I went to the hospital not long ago because I thought my kidney stones were acting up. And lucky for me the county hospital is also where they take the prisoners after they experience what I call "racial differences". The day I was there the Mexican crew hadn't fared well in the daily prison yard squabble and there they were lining the emergency room halls in orange jumpsuits and chains. When the doctor tended to the various toothbrush shiv wounds the common consensus was that they had all fallen off the top bunk in their cells. Makes you wonder when the state is going to invest in some guard rails for those dangerously stabby prison bunk beds. Scary pokey beds!
On a separate note that has absolutely nothing to do with hospitals or prison shankings, I pleasantly discovered that listening to rap music makes any incredibly long drive not so dreadful and tedious for me. I find myself smiling the entire time and even mouthing the words. For some reason every time I hear Snoop Dogg melodically voice the words "guess who's back in the mother f*#@ing house with a fat d*#k for your mother f*&%ing mouth" I get a warm fuzzy feeling inside. Westsiiiiiiide!
Speaking of random (I wasn't, but everything I write tends to be incredibly random and totally schizophrenic)... While driving to lunch the other day I saw a banana driving a bright blue Geo Tracker down Central. I swear to God, a banana. Driving. A Geo Tracker. Now, a couple things: if I had a job where I had to wear a giant banana suit, my personal preference would be to don the suit once I got to work. Plus my car is way impractical for a banana suit. A Geo Prism is too small and the windows are tinted so one wouldn't really be able to appreciate seeing my banana ass driving down the street. If I had a bright blue Geo Tracker, on the other hand, I would be provided with spacious leg room and a sun roof for the top of my banana suit to stick out of. And the bright blue nicely complemented the yellow of the suit.
When I told my friend about the banana incident we got into this absurd conversation about wearing a banana suit instead of going into the Witness Protection Program. Put on the suit and instant secret identity! But if you worked with someone else also in the Witness Protection Program then you would be wearing the same thing and that would just be embarrassing. (By the way, sitting at your desk at work wearing a giant banana suit... that is the best image EVER.)
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
I need a good blogging, if you know what I mean...
I'm a horrible blogger. I have jotted down so many things to 'blog about' at a later time and the list keeps getting longer and yet I waste my time doing stupid things and being the opposite of productive. I sit around for hours reading other blogs and voting on fashion disasters on gofugyourself.com when I should be writing my own blog or, I don't know, cleaning my apartment or something boring like that.
I have so much going on and a plethora of topics to write about yet I feel the need, nay, the uncontrollable urge to watch every single episode of "The Bad Girls Club" on the Oxygen Network and the like just because it's on. I already had this procrastination problem before I gave in and got cable. Now it's even worse. But I love it so. Cable, I love you. (On a side note: I'm totally impressed with myself for actually using the word plethora, and correctly, I might add. You should be too.)
So the next few weeks will hold exhilarating tales of cat pee and failed baking attempts. Of overindulging and urgent care. Of Steven Seagal and kitten farts. Of Deadwood obsession and wardrobe malfunctions. Of retarded birds and whooping cough. Of bums with Tourette's and air bag burn. Of falling out of bed and Netflix comas. Of funeral processions and high school boy trends. All this and much, much more.
I know you are excited. Thrilled beyond comprehension. I need you to calm down. Calm down! No, down! Stop humping my leg! Sheesh.
I have so much going on and a plethora of topics to write about yet I feel the need, nay, the uncontrollable urge to watch every single episode of "The Bad Girls Club" on the Oxygen Network and the like just because it's on. I already had this procrastination problem before I gave in and got cable. Now it's even worse. But I love it so. Cable, I love you. (On a side note: I'm totally impressed with myself for actually using the word plethora, and correctly, I might add. You should be too.)
So the next few weeks will hold exhilarating tales of cat pee and failed baking attempts. Of overindulging and urgent care. Of Steven Seagal and kitten farts. Of Deadwood obsession and wardrobe malfunctions. Of retarded birds and whooping cough. Of bums with Tourette's and air bag burn. Of falling out of bed and Netflix comas. Of funeral processions and high school boy trends. All this and much, much more.
I know you are excited. Thrilled beyond comprehension. I need you to calm down. Calm down! No, down! Stop humping my leg! Sheesh.
Friday, September 11, 2009
My name is Jenn and I'm retarded.
I should have started the day off by hitching a ride to work on the short bus. I will super fast-forward through this stupid day, to after work, after more wedding dress shopping with Tammi and straight to the drive-thru of Chick-fil-A. I ordered. I paid. I set my wallet on the passenger seat. I pulled up to the the special drive-thru trash can and picked up a handful of bags off the seat and tossed them.
I go home, pack, eat, do some other stupid retarded things. THEN I look for my wallet. THEN I even notice it is missing. 2 HOURS LATER. I somehow persuaded my poor mother to go to Chick-fil-A with me and dumpster dive for a good half hour in which we cannot find the bag with my garbage in it, let alone my wallet. Why would my wallet be in there? WHY??
I DON'T DESERVE TO OWN A WALLET ANYMORE. Those rights should have been revoked when I lost my wallet all full of my passport and money down in Mexico. They should revoke these rights to me because I am not normal. Because this is not my first foray into dumpster diving outside of a fastfood restaurant. That was when I threw my retainer away. See, they should not let me out with the rest of society.
So now I'm thinking those wallet chains that most dudes wear as a fashion statement that I secretly sorta dig could be a necessity for the wallet-y challenged such as I. But then I'd have to wear my wallet in my back pocket right? Sooo don't want to do that. Plus my wallet is big. Like check sized. Can't fit that monstrosity in the back pocket of my True Religion hand-me-downs. No sirree.
**UPDATE**
This morning I went out to my car to get a hoodie or something out of my trunk and there it was. My wallet. Looking all smug and mocking me. Laughing because I actually looked through a dumpster and canceled my debit cards. Bastard.
I go home, pack, eat, do some other stupid retarded things. THEN I look for my wallet. THEN I even notice it is missing. 2 HOURS LATER. I somehow persuaded my poor mother to go to Chick-fil-A with me and dumpster dive for a good half hour in which we cannot find the bag with my garbage in it, let alone my wallet. Why would my wallet be in there? WHY??
I DON'T DESERVE TO OWN A WALLET ANYMORE. Those rights should have been revoked when I lost my wallet all full of my passport and money down in Mexico. They should revoke these rights to me because I am not normal. Because this is not my first foray into dumpster diving outside of a fastfood restaurant. That was when I threw my retainer away. See, they should not let me out with the rest of society.
So now I'm thinking those wallet chains that most dudes wear as a fashion statement that I secretly sorta dig could be a necessity for the wallet-y challenged such as I. But then I'd have to wear my wallet in my back pocket right? Sooo don't want to do that. Plus my wallet is big. Like check sized. Can't fit that monstrosity in the back pocket of my True Religion hand-me-downs. No sirree.
**UPDATE**
This morning I went out to my car to get a hoodie or something out of my trunk and there it was. My wallet. Looking all smug and mocking me. Laughing because I actually looked through a dumpster and canceled my debit cards. Bastard.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Holy taffeta, I'm in hell!
Today I met up with Tammi and Bridget at David's Bridal to pick out another wedding dress for Tammi's wedding. "Another wedding dress" being a long story for another blog. So as the Maid of Horror... I mean Honor, I did my duty and wrangled and strapped Tammi into only about 85% of the stock they had in the store and she managed to filter it down to about 4 or 5 dresses that were absolute YES's. But in doing this filtering she made Bridget and me put on a few of the dresses so she could see what they looked like on a body all at the same time. Holy hell.
I'm not going to lie. I've done the Monica and totally tried on one of Tammi's wedding dresses that I was holding for her in the closet of my apartment so her fiancee wouldn't see it. I didn't clean the house wearing it, but I did try it on and walk around pretending that I was the one getting married. I think I may have sat around in it and watched some Dawson's Creek episodes. I mean if you had to choose to watch Dawson's Creek in your normal clothes or a wedding dress, come on. No comparison. You can even change the show. Won't matter. The wedding dress will win every time.
So at this point in time I'm sweating and I swear I almost broke out in hives with that damn poofy dress on. I was all pasty white and out of place too. It never makes me realize more than when I'm hangin with Tammi and her friends just how "different" I am from them. And I feel all weird and awkward and clumsy the whole time until I get drunk or leave and then I'm just happy I'm not trying to dye my hair that same shade of blonde the rest of them are. Because let me tell you... me and blonde hair... just... BAD.
On a side note, I should really consider working at these bridal shops. I harranged Tammi in and out of those dresses with the speed of lightning. If I could deal with telling girls in ugly dresses that they looked pretty. Seriously they had a dress with a 7 inch red hem on the bottom of it. Yeah, I just threw up a little in my mouth at the memory of it. (And sorry if "harranged" isn't a word.)
I'm not going to lie. I've done the Monica and totally tried on one of Tammi's wedding dresses that I was holding for her in the closet of my apartment so her fiancee wouldn't see it. I didn't clean the house wearing it, but I did try it on and walk around pretending that I was the one getting married. I think I may have sat around in it and watched some Dawson's Creek episodes. I mean if you had to choose to watch Dawson's Creek in your normal clothes or a wedding dress, come on. No comparison. You can even change the show. Won't matter. The wedding dress will win every time.
So at this point in time I'm sweating and I swear I almost broke out in hives with that damn poofy dress on. I was all pasty white and out of place too. It never makes me realize more than when I'm hangin with Tammi and her friends just how "different" I am from them. And I feel all weird and awkward and clumsy the whole time until I get drunk or leave and then I'm just happy I'm not trying to dye my hair that same shade of blonde the rest of them are. Because let me tell you... me and blonde hair... just... BAD.
On a side note, I should really consider working at these bridal shops. I harranged Tammi in and out of those dresses with the speed of lightning. If I could deal with telling girls in ugly dresses that they looked pretty. Seriously they had a dress with a 7 inch red hem on the bottom of it. Yeah, I just threw up a little in my mouth at the memory of it. (And sorry if "harranged" isn't a word.)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Holy balls it's K-FAT!!
How in the HELL did this happen??? And hello–HILARIOUS!
It totally looks like they Photoshopped his face onto some fat dude's body! Look how little his head is!
I'm not as current on my celebrity gossip as I would like to be and I'm afraid I have no idea what is going on in Britney and K-Fed's lives right now. I'm assuming there is no train wrecks going on with that situation because nothing about it has shown up on perezhilton.com or any of my other "guilty pleasure" websites. (Or my "deepest shame" websites... you decide.) But how the hell did K-Fed get so humongously FAT??
I never understood how really fat people get really fat. (The ones that aren't born that way or have a thyroid problem.) Take Kevin Federline, for example. He was once a thin, fit, dancing mooch of a man. And, like, once he gained, say, 20 lbs of fat wouldn't you think he'd start to get worried? How about the next 50lbs? When do you get to that point where you say to yourself, "Um, dude, I'm getting a little chunky... maybe I should lay off the pork rinds..." Just sayin'.
It totally looks like they Photoshopped his face onto some fat dude's body! Look how little his head is!
I'm not as current on my celebrity gossip as I would like to be and I'm afraid I have no idea what is going on in Britney and K-Fed's lives right now. I'm assuming there is no train wrecks going on with that situation because nothing about it has shown up on perezhilton.com or any of my other "guilty pleasure" websites. (Or my "deepest shame" websites... you decide.) But how the hell did K-Fed get so humongously FAT??
I never understood how really fat people get really fat. (The ones that aren't born that way or have a thyroid problem.) Take Kevin Federline, for example. He was once a thin, fit, dancing mooch of a man. And, like, once he gained, say, 20 lbs of fat wouldn't you think he'd start to get worried? How about the next 50lbs? When do you get to that point where you say to yourself, "Um, dude, I'm getting a little chunky... maybe I should lay off the pork rinds..." Just sayin'.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Further evidence that WF is run by the Devil...
current mood: beyond words
I know it's my own fault... I was the retard that opened a checking account. That was my first mistake. The second was trying to apply logic to the situation. I don't think Satan, the president of Wells Fargo, really digs logic.
I never received any checks for my checking account so I call "Wells Fargo Customer Service" (I put it in quotes because its fictional) and they apologize and get my info and say they will have them sent to me as soon as possible. A week later I get a box of checks in the mail.
A few more days go by and I need to cash a check so I mosey on down to the bank where the evil fiend posing as a teller ruins everything by telling me that he can't cash the check because of the 'status' of my account. I was concerned by this because even though I don't have much in the account ($5), there was still money in there. So I calmly (who am I kidding... 'maniacally' would better describe my tone) asked the demon what exactly the Prince of Darkness requires as a minimum balance these days. There is none. It just can't be insufficient. My account has now magically been overdrawn. Obviously Satan has taken it upon himself to personally fuck with my bank account. It's like at the top of his Super Evil Things To Do list.
I go home all pissy and do a little online banking and see a charge that posted today for $19.95. I look up the company name and it's the company that the bank ordered my checks from. Are you kidding me? The devil charged me for the checks. Not only that, he waited to charge me almost 2 full weeks after the fact when I only had $5 in the account because it's way more entertaining that way.
So the demon teller wouldn't cash my check because the bank charged my account for something they provided me. Maybe there's something I'm missing here. When I asked "customer service" to send me the checks (only one box, by the way... $19.95??) they never once mentioned that I would be charged twenty bucks. They never said I would be charged anything. I assumed that the checks from the bank were free. I was wrong.
I begrudgingly called "customer service" to complain and they told me was to take the checks into the branch and my account would be credited. So tomorrow I have another fun-filled and exciting trip to Hell–I mean the bank–in store for me. I can't hardly wait.
Those sinister bastards better not charge me a $35 overdraft fee... they probably will. I will have to call "customer service" again and try to get them to remove the fee. Then I will get to go into the branch and inform them of the changes because it would be absurd for me to assume my account was updated in their own system and Satan will deactivate my card and report me to collections...
Damn the devil and his evil banking minions.
I know it's my own fault... I was the retard that opened a checking account. That was my first mistake. The second was trying to apply logic to the situation. I don't think Satan, the president of Wells Fargo, really digs logic.
I never received any checks for my checking account so I call "Wells Fargo Customer Service" (I put it in quotes because its fictional) and they apologize and get my info and say they will have them sent to me as soon as possible. A week later I get a box of checks in the mail.
A few more days go by and I need to cash a check so I mosey on down to the bank where the evil fiend posing as a teller ruins everything by telling me that he can't cash the check because of the 'status' of my account. I was concerned by this because even though I don't have much in the account ($5), there was still money in there. So I calmly (who am I kidding... 'maniacally' would better describe my tone) asked the demon what exactly the Prince of Darkness requires as a minimum balance these days. There is none. It just can't be insufficient. My account has now magically been overdrawn. Obviously Satan has taken it upon himself to personally fuck with my bank account. It's like at the top of his Super Evil Things To Do list.
I go home all pissy and do a little online banking and see a charge that posted today for $19.95. I look up the company name and it's the company that the bank ordered my checks from. Are you kidding me? The devil charged me for the checks. Not only that, he waited to charge me almost 2 full weeks after the fact when I only had $5 in the account because it's way more entertaining that way.
So the demon teller wouldn't cash my check because the bank charged my account for something they provided me. Maybe there's something I'm missing here. When I asked "customer service" to send me the checks (only one box, by the way... $19.95??) they never once mentioned that I would be charged twenty bucks. They never said I would be charged anything. I assumed that the checks from the bank were free. I was wrong.
I begrudgingly called "customer service" to complain and they told me was to take the checks into the branch and my account would be credited. So tomorrow I have another fun-filled and exciting trip to Hell–I mean the bank–in store for me. I can't hardly wait.
Those sinister bastards better not charge me a $35 overdraft fee... they probably will. I will have to call "customer service" again and try to get them to remove the fee. Then I will get to go into the branch and inform them of the changes because it would be absurd for me to assume my account was updated in their own system and Satan will deactivate my card and report me to collections...
Damn the devil and his evil banking minions.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Funemployment, Law & Order, and the Plague of the Ill-Fitting Jeans
current mood: homicidal
I am currently working on getting my third extension of unemployment. This amazes me. Not as much as the fact that I can't for the life of me get a job in the design industry. True, I haven't worked for the past year, but I don't think things have changed that much... I've sent out my resume and samples and written amazing cover letters that fool prospective employers into thinking I have a good handle on the English language.
While I'm actively searching for a job online and trying to collect yet more unemployment, I have been spending an unhealthy amount of time watching Law & Order: CI and SVU. (I don't like the original one.) I've been a Law & Order fanatic for a while now and it is always on USA or TNT or something like that at all hours of the day and night. Even when I was staying at my parents' house I was able to feed my addiction because my dad is a Law & Order freak as well.
Since I've moved into Dugly's pad, however, it's gotten to an alarming level. I don't have satellite or cable here but I do have streaming Netflix on my computer. So I watch episode after episode almost every day and it's scary. I'm starting to get concerned. You shouldn't be able to eat and fall asleep to sex crimes and murders and tortured victims and whatnot... should you??
On a separate note, I no longer fit into any of my jeans. I'd like to say that my jeans are shrinking and it's not my ass that is expanding and causing my jeans to not zip up anymore... But I know the truth. Someone is switching out all my pants for smaller sizes so that I start to think bulimic thoughts. Someone, some evil little pants troll is sitting in the back of my closet and wringing its devilish little hands and laughing demonically as I stress and sweat and bite my lower lip with anxiety as I toss every new pair of jeans into the Goodwill pile.
The little fucker.
I am currently working on getting my third extension of unemployment. This amazes me. Not as much as the fact that I can't for the life of me get a job in the design industry. True, I haven't worked for the past year, but I don't think things have changed that much... I've sent out my resume and samples and written amazing cover letters that fool prospective employers into thinking I have a good handle on the English language.
While I'm actively searching for a job online and trying to collect yet more unemployment, I have been spending an unhealthy amount of time watching Law & Order: CI and SVU. (I don't like the original one.) I've been a Law & Order fanatic for a while now and it is always on USA or TNT or something like that at all hours of the day and night. Even when I was staying at my parents' house I was able to feed my addiction because my dad is a Law & Order freak as well.
Since I've moved into Dugly's pad, however, it's gotten to an alarming level. I don't have satellite or cable here but I do have streaming Netflix on my computer. So I watch episode after episode almost every day and it's scary. I'm starting to get concerned. You shouldn't be able to eat and fall asleep to sex crimes and murders and tortured victims and whatnot... should you??
On a separate note, I no longer fit into any of my jeans. I'd like to say that my jeans are shrinking and it's not my ass that is expanding and causing my jeans to not zip up anymore... But I know the truth. Someone is switching out all my pants for smaller sizes so that I start to think bulimic thoughts. Someone, some evil little pants troll is sitting in the back of my closet and wringing its devilish little hands and laughing demonically as I stress and sweat and bite my lower lip with anxiety as I toss every new pair of jeans into the Goodwill pile.
The little fucker.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Wells Fargo is run by the Devil
current mood: annoyed beyond all reason
Wells Fargo is by far the worst banking institution that I have ever been associated with. It's as bad as health insurance. They are both big stupid poops.
I opened an account there because I owe some insufficient funds money to only a couple of other banks and needed some sort of checking account. I don't have a job so I couldn't do direct deposit which enables the funds I put into the bank to be available to me quicker, for some retarded reason. So now whenever I do get any sort of check for some silly freelance thing I do I have to take it into the bank to be deposited. I did this the first time and when I asked the teller when I would be able to use my debit card with that money, she said right away. I have to charge it and I will always have $100 available right away from a deposit. LIAR.
Yeah, so I go to Schlotzky's and get a nummy treat and my card gets declined. Super fun. And not embarrassing at all. So I go to a Well's Fargo in Tempe to ask them what's the what and they say I have to use my card as debit, not as credit. And to go somewhere and try to buy something else. I say no, that is ridiculous. They tell me to go to the branch where I deposited the check and have them reverse the deposit to just give me the money. Because it was Saturday and it probably wouldn't go in until Monday... maybe. The bastards. So I drove all the way back to Gilbert and got the check reversed.
When all this happened, by the way, I got charged all these insufficient funds fees for using my card when that bitch teller told me I could. So the bank calls me and says I am in the negative and had been for 7 days and if I don't give them the money, they will send it to collections. Um... what? So I politely tell them the situation and that the fees should be removed because I was going off the information the bitch teller told me. The girl on the phone just kept asking how much of a payment I would like to make. She just didn't understand that if I had any freakin' money it would already be in the freakin' bank.
I was getting nowhere with her so I ask to talk to her manager. She said no. She straight out said no! She said it wasn't a situation that warranted a managerial decision. I ask for her supervisor and she again said no. So I hang up and call back and talk to someone else who lets me pay half with my unemployment money and half the next week and reversed half of my fees.
Fast forward a week and I get another check. I took a deep breath, gathered all my courage and the patience I had stored away for a rainy day and I go to the bank to try get $100 cash and deposit the rest the check. Nope. Because I had insufficient funds. I try to tell them that the money is right there in their grubby little hands and I would no longer be insufficient if they just put the freakin money in there. But because the check wasn't from Wells Fargo, they have to be all retarded about it. So I just deposited it all. Oh and by the way, there will be a four day hold on the check. Because I have insufficient funds... How ass backwards is that? Just put the money in there and the funds won't be so insufficient, you bastards!! They also didn't inform me about the hold until I had already deposited the check, of course.
So finally the hold is off my account and I go to the ATM and try to withdraw some cash. Nope. Denied. I call the number on the back of my card and they say that the branch has deactivated my debit card because of the insufficient funds fiasco. I asked why this happened because I set up a payment plan and everything was good to go and there is freakin money in the account now. I was informed that the when the phone bankers do stuff they don't always inform the branches of what is going on. So the branch took it upon themselves to turn off my card. I think that when they pull up my account on their little computers there is a big red flashing alert that says FUCK WITH HER.
I go inside my branch and tell them my card was deactivated and can they please reactivate it. They can't. Big surprise there. They have to order me a new one. Great. I have to go a week with no debit card. So I ask for a temporary ATM card so I can somehow get some of my own money out of my own account and they seriously take 45 fucking minutes to activate this stupid card!! I was beside myself and wanted to kill everyone.
I finally got my new debit card in the mail and called the number to activate it. It said my old PIN number is supposed to work. Nope. Not for me. Why should it? FUCK WITH HER. So I go inside and they take 30 minutes to give me a new PIN number. Because they can't figure out how to use the computer.
So today I go down and pick up a measly $100 check from some little freelance job I picked up. I went down to University and Alma School on fumes to get it. Drove all the way back to Gilbert and thought I would stop in the bank and just flat out cash it before they closed. Nope. They forgot to sign the fucking check.
I don't think that it's just Wells Fargo that get that FUCK WITH HER alert on their screens when it comes to me. I think every single thing, person, business and life event I deal with gets that alert.
Fuck my life.
Wells Fargo is by far the worst banking institution that I have ever been associated with. It's as bad as health insurance. They are both big stupid poops.
I opened an account there because I owe some insufficient funds money to only a couple of other banks and needed some sort of checking account. I don't have a job so I couldn't do direct deposit which enables the funds I put into the bank to be available to me quicker, for some retarded reason. So now whenever I do get any sort of check for some silly freelance thing I do I have to take it into the bank to be deposited. I did this the first time and when I asked the teller when I would be able to use my debit card with that money, she said right away. I have to charge it and I will always have $100 available right away from a deposit. LIAR.
Yeah, so I go to Schlotzky's and get a nummy treat and my card gets declined. Super fun. And not embarrassing at all. So I go to a Well's Fargo in Tempe to ask them what's the what and they say I have to use my card as debit, not as credit. And to go somewhere and try to buy something else. I say no, that is ridiculous. They tell me to go to the branch where I deposited the check and have them reverse the deposit to just give me the money. Because it was Saturday and it probably wouldn't go in until Monday... maybe. The bastards. So I drove all the way back to Gilbert and got the check reversed.
When all this happened, by the way, I got charged all these insufficient funds fees for using my card when that bitch teller told me I could. So the bank calls me and says I am in the negative and had been for 7 days and if I don't give them the money, they will send it to collections. Um... what? So I politely tell them the situation and that the fees should be removed because I was going off the information the bitch teller told me. The girl on the phone just kept asking how much of a payment I would like to make. She just didn't understand that if I had any freakin' money it would already be in the freakin' bank.
I was getting nowhere with her so I ask to talk to her manager. She said no. She straight out said no! She said it wasn't a situation that warranted a managerial decision. I ask for her supervisor and she again said no. So I hang up and call back and talk to someone else who lets me pay half with my unemployment money and half the next week and reversed half of my fees.
Fast forward a week and I get another check. I took a deep breath, gathered all my courage and the patience I had stored away for a rainy day and I go to the bank to try get $100 cash and deposit the rest the check. Nope. Because I had insufficient funds. I try to tell them that the money is right there in their grubby little hands and I would no longer be insufficient if they just put the freakin money in there. But because the check wasn't from Wells Fargo, they have to be all retarded about it. So I just deposited it all. Oh and by the way, there will be a four day hold on the check. Because I have insufficient funds... How ass backwards is that? Just put the money in there and the funds won't be so insufficient, you bastards!! They also didn't inform me about the hold until I had already deposited the check, of course.
So finally the hold is off my account and I go to the ATM and try to withdraw some cash. Nope. Denied. I call the number on the back of my card and they say that the branch has deactivated my debit card because of the insufficient funds fiasco. I asked why this happened because I set up a payment plan and everything was good to go and there is freakin money in the account now. I was informed that the when the phone bankers do stuff they don't always inform the branches of what is going on. So the branch took it upon themselves to turn off my card. I think that when they pull up my account on their little computers there is a big red flashing alert that says FUCK WITH HER.
I go inside my branch and tell them my card was deactivated and can they please reactivate it. They can't. Big surprise there. They have to order me a new one. Great. I have to go a week with no debit card. So I ask for a temporary ATM card so I can somehow get some of my own money out of my own account and they seriously take 45 fucking minutes to activate this stupid card!! I was beside myself and wanted to kill everyone.
I finally got my new debit card in the mail and called the number to activate it. It said my old PIN number is supposed to work. Nope. Not for me. Why should it? FUCK WITH HER. So I go inside and they take 30 minutes to give me a new PIN number. Because they can't figure out how to use the computer.
So today I go down and pick up a measly $100 check from some little freelance job I picked up. I went down to University and Alma School on fumes to get it. Drove all the way back to Gilbert and thought I would stop in the bank and just flat out cash it before they closed. Nope. They forgot to sign the fucking check.
I don't think that it's just Wells Fargo that get that FUCK WITH HER alert on their screens when it comes to me. I think every single thing, person, business and life event I deal with gets that alert.
Fuck my life.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The ottoman incident
current mood: thoroughly amused
The other night I went with Tammi to a model home furniture sale in Maricopa. We found a bunch of shiz we liked and purchased it for super cheap. Then when we ventured upstairs in the nicest home Tammi finds an ottoman that she would like to get for her own home. We decide that it would be a super idea for us to take this ottoman down the stairs so that Bob, Tammi's old boss who was running the sale, wouldn't have to do it and might give her an extra deal on it. (I don't know, it made sense at the time.) So we turn the thing on it's side and begin to roll it out of the bedroom and to the top of the stairs.
I am holding a lamp in my arms and Tammi is on the phone and we get it down the first step when I suggest we carry it and that perhaps Tammi should get off the phone. She says it will be easy "like rolling a pizza" ... whatever the hell that means... I am at the moment holding onto one of the 4 wooden legs attached to the bottom when Tammi tells me to let go 'cause she's got it. So I do... omg.
It happened in slow motion. And in my mind that ottoman destroyed the entire house as it bounded down the stairs and bounced off the walls and the bannister. In my mind it scratched and left giant holes in the wall, plowed through the bannister, knocked over and broke all the furniture in the living room and bounced up and embedded itself, legs first, halfway up the living room wall above the couch.
But, miraculously, it didn't. Somehow it rolled down the stairs, bounced against the wall and the bannister, hit the landing, turned and managed to land upright at the bottom. Tammi and I are still at the top of the stairs and at this point just look at each other with astonishment. "I pictured that going a lot worse," Tammi said. Then I start laughing. The hard, stomach-hurting, tears streaming down my cheeks, going to pee my pants kind of laughing.
The laughing and crying continued downstairs where we sit on the ottoman and can't help but picture what it would look like embedded in the wall and just what exactly we would say to Bob to explain the situation. When Bob comes in the door Tammi looks at him with all seriousness in her face and says, "I brought this downstairs for your convenience, Bob. Think I could get a deal?" Then I start cracking up again because I can picture her saying that with the ottoman stuck in the wall behind her.
We continued to laugh about the incident with the ottoman the entire drive home. Ben had to strap the thing to the top of Tammi's Honda and I just kept picturing it flying off in a desperate attempt to get out of having to live the rest of it's ottoman life in Tammi's house. We pictured Ben passing us on the 347 with only the legs of the ottoman tied securely to the top of the Honda, the ottoman long gone as if it had said, "Fuck my legs. I'm outta here!"
The ottoman did make it to Tammi's house and I think we burned some calories laughing about it. And Bob did give Tammi a discount on the ottoman and never knew that we almost destroyed an entire model home with one simple piece of furniture....
The other night I went with Tammi to a model home furniture sale in Maricopa. We found a bunch of shiz we liked and purchased it for super cheap. Then when we ventured upstairs in the nicest home Tammi finds an ottoman that she would like to get for her own home. We decide that it would be a super idea for us to take this ottoman down the stairs so that Bob, Tammi's old boss who was running the sale, wouldn't have to do it and might give her an extra deal on it. (I don't know, it made sense at the time.) So we turn the thing on it's side and begin to roll it out of the bedroom and to the top of the stairs.
I am holding a lamp in my arms and Tammi is on the phone and we get it down the first step when I suggest we carry it and that perhaps Tammi should get off the phone. She says it will be easy "like rolling a pizza" ... whatever the hell that means... I am at the moment holding onto one of the 4 wooden legs attached to the bottom when Tammi tells me to let go 'cause she's got it. So I do... omg.
It happened in slow motion. And in my mind that ottoman destroyed the entire house as it bounded down the stairs and bounced off the walls and the bannister. In my mind it scratched and left giant holes in the wall, plowed through the bannister, knocked over and broke all the furniture in the living room and bounced up and embedded itself, legs first, halfway up the living room wall above the couch.
But, miraculously, it didn't. Somehow it rolled down the stairs, bounced against the wall and the bannister, hit the landing, turned and managed to land upright at the bottom. Tammi and I are still at the top of the stairs and at this point just look at each other with astonishment. "I pictured that going a lot worse," Tammi said. Then I start laughing. The hard, stomach-hurting, tears streaming down my cheeks, going to pee my pants kind of laughing.
The laughing and crying continued downstairs where we sit on the ottoman and can't help but picture what it would look like embedded in the wall and just what exactly we would say to Bob to explain the situation. When Bob comes in the door Tammi looks at him with all seriousness in her face and says, "I brought this downstairs for your convenience, Bob. Think I could get a deal?" Then I start cracking up again because I can picture her saying that with the ottoman stuck in the wall behind her.
We continued to laugh about the incident with the ottoman the entire drive home. Ben had to strap the thing to the top of Tammi's Honda and I just kept picturing it flying off in a desperate attempt to get out of having to live the rest of it's ottoman life in Tammi's house. We pictured Ben passing us on the 347 with only the legs of the ottoman tied securely to the top of the Honda, the ottoman long gone as if it had said, "Fuck my legs. I'm outta here!"
The ottoman did make it to Tammi's house and I think we burned some calories laughing about it. And Bob did give Tammi a discount on the ottoman and never knew that we almost destroyed an entire model home with one simple piece of furniture....
Thursday, July 16, 2009
A big ex-boyfriend parade
May 2009 / current mood: laughing out loud
I think I have some sort of GPS device located inside of me that draws the ex-boyfriends out of the woodwork and gives them some sort of signal that I’m back in town and want to bump into them in a big public awkward way. Especially with the “what was I thinking” ex-boys. No really, what was I thinking? It’s like my brain was shut off for a really long time or something and I just plain had bad boy judgment. They smoke, dress weird and cheat. They are too old and too young. They say all the wrong things and aren’t cool to my friends.
I dragged a couple of my friends out to see a local band play that I love and it was totally like an episode of The Hills as they stood there awkwardly in their heels and Scottsdale girl outfits texting on their Blackberry’s while all the random people of Tempe danced around them. So I’m standing there enjoying the scenery when I turn around and run smack into the ex-boyfriend that hates me. The too-old one. After an extremely uncomfortable mumbling of words and a side hug he runs off all flustered and I turn back to my friend’s grimaces and inevitable “you dated that guy?” questions. Yeah…
Then I start getting calls from a pseudo-ex. We only dated for a couple of weeks when he called me up on the phone to break up with me which is how I found out we were that serious to warrant a break-up. Bastard. This was followed by a string of booty calls that I did not initiate and it was just bad. So he starts calling me and saying how sorry he is and how much he has changed and how he “didn’t realize what he had till it was gone”. Yeah, he seriously said that. He said he missed talking to me and just hanging out with me so I hesitantly agree to hang out with him again. But then that very same night he totally tries to booty call me! And every night since he booty texts me, actually. I’ve told him to “suck it” but he will not let up. I asked if his other booty calls dried up or something. He said there was just something about me–yeah, I actually used to show up for his booty calls. This tap is all used up, he’ll need to go find that somewhere else.
I think I have some sort of GPS device located inside of me that draws the ex-boyfriends out of the woodwork and gives them some sort of signal that I’m back in town and want to bump into them in a big public awkward way. Especially with the “what was I thinking” ex-boys. No really, what was I thinking? It’s like my brain was shut off for a really long time or something and I just plain had bad boy judgment. They smoke, dress weird and cheat. They are too old and too young. They say all the wrong things and aren’t cool to my friends.
I dragged a couple of my friends out to see a local band play that I love and it was totally like an episode of The Hills as they stood there awkwardly in their heels and Scottsdale girl outfits texting on their Blackberry’s while all the random people of Tempe danced around them. So I’m standing there enjoying the scenery when I turn around and run smack into the ex-boyfriend that hates me. The too-old one. After an extremely uncomfortable mumbling of words and a side hug he runs off all flustered and I turn back to my friend’s grimaces and inevitable “you dated that guy?” questions. Yeah…
Then I start getting calls from a pseudo-ex. We only dated for a couple of weeks when he called me up on the phone to break up with me which is how I found out we were that serious to warrant a break-up. Bastard. This was followed by a string of booty calls that I did not initiate and it was just bad. So he starts calling me and saying how sorry he is and how much he has changed and how he “didn’t realize what he had till it was gone”. Yeah, he seriously said that. He said he missed talking to me and just hanging out with me so I hesitantly agree to hang out with him again. But then that very same night he totally tries to booty call me! And every night since he booty texts me, actually. I’ve told him to “suck it” but he will not let up. I asked if his other booty calls dried up or something. He said there was just something about me–yeah, I actually used to show up for his booty calls. This tap is all used up, he’ll need to go find that somewhere else.
I just can’t quit you: My love affair with my DVR
Saturday, April 25, 2009 / current mood: smirky
Now that I have my satellite TV back I have gone completely insane. Not just because I can now watch TV, where before I read a lot, maybe complained about not having TV, but because I have a DVR. Back when I was a positive member of society, you know, one of those people with a job and, I don’t know, things to do, my trusty DVR recorded all the shows that I didn’t have time to watch during the week and would spend all day Sunday watching them and fast-forwarding through the commercials.
But now, being a negative member of Mexiciety, I still feel the need to set up timers and record everything even though I have nothing to do but watch TV. Because I’m insane. I’m so used to watching recorded shows, that when I’m sitting here watching “live” TV, I don’t really know what to do during the commercials. So I will try to find another show to flip to during the breaks and there are just too many options and I start stressing out that I’m missing something and so I set up a timer to record it later and then when it starts to record something I watch something I already recorded because I have one of those old school DVR’s that don’t let you watch another channel while recording.
I think satellite TV might be making me a bit schizophrenic. Like right now I’m flipping between Kathy Griffen: Straight to Hell and Women Behind Bars. The fact that I can just switch from comedy to murder and feel completely fine about it is a sign of some sort of disorder, isn’t it? What about my obsession with forensic CSI Law and Order shows? Am I mentally wrong because I can’t stop watching shows about people getting murdered?
And now that I’m catching up on news I’m feeling more in touch with not so much the world but with America. When I say the news I mean The Soup on E!. Celebrity gossip is like my secret vice. I’m addicted to it.
Now that I have my satellite TV back I have gone completely insane. Not just because I can now watch TV, where before I read a lot, maybe complained about not having TV, but because I have a DVR. Back when I was a positive member of society, you know, one of those people with a job and, I don’t know, things to do, my trusty DVR recorded all the shows that I didn’t have time to watch during the week and would spend all day Sunday watching them and fast-forwarding through the commercials.
But now, being a negative member of Mexiciety, I still feel the need to set up timers and record everything even though I have nothing to do but watch TV. Because I’m insane. I’m so used to watching recorded shows, that when I’m sitting here watching “live” TV, I don’t really know what to do during the commercials. So I will try to find another show to flip to during the breaks and there are just too many options and I start stressing out that I’m missing something and so I set up a timer to record it later and then when it starts to record something I watch something I already recorded because I have one of those old school DVR’s that don’t let you watch another channel while recording.
I think satellite TV might be making me a bit schizophrenic. Like right now I’m flipping between Kathy Griffen: Straight to Hell and Women Behind Bars. The fact that I can just switch from comedy to murder and feel completely fine about it is a sign of some sort of disorder, isn’t it? What about my obsession with forensic CSI Law and Order shows? Am I mentally wrong because I can’t stop watching shows about people getting murdered?
And now that I’m catching up on news I’m feeling more in touch with not so much the world but with America. When I say the news I mean The Soup on E!. Celebrity gossip is like my secret vice. I’m addicted to it.
Armpit acne, anorexia and electro-shock therapy
Friday, April 24, 2009 / current mood: contemplative
The other day I woke up and I had a zit in my armpit. A. Zit. In. My. Armpit. How does this happen? And ew. There goes any thought of wearing a tank top for God knows how long. Just try popping a zit in your armpit. Go ahead and just think about popping a zit in your armpit. It’s impossible, first of all, and hurts like I would imagine plucking pubic hairs would be. Why would one even get a zit in their armpit? Maybe it’s from my new Teen Spirit Sexy flavored deodorant.
So my armpit zit and I spent the evening sitting on the sofa, watching TV when a show came on HBO called Thin that was about a bunch of girls in treatment for eating disorders. It was really sad and all that. But whenever I hear about eating disorders it always makes me think about my own Skinny Girl Syndrome. I’ve been skinny my whole life, sometimes too skinny and have always been plagued with that little twinge in the back of my mind that I’m getting fat whenever I gain even a little bit of weight. Now I would never do anything about it and could never be anorexic or bulimic but not because I know it’s wrong or anything but because I lack the commitment. I just like food too much to not eat at all and when I puke, it’s a traumatic experience for me. I cry and it hurts and I can’t force myself to yak at all. Even with the finger down the throat. *sigh*
While I’m in my DVR coma with my armpit zit thinking about how exhausting an eating disorder would be Scott calls me into the other room to once again fix the Playstation. He cannot for the life of him change out the Playstation and DVD player cords. So I go in and unplug one thing and when I go to plug in the other I get electrocuted. Ok, maybe I didn’t get electrocuted so much as shocked. A little bit. But it did make my fingers tingle for like two hours.
The other day I woke up and I had a zit in my armpit. A. Zit. In. My. Armpit. How does this happen? And ew. There goes any thought of wearing a tank top for God knows how long. Just try popping a zit in your armpit. Go ahead and just think about popping a zit in your armpit. It’s impossible, first of all, and hurts like I would imagine plucking pubic hairs would be. Why would one even get a zit in their armpit? Maybe it’s from my new Teen Spirit Sexy flavored deodorant.
So my armpit zit and I spent the evening sitting on the sofa, watching TV when a show came on HBO called Thin that was about a bunch of girls in treatment for eating disorders. It was really sad and all that. But whenever I hear about eating disorders it always makes me think about my own Skinny Girl Syndrome. I’ve been skinny my whole life, sometimes too skinny and have always been plagued with that little twinge in the back of my mind that I’m getting fat whenever I gain even a little bit of weight. Now I would never do anything about it and could never be anorexic or bulimic but not because I know it’s wrong or anything but because I lack the commitment. I just like food too much to not eat at all and when I puke, it’s a traumatic experience for me. I cry and it hurts and I can’t force myself to yak at all. Even with the finger down the throat. *sigh*
While I’m in my DVR coma with my armpit zit thinking about how exhausting an eating disorder would be Scott calls me into the other room to once again fix the Playstation. He cannot for the life of him change out the Playstation and DVD player cords. So I go in and unplug one thing and when I go to plug in the other I get electrocuted. Ok, maybe I didn’t get electrocuted so much as shocked. A little bit. But it did make my fingers tingle for like two hours.
Ssssiiiiiigggggghhhhhhh…
Monday, April 20, 2009 / current mood: eh-
I am able to watch all the recorded shit though, so that’s a plus.
OF COURSE. My satellite dish just fell off the roof. Only my dish; everyone else’s is fine. Even funnier is that it wasn’t even windy when it fell off. You know why, don’t you? Because I just told everyone how super great it was having TV again. It’s like saying “what’s the worst that could happen?” or “nothing bad could possibly happen now!” or “sure, I’ll let you trim my hair, Scott.”
I am able to watch all the recorded shit though, so that’s a plus.
More bugs…
Monday, April 13, 2009 / current mood: grossed out
Today I met what is loosely translated into a “deer killer” spider. They are called this because they jump up and attack a deer and stick their teeth or stingers or whatever they have into the deer and kill it. It was a little spider, maybe about 2 inches long, it was white all over and had 8 creepy crawly legs. But the special part is that it also had 2 arms that reached out all scary and wanting to kill me like I was a deer.
First off I was thinking, oh God, oh God get that thing away from me. (The kitchen staff at the bar had caught it and put it in a jar.) Once I was informed of the name of the creepy crawly, my case of the willies began to subside and I was overcome with the absurd notion that they had deer here in Mexico. I’ve never seen a deer. Maybe because of this spider I haven’t. I’ve seen a bunch of mangy dogs and cats, a mini-horse, some peacocks, a turkey and some donkeys, but no deer.
This reminds me of a special day back when we lived in the trailer. I was asleep and all of a sudden the door opened and Scott shoved a jar in my face that contained the biggest, angriest most terrifying white scorpion I have ever seen. I already have issues with scorpions (remember the scorpion/leg hair incident) so imagine my reaction to being woken up from a dead sleep with one of the little devils right in my face.
The next day I wasn’t even entirely sure if it had happened, I thought maybe it was a horrible dream since Scott knows about my fear of scorpions. But when I asked he laughed and thought the look on my face when I saw the monster was apparently quite a hoot. The bastard.
First off I was thinking, oh God, oh God get that thing away from me. (The kitchen staff at the bar had caught it and put it in a jar.) Once I was informed of the name of the creepy crawly, my case of the willies began to subside and I was overcome with the absurd notion that they had deer here in Mexico. I’ve never seen a deer. Maybe because of this spider I haven’t. I’ve seen a bunch of mangy dogs and cats, a mini-horse, some peacocks, a turkey and some donkeys, but no deer.
This reminds me of a special day back when we lived in the trailer. I was asleep and all of a sudden the door opened and Scott shoved a jar in my face that contained the biggest, angriest most terrifying white scorpion I have ever seen. I already have issues with scorpions (remember the scorpion/leg hair incident) so imagine my reaction to being woken up from a dead sleep with one of the little devils right in my face.
The next day I wasn’t even entirely sure if it had happened, I thought maybe it was a horrible dream since Scott knows about my fear of scorpions. But when I asked he laughed and thought the look on my face when I saw the monster was apparently quite a hoot. The bastard.
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Saturday, April 11, 2009 / current mood: fresh
I’ve been dreading the day I would run out of my Secret Clinical Strength and have to purchase some Mexican deodorant. I dreaded this because I’ve notice that pretty much the only fragrance of deodorant they sell here is Baby Powder Fresh, which I absolutely abhor. I’m very picky about how my pits smell for some reason. I’m particular about a lot of smells, but I don’t have a “wine-taster’s" nose or palette for that matter. I can’t for the life of me smell or taste the woodsy pine berry oak flavored smokiness of whatever that red stuff happens to be in my glass that will no doubt turn my teeth and lips purple while I try to look all classy drinking it.
But yeah, for some reason, every woman in Mexico wants to smell Baby Powder Fresh. Just to think about that particular scent causes my upper lip to twitch. The stores all carry an astonishing variety of brands of deodorant, but good luck finding any that are not Baby Powder Fresh scent.
Today I squeezed the last little bit out of my Secret Clinical Strength deodorant that I possibly could. (Not sure what the “clinical strength” in Secret Clinical Strength actually means. Is this like the strongest deodorant they could make that made the lab monkeys not smell like stanky hairy animals that sniff their own and each other’s butts with glee? Which begs the question: At what point of armpit stench have I gotten to where I have to use this particular “clinical” level of deodorant? Have I arrived at the stinky monkey butt-sniffing point?)
So just when I was starting to eyeball Scott’s Old Spice, (one thing worse than smelling like fresh baby powder: smelling like a spicy old man. I try to get Scott to buy another flavor but he would just as soon be wearing Butt-Sniffing Monkey Spice for all he cares. He gets the It’s What They Had At The Convenient Store deodorant.) I found, sitting on a shelf in a pharmacy all by itself, a stick of Teen Spirit. Flavor: Sexy.
I get home, absolutely thrilled about my Teen Spirit purchase and only slightly contemplating the surprising fact that they still make Teen Spirit, and I go straight into the bathroom (because it just seems wrong to apply deodorant in any other room of your house) and put on my Sexy Teen Spirit. The only thing is, instead of a stick of deodorant or the click kind that just smooshes the stick up, it’s a liquidy roller kind of deodorant. So after rolling on my Sexy I have to walk around for 5 minutes with my arms up in the air so my pits don’t stain my shirt.
What kind of shit is that? This roller deodorant makes my pits wet. So where I was previously just smelly, I now look sweaty. This is the stupidest idea ever. Roller deodorant. And as far as making Deodorant and Antiperspirant separate entities, well, what’s the point of having good-smelling sweaty pits or smelly dry ones? It’s a big Body Odor Industry Conspiracy.
But yeah, for some reason, every woman in Mexico wants to smell Baby Powder Fresh. Just to think about that particular scent causes my upper lip to twitch. The stores all carry an astonishing variety of brands of deodorant, but good luck finding any that are not Baby Powder Fresh scent.
Today I squeezed the last little bit out of my Secret Clinical Strength deodorant that I possibly could. (Not sure what the “clinical strength” in Secret Clinical Strength actually means. Is this like the strongest deodorant they could make that made the lab monkeys not smell like stanky hairy animals that sniff their own and each other’s butts with glee? Which begs the question: At what point of armpit stench have I gotten to where I have to use this particular “clinical” level of deodorant? Have I arrived at the stinky monkey butt-sniffing point?)
So just when I was starting to eyeball Scott’s Old Spice, (one thing worse than smelling like fresh baby powder: smelling like a spicy old man. I try to get Scott to buy another flavor but he would just as soon be wearing Butt-Sniffing Monkey Spice for all he cares. He gets the It’s What They Had At The Convenient Store deodorant.) I found, sitting on a shelf in a pharmacy all by itself, a stick of Teen Spirit. Flavor: Sexy.
I get home, absolutely thrilled about my Teen Spirit purchase and only slightly contemplating the surprising fact that they still make Teen Spirit, and I go straight into the bathroom (because it just seems wrong to apply deodorant in any other room of your house) and put on my Sexy Teen Spirit. The only thing is, instead of a stick of deodorant or the click kind that just smooshes the stick up, it’s a liquidy roller kind of deodorant. So after rolling on my Sexy I have to walk around for 5 minutes with my arms up in the air so my pits don’t stain my shirt.
What kind of shit is that? This roller deodorant makes my pits wet. So where I was previously just smelly, I now look sweaty. This is the stupidest idea ever. Roller deodorant. And as far as making Deodorant and Antiperspirant separate entities, well, what’s the point of having good-smelling sweaty pits or smelly dry ones? It’s a big Body Odor Industry Conspiracy.
My own personal pet cemetery, Mexican and otherwise
current mood: eh
Today the dog that ate my cat just had a batch (a litter?) of bastard puppies that I can’t help but fall in love with because–hello, puppies, cute!–and also feel totally responsible for their well being. Dammit all to hell and back again. The funny thing is (and this is probably only funny to me because Mexico has made me even more insane than I was before) that the cat that this dog ate was named Cow because she looked like one and one of the puppies of the dog that ate Cow looks like a cow. So now I want this cow-dog and I’m feeding and hovering over the mom like she was mine all along and didn’t eat my little Cow.
Cow was just the latest of my pets that have kicked the bucket. I have a long torrid history of pets that just seem to all get killed in horrible ways. I feel a bit responsible in the way that I have boat loads of bad luck and maybe this is transferring to my pets in a really bad death sort of way because they are smaller than me. I don’t feel responsible in the way that I didn’t personally kill any of my pets and I did have good intentions each time I “rescued” my animals. Poor things. When I walked into the humane society to pick out my kitties there should have been someone behind me yelling “dead cat walking” as I walked from cage to cage picking out which one’s time was up on death row instead of adopting it.
Before Cow there was Chloe. She was a Mexican puppy that some waiter we met named Flash (don’t know why he was called Flash) left behind when his dad came down here and forced him to go back home to the states because he was not being good in Mexico. (People usually aren’t.) So I take the little nugget home and for the longest time I think it’s a boy dog and am calling him Efren after the nice Mexican cop that helped me get my car out of the Impound where the cops killed our first Mexican puppy, Squishy. I had Chloe a grand total of maybe 3 months in which she grew exponentially and continued to want to sleep on my head. (I am a cat person. It freaks me out how big dogs get in such a short amount of time and how clingy they are.)
To make a long story short Chloe bit it. The dust, that is. Some bastard poisoned her. Not sure why someone would go out of their way to kill a dog in Mexico that actually belonged to someone instead of the random packs of crazed scraggly dogs I’ve talked about previously. Not sure why someone would go out of their way to kill a dog in Mexico in general.
Now we will move further back in time to my first Mexican pet mentioned above. A puppy I met when I first moved here whom I called Squishy because he had a broken leg. So my boyfriend Scott and I try to fix him up and take him in and feed him and he becomes our Squishy. The cops ended up killing Squishy in the Impound. They left him in the car but did take the time to steal my prescription Coach sunglasses. I hope that whatever bitch is wearing those sunglasses right now gets strange and horrible behind the eyeball headaches each time she puts them on.
Before my move to Mexico I lived in Arizona where I lost 2 cats to evil cat-eating coyotes. One named Ragamuffin (brother to Pootie), the other Lola. My mom always tries to tell me that they just got out one day and were roaming the neighborhood and some nice family took them in thinking they were strays and are now living on a ranch with lots of other cats to run around with and mice to eat.
She told me the same thing about the one and only dog my family ever owned: a retired greyhound named Susie-Q (she came with that lame name, I had nothing to do with it). Since we were much more a “Cat Family” than a “Dog Family” my mom told me that she and my dad gave Susie-Q to a nice family in Texas that owned several other greyhounds on a ranch with a lot of land that she could run around in circles on for the rest of her retirement. My mom, bless her heart, always lets it slip out years later that the lies she tells to placate us are complete fabrications and that Susie-Q got out and ran away and they have no idea what happened to her and that she probably got hit by a car or something. It’s not that my mom is a bad liar, it’s that she either feels really bad about lying in general or she just plain forgets that she was “trying to make you feel better.”
I’m a bit reluctant to get a new pet, but not reluctant enough to not get a new kitten. And I’m not getting a new kitten to replace Cow (and Chloe and Squishy and Ragamuffin and Lola and Susie-Q) but–actually, yeah, pretty much to replace Cow. I went out to look at a batch (once again, litter? Cluster? Whole heap?) of kittens to pick one to be my “New Cow” and as I pointed to the little white one and said “That one” in the back of my mind my finger turned into the boney finger of the Grim Reaper pointing to the little white cotton ball of fur and doomed the poor thing before it even had a chance to live it’s silly little cat life. I should probably just name it R.I.P. and start making the little kitty headstone now. (Now thinking about it, what would the headstone say? R.I.P., R.I.P.?)
I’ve been told that it is my bad luck that is killing these animals and that by wanting them, feeding them or just plain being around them is giving them their death sentence. Like I was walking by this house one day and they have this sort of doofy looking mini horse thing. He’s smaller than a pony but bigger than a mini-horse. He’s brown and white and his mane is black and sticks straight up in the air like a mohawk. I immediately loved him, named him Dexter, and wanted to take him home with me. (They never said anything about pets on my lease and he’s just a little horse.) Scott put his foot down on trying to liberate Dexter from his pseudo-mini-horse poo-covered coral and leading him to our apartment where I would have proceeded to tether him to the bars on our front window. So I resigned myself to feeding him carrots and apples and petting him and talking to him whenever I pass by.
When our neighbor Mike found out that I’d been feeding Dexter he shook his head and said very matter-of-factly that we should expect a meteor to shoot down from the sky any day now and squish Dexter into oblivion. But then he was kind enough to tell me that I could name the crater left by said meteor after Dexter. If I didn’t deep down know that he was most likely right I would have kicked him in each shin. Be on the look out for Dexter Crater coming soon to Puerto Peñasco.
Cow was just the latest of my pets that have kicked the bucket. I have a long torrid history of pets that just seem to all get killed in horrible ways. I feel a bit responsible in the way that I have boat loads of bad luck and maybe this is transferring to my pets in a really bad death sort of way because they are smaller than me. I don’t feel responsible in the way that I didn’t personally kill any of my pets and I did have good intentions each time I “rescued” my animals. Poor things. When I walked into the humane society to pick out my kitties there should have been someone behind me yelling “dead cat walking” as I walked from cage to cage picking out which one’s time was up on death row instead of adopting it.
Before Cow there was Chloe. She was a Mexican puppy that some waiter we met named Flash (don’t know why he was called Flash) left behind when his dad came down here and forced him to go back home to the states because he was not being good in Mexico. (People usually aren’t.) So I take the little nugget home and for the longest time I think it’s a boy dog and am calling him Efren after the nice Mexican cop that helped me get my car out of the Impound where the cops killed our first Mexican puppy, Squishy. I had Chloe a grand total of maybe 3 months in which she grew exponentially and continued to want to sleep on my head. (I am a cat person. It freaks me out how big dogs get in such a short amount of time and how clingy they are.)
To make a long story short Chloe bit it. The dust, that is. Some bastard poisoned her. Not sure why someone would go out of their way to kill a dog in Mexico that actually belonged to someone instead of the random packs of crazed scraggly dogs I’ve talked about previously. Not sure why someone would go out of their way to kill a dog in Mexico in general.
Now we will move further back in time to my first Mexican pet mentioned above. A puppy I met when I first moved here whom I called Squishy because he had a broken leg. So my boyfriend Scott and I try to fix him up and take him in and feed him and he becomes our Squishy. The cops ended up killing Squishy in the Impound. They left him in the car but did take the time to steal my prescription Coach sunglasses. I hope that whatever bitch is wearing those sunglasses right now gets strange and horrible behind the eyeball headaches each time she puts them on.
Before my move to Mexico I lived in Arizona where I lost 2 cats to evil cat-eating coyotes. One named Ragamuffin (brother to Pootie), the other Lola. My mom always tries to tell me that they just got out one day and were roaming the neighborhood and some nice family took them in thinking they were strays and are now living on a ranch with lots of other cats to run around with and mice to eat.
She told me the same thing about the one and only dog my family ever owned: a retired greyhound named Susie-Q (she came with that lame name, I had nothing to do with it). Since we were much more a “Cat Family” than a “Dog Family” my mom told me that she and my dad gave Susie-Q to a nice family in Texas that owned several other greyhounds on a ranch with a lot of land that she could run around in circles on for the rest of her retirement. My mom, bless her heart, always lets it slip out years later that the lies she tells to placate us are complete fabrications and that Susie-Q got out and ran away and they have no idea what happened to her and that she probably got hit by a car or something. It’s not that my mom is a bad liar, it’s that she either feels really bad about lying in general or she just plain forgets that she was “trying to make you feel better.”
I’m a bit reluctant to get a new pet, but not reluctant enough to not get a new kitten. And I’m not getting a new kitten to replace Cow (and Chloe and Squishy and Ragamuffin and Lola and Susie-Q) but–actually, yeah, pretty much to replace Cow. I went out to look at a batch (once again, litter? Cluster? Whole heap?) of kittens to pick one to be my “New Cow” and as I pointed to the little white one and said “That one” in the back of my mind my finger turned into the boney finger of the Grim Reaper pointing to the little white cotton ball of fur and doomed the poor thing before it even had a chance to live it’s silly little cat life. I should probably just name it R.I.P. and start making the little kitty headstone now. (Now thinking about it, what would the headstone say? R.I.P., R.I.P.?)
I’ve been told that it is my bad luck that is killing these animals and that by wanting them, feeding them or just plain being around them is giving them their death sentence. Like I was walking by this house one day and they have this sort of doofy looking mini horse thing. He’s smaller than a pony but bigger than a mini-horse. He’s brown and white and his mane is black and sticks straight up in the air like a mohawk. I immediately loved him, named him Dexter, and wanted to take him home with me. (They never said anything about pets on my lease and he’s just a little horse.) Scott put his foot down on trying to liberate Dexter from his pseudo-mini-horse poo-covered coral and leading him to our apartment where I would have proceeded to tether him to the bars on our front window. So I resigned myself to feeding him carrots and apples and petting him and talking to him whenever I pass by.
When our neighbor Mike found out that I’d been feeding Dexter he shook his head and said very matter-of-factly that we should expect a meteor to shoot down from the sky any day now and squish Dexter into oblivion. But then he was kind enough to tell me that I could name the crater left by said meteor after Dexter. If I didn’t deep down know that he was most likely right I would have kicked him in each shin. Be on the look out for Dexter Crater coming soon to Puerto Peñasco.
A How To Guide for Spring Breakers: Get Mugged, Beat by the Policia, Depress Dorky Bartenders, Banned from the Bars and Rescued by a Mutt in One Night
current mood: seriously considering a career in arson
Spring Break in Rocky Point can be a difficult time for gringos, mostly because life in Rocky Point can be a difficult time for the Policia always. So when Spring Break rolls around, it’s their chance to make a little extra cash. My boyfriend Scott is walking home on the beach the other night and is mugged by a bunch of guys. Then somehow the cops show up and proceed to beat on my boyfriend some more with billy clubs. Why? I’m not really sure. Scott says it’s because he wouldn’t give them any more money.
Now, everywhere in Mexico they are saying to NEVER EVER give a cop money because it is extortion and they are ending all the corruption by getting a new police chief, new mayor, firing all the cops in town and hiring a bunch of brand spanking new ones. It says on websites and publications and makes for good reading at the border while you are waiting in the 4-5 hour lines that if a cop should ask you for money you should not give them any and follow them to the police station where you will fill out forms and pay money for said infraction there. If they insist on being paid right then and there you are to take their name, badge number and vehicle number and report them. What it does not tell you is what you should do if said cops begin to beat you with billy clubs. No time to take down names and badge numbers from the fetal position you are in as they are pounding away on your kidneys.
About this time either a cop or a mugger (same difference at this point) tries to drown Scott in the ocean by holding his head under the water. I’m not sure how or why (he’s not even sure the exact chain of events) but the muggers and cops leave and a random mangy dog has Scott by his broken nose and drags him out of the ocean. So he’s sitting there alone on the beach, beaten, bruised and soaking wet, with a dog slurping the ocean water off of his swollen face. At some point a beach security guard shows up and helps Scott to his security car where he offers him a change of clothes and a ride home. Surprisingly, the security guard did not ask for or try to beat any money out of Scott.
Well the next day Scott shows up at a bar fairly early, being all beat about the liver and kidney and broken nose and wanting a drink, and really, who can blame him? (I personally would have been on my deathbed in the hospital with a morphine drip permanently attached to my vein.) Well the bartender of this particular establishment, who I will call Johnny Vegas, proceeds to tell Scott that he can’t come into the bar for a month because it is depressing him that Scott has such bad luck and wants him to get his life together. So Scott is getting his life together this month at the bar next door.
Also, to bring a bit of Schadenfreude into it, this year’s Spring Break was a complete bust. And not the good kind of boob bust. Nobody is coming down here because it’s all scary and rapes and murders at the border, then when you get here, it’s all mugging and arrests and policia trying to take your money. All the owner’s of bars and restaurants and whatnot are saying that all this “not true and bad press” is hurting their business.
So the bar that banned Scott had these license plates made up that say “I Survived Mexico and I’m Going to Come Back!” But what I really think they should say is something like “I Survived Mexico and All I Got Was the Clap!” or “I Survived Mexico Today, But We’ll See How Tomorrow Goes!” or “I Survived Mexico, and All That Happened Was I Lost My Money, Beat Up By the Policia, Got the Clap, Banned from Most Bars, Lost My License and Passport in the Ocean and They Impounded My Car!” That last one may be a bit personal. Except for the Clap part. What is the Clap anyway? Like syphilis?
Speaking of The Clap, I once went with one of my friends who I will call Veronica to Urgent Care after her night with a bartender for what she assumed was a bladder infection. We were sitting in the room chatting and waiting for the doctor to come in, Veronica was sitting on the table and I was in an ugly orange plastic chair by the door when she busts out with, “I hope I don’t have The Clap,” really loud and echo-y in the room. It took me by such surprised and because it was so unexpected and in the middle of a completely different conversation I began to laugh uncontrollably.
I was clutching my sides and crying and leaned forward and fell out of the ugly orange chair with a huge clatter. A few seconds later the doctor pokes his head in looking all concerned by the noise and sees Veronica on the table red faced, wide-eyed and laughing and me on the floor, tears streaming down my face next to the overturned chair and asks if everything is ok. I wonder to this day if he heard the loud declaration of Veronica’s before the big crash. And what he actually expected to find when he opened the door.
Now, everywhere in Mexico they are saying to NEVER EVER give a cop money because it is extortion and they are ending all the corruption by getting a new police chief, new mayor, firing all the cops in town and hiring a bunch of brand spanking new ones. It says on websites and publications and makes for good reading at the border while you are waiting in the 4-5 hour lines that if a cop should ask you for money you should not give them any and follow them to the police station where you will fill out forms and pay money for said infraction there. If they insist on being paid right then and there you are to take their name, badge number and vehicle number and report them. What it does not tell you is what you should do if said cops begin to beat you with billy clubs. No time to take down names and badge numbers from the fetal position you are in as they are pounding away on your kidneys.
About this time either a cop or a mugger (same difference at this point) tries to drown Scott in the ocean by holding his head under the water. I’m not sure how or why (he’s not even sure the exact chain of events) but the muggers and cops leave and a random mangy dog has Scott by his broken nose and drags him out of the ocean. So he’s sitting there alone on the beach, beaten, bruised and soaking wet, with a dog slurping the ocean water off of his swollen face. At some point a beach security guard shows up and helps Scott to his security car where he offers him a change of clothes and a ride home. Surprisingly, the security guard did not ask for or try to beat any money out of Scott.
Well the next day Scott shows up at a bar fairly early, being all beat about the liver and kidney and broken nose and wanting a drink, and really, who can blame him? (I personally would have been on my deathbed in the hospital with a morphine drip permanently attached to my vein.) Well the bartender of this particular establishment, who I will call Johnny Vegas, proceeds to tell Scott that he can’t come into the bar for a month because it is depressing him that Scott has such bad luck and wants him to get his life together. So Scott is getting his life together this month at the bar next door.
Also, to bring a bit of Schadenfreude into it, this year’s Spring Break was a complete bust. And not the good kind of boob bust. Nobody is coming down here because it’s all scary and rapes and murders at the border, then when you get here, it’s all mugging and arrests and policia trying to take your money. All the owner’s of bars and restaurants and whatnot are saying that all this “not true and bad press” is hurting their business.
So the bar that banned Scott had these license plates made up that say “I Survived Mexico and I’m Going to Come Back!” But what I really think they should say is something like “I Survived Mexico and All I Got Was the Clap!” or “I Survived Mexico Today, But We’ll See How Tomorrow Goes!” or “I Survived Mexico, and All That Happened Was I Lost My Money, Beat Up By the Policia, Got the Clap, Banned from Most Bars, Lost My License and Passport in the Ocean and They Impounded My Car!” That last one may be a bit personal. Except for the Clap part. What is the Clap anyway? Like syphilis?
Speaking of The Clap, I once went with one of my friends who I will call Veronica to Urgent Care after her night with a bartender for what she assumed was a bladder infection. We were sitting in the room chatting and waiting for the doctor to come in, Veronica was sitting on the table and I was in an ugly orange plastic chair by the door when she busts out with, “I hope I don’t have The Clap,” really loud and echo-y in the room. It took me by such surprised and because it was so unexpected and in the middle of a completely different conversation I began to laugh uncontrollably.
I was clutching my sides and crying and leaned forward and fell out of the ugly orange chair with a huge clatter. A few seconds later the doctor pokes his head in looking all concerned by the noise and sees Veronica on the table red faced, wide-eyed and laughing and me on the floor, tears streaming down my face next to the overturned chair and asks if everything is ok. I wonder to this day if he heard the loud declaration of Veronica’s before the big crash. And what he actually expected to find when he opened the door.
Schadenfreude (and further decent into Haterville)
current mood: evil and happy about it
I can’t help but smirk, even laugh out loud sometimes when something bad happens to certain people that I love to hate–or hate to love, for that matter. Like how great was it when Britney went crazy, shaved her head, started dating the paparazzi and beat a car with an umbrella? That’s when Schadenfreude sets in. Schadenfreude is a German word that means to take pleasure in another’s misfortune. They don’t even have a word in English for that.
I’d like to say that I in no way take pleasure in anyone’s misfortune, but who am I kidding? Who is anyone kidding, for that matter? Not a single one of you hypocrites can honestly say that you didn’t smile when Mariah went crazy and worked out on her Stairmaster in stilettos, when you see the Gary Busey psycho scary mug shot, when Tara Reid got her hideous boob job and stood there in all her drunkenly ignorant bliss with one huge round scarred tit exposed for all the world to see for like 5 minutes before someone finally pulled the strap of her dress back up. Now that’s humor.
I even get a cruel pleasure from seeing the misfortune of the non-famous sometimes. But that is usually about people that I already don’t like or have been poopy to me at one point or another. Does this make me evil? No, I think it makes me normal.
I’d like to say that I in no way take pleasure in anyone’s misfortune, but who am I kidding? Who is anyone kidding, for that matter? Not a single one of you hypocrites can honestly say that you didn’t smile when Mariah went crazy and worked out on her Stairmaster in stilettos, when you see the Gary Busey psycho scary mug shot, when Tara Reid got her hideous boob job and stood there in all her drunkenly ignorant bliss with one huge round scarred tit exposed for all the world to see for like 5 minutes before someone finally pulled the strap of her dress back up. Now that’s humor.
I even get a cruel pleasure from seeing the misfortune of the non-famous sometimes. But that is usually about people that I already don’t like or have been poopy to me at one point or another. Does this make me evil? No, I think it makes me normal.
Mexican cheese: good for nothing or am I just ‘not in the know’?
current mood: confused
There are 2 large-ish grocery stores in this little town. One is called SuperVal, the other SuperLey. We live by the SuperLey. Now, I get the Val, but the Ley? I just looked up ‘ley’ in the Spanish/English dictionary and ‘ley’ means ‘law’. So it means SuperLaw. I think it made more sense when it didn’t mean anything at all. Anyway, on our first ever shopping trip in Mexico we go to ‘SuperLaw’ and we buy bread and sandwich goodies and all that junk. They have an entire isle of oil. Just cooking oil as far as the eye can see. The rest of the shelves are half empty, but cooking oil, no problem there.
One thing I think I like but not sure is that everything is sold in single servings here. You don’t purchase a 6 pack of beer. You buy 6 cans of beer or maybe 5, if you are so inclined. See, the thing is that they will ring up each and every can anyway, so just get as many as you really truly want! You don’t buy a pack of gum, you buy sticks of gum. This goes for housewares too! Don’t think you might go and pick up a set of plates or silverware. Nope, you get one fork at a time, amigo. From a giant crap-shoot vat of mismatched forks.
Later that night Scott cooks up an interesting concoction of potatoes and sausage and cheese. But the slices of cheese won't melt. Not even a little bit. We had the fuckers sitting right on the flame and still nothing.
So I eventually pick up this magazine that the cover story just so happens to be about Mexican cheeses and it actually talks about how most of the cheese doesn't melt. How weird is that? What good is unmeltable cheese? I mean, really? Well, I guess they could make fire-retardant suits for the firemen out of that cheese. I think it would be best to Super Glue the slices onto fabric rather than attempting to sew the cheese into the form of a coat. The down side is that they would probably have packs of crazed hungry dogs chasing after them trying to eat their outfits. But the flames would be repelled. So they would have to weigh those options.
On top of the cheese fiasco, we couldn’t get any grease out of the meat or cheese. (I am told that when one cooks one sometimes requires a grease sort of residue for one reason or another.) Shoulda' rethought that oil purchase...
There are 2 large-ish grocery stores in this little town. One is called SuperVal, the other SuperLey. We live by the SuperLey. Now, I get the Val, but the Ley? I just looked up ‘ley’ in the Spanish/English dictionary and ‘ley’ means ‘law’. So it means SuperLaw. I think it made more sense when it didn’t mean anything at all. Anyway, on our first ever shopping trip in Mexico we go to ‘SuperLaw’ and we buy bread and sandwich goodies and all that junk. They have an entire isle of oil. Just cooking oil as far as the eye can see. The rest of the shelves are half empty, but cooking oil, no problem there.
One thing I think I like but not sure is that everything is sold in single servings here. You don’t purchase a 6 pack of beer. You buy 6 cans of beer or maybe 5, if you are so inclined. See, the thing is that they will ring up each and every can anyway, so just get as many as you really truly want! You don’t buy a pack of gum, you buy sticks of gum. This goes for housewares too! Don’t think you might go and pick up a set of plates or silverware. Nope, you get one fork at a time, amigo. From a giant crap-shoot vat of mismatched forks.
Later that night Scott cooks up an interesting concoction of potatoes and sausage and cheese. But the slices of cheese won't melt. Not even a little bit. We had the fuckers sitting right on the flame and still nothing.
So I eventually pick up this magazine that the cover story just so happens to be about Mexican cheeses and it actually talks about how most of the cheese doesn't melt. How weird is that? What good is unmeltable cheese? I mean, really? Well, I guess they could make fire-retardant suits for the firemen out of that cheese. I think it would be best to Super Glue the slices onto fabric rather than attempting to sew the cheese into the form of a coat. The down side is that they would probably have packs of crazed hungry dogs chasing after them trying to eat their outfits. But the flames would be repelled. So they would have to weigh those options.
On top of the cheese fiasco, we couldn’t get any grease out of the meat or cheese. (I am told that when one cooks one sometimes requires a grease sort of residue for one reason or another.) Shoulda' rethought that oil purchase...
Good times and making out with Amy Winehouse, Bobby McHottie and a Nun in the snow…
Tuesday, March 24, 2009 / current mood: sullied and unusual
When I was a younger girl I was on some sort of retreat in the snow and I loved Bobby McHottie because he was a hottie and he sang in a band and had a chick hair cut and–let’s move on. So I loved Bobby and then the bastard started to make out with my bestest friend Amy Winehouse even when she looked her worst and all cracky.
So I drove off and went to the house we were staying at and there was a nun there who may or may not have been AmyWinehouse’s mom who would only send telegrams. Not because she was all virtuous and nun-like and swearing off modern technology because she had a flat screen and and iPhone, but because she was cheap.
So then I decided to not care that Bobby and Amy are making out and Amy and I go back to our room where I proceed to tell her that my brain is mush. Even though there was no crack smoking for me. Just for her. She did start to look better after she made out with McHottie, but not much. Because standing next to him, any girl would look bad. He is a very pretty boy. A very very pretty boy.
Ummm, yeah. Dreams are weird like that.
When I was a younger girl I was on some sort of retreat in the snow and I loved Bobby McHottie because he was a hottie and he sang in a band and had a chick hair cut and–let’s move on. So I loved Bobby and then the bastard started to make out with my bestest friend Amy Winehouse even when she looked her worst and all cracky.
So I drove off and went to the house we were staying at and there was a nun there who may or may not have been AmyWinehouse’s mom who would only send telegrams. Not because she was all virtuous and nun-like and swearing off modern technology because she had a flat screen and and iPhone, but because she was cheap.
So then I decided to not care that Bobby and Amy are making out and Amy and I go back to our room where I proceed to tell her that my brain is mush. Even though there was no crack smoking for me. Just for her. She did start to look better after she made out with McHottie, but not much. Because standing next to him, any girl would look bad. He is a very pretty boy. A very very pretty boy.
Ummm, yeah. Dreams are weird like that.
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