against a brick wall does not lead to inconspicuousness.

Then, reunion boy who I haven’t spoken to in about two weeks asks me out. Feeling confused about everything I said yes. I got home late so we went to a brewery since that was the only place still serving food. Now when I get upset (I had been upset for a couple of days now) I can’t eat. Don’t know why I just can’t. So I tried to eat dinner but I mainly just pushed things around.

So when he suggested drinks afterwards I probably should have said no, but having had a few at the brewery I said sure. Once at the bar we switched to Patron and the night was basically over for me. I technically didn’t drink that much but mixing a few different beers and tequila on an empty stomach is never a bright move. Don’t think I made the best impression but meh, oh well. Previously I had thought he was rather boring, but on that night he was really fun and I had a good time.

Also I found that he subscribes to the Economist, one of my favorite magazines (I can’t afford it). I’m kind of a magazine snob so depending on what subscriptions you have kind of raises or lowers you in my opinion. He had a stack of different magazines on his coffee table and some were pretty decent.

Anyways I woke up with quite a hangover. Which was just dandy as I had to go over to A’s and remove the rest of my stuff. I think that’s basically karma: moving all the little pieces of a life you spent eight years building up (and which you knocked down in a day), feeling like you are going to puke at any second while thousands of tiny little men are banging away at railroad ties in your head, and the guy you hurt looks on. Ah good times.

The worst part is that it was so great hanging out with him. I didn’t want to leave. So yep I’m confused.

Monday I basically went bar hopping with a friend. We did quiz night and got 11 right out of 20 (shut up, highest score was only 15 so if you curve it we came out with a B), waited a good hour for food and decided that our bartender might just be the dumbest person in San Jose (and that is saying a lot).

We moved to another local bar to play some pool, but the table was taken so after a drink we moved on again. Now the third spot has a broken pool table so it’s free and PBR for only $2 (I know why didn’t we come here first?). But there is also always some drama going on. When we walk in the bartender, who’s smoking a cigar, immediately looks up and says “You guys aren’t cops right?”

Later in the evening two guys come in and start yelling at the obviously inebriated bartender, we guess they are management or something. Well it almost looks like something physical is about to happen, but sadly nothing does. But they kick everyone out of the bar anyways.

So since the night isn’t over we switch gears and head to the nearby “Ultra Lounge” which I’ve never been in. Karaoke was in full swing, and everyone looked like a tool. We stayed for a bit while every once in awhile every single patron in the place would join in on the chorus of some Shania Twain song or something equally lame.

I went home and fell asleep to the sounds of my neighbors’ loud, but very boring conversation about some party they had both attended, yay.

Morbid little thoughts

Oh the joys of being single. Basically what I’ve taken from it is that if I die, it will be the smell that eventually leads my neighbors to the reality of my demise. Oh sure I have some friends that might worry but they are out of town so it would take awhile. My editor (if you’re reading this then you suck Steve, and may you get stuck between a shark and an underwater zombie!) at work might wonder but he doesn’t have my address. And if it’s early in the week near deadline he’ll never even notice.

Thankfully my apartment thinks it’s in the Sahara so decomposition should happen pretty quickly. Yay for the little things. Oh crap what if I die in the winter?

I’m wondering if I should start some sort of phone tree just incase I die. Sure I talk to people online but I’ve been absent this past week (due to no internet in the new place) and no one has wondered if I’m dead yet. Ok I’ve been around during the day but still…

Sometimes you have to break a couple eggs

I’ve been in my place for about a week now but I hadn’t actually made any food there. So this morning I decided that it was time for me to make breakfast.

So I walked around the corner and headed in to some high-end market. It was one of those granola places where everything is a good 20 percent more than chain markets, but it’s so close and I wasn’t getting a lot.

I have only one frying pan and no baking sheet, so I decided to scramble up some eggs — even I can do that.

Well I also don’t have a bowl so I broke the eggs in the frying pan and put the rest on the back burner, as my counter is rather full of random stuff right now.

So I turned on the burner but noticed that nothing was happening. It sounded like the gas was going but I couldn’t see anything. I looked up and noticed bright orange flames working their way up the carton and starting to engulf my newly purchased eggs. Actually the eggs were starting to cook inside their shells so I mean, at least technically, I was cooking something.

Yep, I had turned on the wrong burner. After a lot of smoke and yelling I was able to get the fire out, and my neighbor was kind enough to give me a huge fan, (imagine the back of those Florida swamp airboat thingy) which was able to remove the smoke.

My first independent act in my new home and I’m a complete failure. I almost burned down my apartment of less than a week. There will be drinking tonight, thankfully I can open a bottle; I’ve had a shitload of practice at that.

Kickball

Although I have been going to school at SJSU for over a year I am still pretty new to the San Jose area. I have a couple of friends that I can bug but that's about it. So I decided it was high time for me to go out and meet some people. And where better to meet people than at a pickup kickball game?

The mixture of people was so random and the game itself was so fun. I met a bunch of cool people and there are even plans to go check out the free Flogging Molly show on Thursday. And really if you can't have fun playing kickball than you are dead inside.

We played at some elementary school, and one couple was kind enough to bring beers. Most of the people didn't know each other and it was just a great way to talk to people that are obviously as juvenile as I am. Although it was decided that next time more beer needs to be brought by all.

My kickball skills aren't up to par with what they were in the fourth grade but I got better as the afternoon progressed. I played pitcher, and my team one ... twice.

Afterwards we went to Aqui for some beers. I'm probably a little tipsy but oh well. It was fun and I would definitely recommend it to everyone. Where else are you going to meet a guy from Oklahoma who's twang only comes out after a few beers, a royally tatted up guy who teaches English to impoverished kids and a guy who is fanatical about kickball rules all in the same day?

And the best part was I met some cool girls who I can actually see hanging out with. I mean how can you not like a chick that's into kickball?

The whole time I was smiling and didn't think about the things that have been bringing me down lately. Maybe I'm starting to like San Jose?

Pampering

I got my first facial the other day. And it was great, but I also thought it was a tad bit on the odd side. It kind of seemed like the esthetician was trying to seduce me.

I mean I get there and they offer me a beverage. Then this woman with a sultry, low voice and perfectly coiffed hair leads me through a dimly lit labyrinth (which I became completely lost in), to an area in the back where I was told to strip and put on a robe.

After that I was led to another alcove where once again I was given a drink and then the lady (I forget her name so I'm going to call her Calliope because I like that name) came back and soaked my feet in some weird smelling bath.

Next we went into an even darker room, acoustic guitar music was piped in, where I was told to lose the robe and get under the covers. Calliope comes back in and starts talking in her hypnotic voice, I can't recall what she said but it lulled me into some sort of trance. Soon she started rubbing goo all over my face, before wrapping me up in a hot towel. She then gave me a neck, shoulder and arm massage before removing the goo and adding more goo but with a slightly different smell. I once again got a rub down (loved it), before she removed goo #2.

Finally she sprayed some mist on me and rubbed something else on my face. This was apparently the end of my session, and I must admit if she had been trying to seduce me I totally would have let her. Calliope, with sexy voice and magical hands, could have done whatever she wanted to me, I was so relaxed.

Of course when I left the spa and got into my car, my face was a scary, fire engine, splotchy red. But meh it was worth it. I will definitely have to do that again.

My castle

So I've got my shnazzy new place (shnazzy is defined as about the size of a closet but with a stove), and today I decided to clean it as my landlord's definition of clean and my definition didn't seem to match up. So I rented one of those lovely steam cleaners and dragged it up to the third floor, vowing to hit the gym so that I can carry slightly heavy items more than five feet without stopping and gasping for breath, when I finally got to my apartment I realized I had accidentally rented a place whose location randomly shifts to the surface of the sun.

After a few hours I think I lost 30 pounds of water weight and I get to repeat the process tomorrow. But at least now I can sit on the floor without feeling like I'm going to get hepatitis.

Now I just need to move all my furniture in, oh wait I don't have any furniture and I'm pretty sure when my friends see the stairs they are going to run for the hills (thankfully those are probably on fire so they will have no choice but to help me move).

Wireless

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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).

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.

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.