Quick (Bor-ing!) Update

Hey, remember when I said that I'd be back sometime this week? Well, that was a lie. I'm not back. In fact, this isn't even me. It's a ghost writer named, uh, Urgle Grue?

It's been a successful holiday, for the most part. I have a ton to write about and lots of pictures to post. Christmas in New Mexico was definitely a lot different than Christmases spent in Arizona. For starters, it was freezing! Oh, and there was some sort of white business all over that I heard the natives refer to as "snow". I don't know that word but I'm told that's what it's called. One cousin even told me you could eat it. Um, what? Crazy New Mexicans.

I'm heading up to Phoenix for New Years to spend it with some of the best, if not the most awesome, people I know. It should make for some good times. I'll post more about it next week. For realsies this time.

What a Wally-World

Who was I kidding? We all know that being the only one working on Christmas Eve equals blogging.

After receiving a basket of ass from the Universe yesterday (no really, you didn't have to Universe. This doesn't come with a gift receipt? *sigh* Of course it doesn't), I have to go to Wal-Mart to get my tire fixed. What happened to my tire, you ask? Fuck if I know, I'm not a scientist. Alls I know is I was walking to my car yesterday feeling pre-eetty sorry for myself when I noticed my tire was flat. FLAT. Whys it gotta be like that, Universe?

But don't worry, my five faithful readers, my writing here today is evidence that I did indeed live through the Seriously, A Flat Fucking Tire Are You Kidding Me?! Fiasco Of 2008. It'll be one for the history books, but at least I can tell my kids that I was there and I only sort of panicked before calling every person I knew to ask for help. This is exactly why I should listen when my dad is trying to teach me to change a tire instead of making jokes. Stupid comedy.

I digress. As a result of the aforementioned S,A.F.F.T.A.Y.K.M?!F.O.08, I have to go to Wal-Mart to get a patch put on my tire. That's right. Wal-Mart. On Christmas Eve. Wait, let me rephrase that. I mean I have to go to the bowels of Hell on what should a holy evening before a holy day. Wal-Mart is a terrible place under normal circumstances. But under Christmas related circumstances? I am honestly afraid for my life.

But y'know, thanks to the Great Cheering Up Efforts of The Evening Of December 23rd, I'm not in a bad mood about it. Yeah, it blows, but by the end of the day I'll be with my friends drinking and watching Christmas movies. And tomorrow by 10 a.m. I'll be in New Mexico with my family, drinking some more and playing in the snow.

All in all, I guess it could be worse. Wish me and Luna* luck today as we try to make it to Wal-Mart by 5 without being murdered and/or murdering others. Amen.

*My Corolla was originally named Sky Masterson (from Guys and Dolls) because it was smooth on the road, much like Sky was smooth with the ladies, and one good looking hunk of metal, again, much like Sky except for the whole being metal part. However, after much consideration, Sky Masterson has been re-christened Luna "White Stallion" Lovegood, or Luna for short. My first car was named Neville because, like Neville Longbottom from Harry Potter, it didn't really serve any purpose but I loved it anyway. Luna (the car) has a light complexion and I imagine would talk in a light, high pitched voice similar to the actress who plays Luna (the person) in the Harry Potter films.**

**I take my car naming seriously, thank you very much.***

***No, I'm not in therapy. Why do you ask?

Year Round Dickery

It's been a rough morning. It all started at 2 a.m. I slept on the couch last night because I was alone. My family is in New Mexico for Christmas and when they're not home, the house feels too big. The couch seemed like the only welcoming place. My dog spent half an hour barking at the front door, something both irritating and kind of creepy. I woke up when my alarm went off with a crick in my neck and a dog on my back.

Then, in a rush to find an umbrella and make it into work without being late, I locked myself out of the house. And since I am a certified genius (I won a grant and everything) and keep my house and car keys on the same keychain, I realized that I was a.) royally fucked and b.) locked out of the house...in the rain...without an umbrella...with a mean case of the frizzies. Someone cue the violins.

After a knight in shining armor showed up in The Black Egg (thanks again, M!), it was off to work where things were a little hectic. Nothing I haven't handled before, but I couldn't shake off the crappy bits of the morning and I felt kind of bleh in general.

By 10:30 or so, things were looking up. Work had quieted down and I was starting to unwind. Then a guy came in. He was scruffy looking with a red beard and fogged glasses. He was tense and annoyed the second he came through the door.

"I need a permit," Red Beard grunted. His voice was gruff and he slapped down an envelope on the desk. He's not here to fuck around. I understand that, nobody wants to waste time doing unpleasant errands. But if you needed a permit by the end of the year, maybe coming in December Motherfucking 23rd wasn't the best idea.

Of course, because the Universe has a sense of humor, we don't have the permit he needs. In fact, he's at the wrong place entirely. The only place he can get the type of permit he needs is in Phoenix. Great. I let Red Beard in on the bad news.

"You people keep giving me the run around!" he bellowed. "I'm not going to Phoenix when you should have what I need here." I've dealt with assholes before, this guy should be no different.

"I'm sorry sir," I said. "We don't issue those permits here because that piece of land isn't part of our property. I can give you the Phoenix number if you'd like."

"I'd like to tell you where you can take this whole damn state," he said. Deep breaths, I tell myself. I smiled him, trying my best to remain courteous.

"You're ridiculous," Red Beard growled at me. He picked up his envelope and stormed out.

Fucking prick, I think. A guy from down the hall, who heard the whole exchange, walked up to me.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We didn't have what he was looking for," I said. I could feel my face start to get red and tears began to well up. It wasn't just Red Beard. Everything shitty about the past few days and the morning that preceded it had finally caught up to me. Being alone in a house that's too big, trying to accomplish goals that seem unattainable, feeling grossly inadequate about everything in my life. Everything I'd been successfully avoiding for the past couple weeks found me the second Red Beard walked out the door and took my confidence with him.

"Hey," the guy from down the hall said. "If someone is ever acting like that, my office is only a few doors down."

"Yeah, I've dealt with people like that before," I say. Christ, I can't believe I'm about to cry at work. "It just takes me a minute to process it. I mean, it's Christmas, the time of year people are supposed to be on their best behavior."

"Don't worry about it," the guy says with a shrug. "Some people are dicks year round."

I laugh. Can't argue with that.

Also, I think this may be the last post before Christmas. I'm leaving Thursday to New Mexico to join the rest of the familia, so I'll be on Christmas Vacation* until sometime next week.

Happy Christmas, all.


*Sans Chevy Chase, of course.

Think About It, Hollywood

Holy God, it's freezing in my office! I just spent the last five minutes in the bathroom washing my hands because the water that comes out of the faucet is warm. Sweet, warm bathroom water.

Seriously, this is ridiculous. I realize it's Christmas week and nobody gives a shit, but it'd be really nice if I could make it to Thursday without getting frostbite or hearing Morgan Freeman narrate March of the Penguins because it's so cold there's actual penguins in here. In fact, I propose that someone make March of the Penguins 2 and film it in my office. Real people, real setting. I even made up a poster* for your consideration, Hollywood:


"I wish I could tell you it wasn't so cold in that office and that KV fought the good fight and the cold just let her be. I wish I could tell you that- but the office is no fairy-tale world."

Just sayin'. You could film it guerrilla style and pay myself and my co-workers to act in it. Although you'd probably have to haul in some penguins and maybe some snow. And Morgan Freeman. And probably a script. But other than that, I think it's a pretty solid idea.

*I think it would be in my best interest to learn Photoshop. Don't get me wrong-- Microsoft Paint is awesome. But to take my time wasting skills to the next level, I think I may need to learn how to alter photos and paste someones head on a body that's not theirs like the pros.

Watching Movies and Knit

It's a Saturday night. Are you doing one or more of the following:

• Knitting?
• Watching The Departed?
• Drinking a margarita flavored wine cooler because you couldn't find actual wine?
• Wearing sweat pants at 8 p.m.?
• Popping Tylenol and Ibuprofen because your back hurts?
• Convinced your hands have the arthritis?
• Wondering if 8:15 is too early to go to bed?
• Telling your dog not to judge you?

If you answered no, congratulations. You're probably a normal, outgoing twentysomething. If you answered yes to any of the above, consider one more question:

• Are you an old woman?

If you answered yes, then you and I are in the same boat. Now can someone please make me some tea? My bones are cold.

4 Boys

A quadruple threat of yum just barged into my office. Four young, muscular and very gorgeous guys came to the desk at work to ask for some general information. So not only are they dangerously* handsome, but they're in fatigues. That's right, Army boys. They're joking with each other and calling me ma'am. Where do I sign up? Clothing is optional in the Army, isn't it?

They need to leave a a $100 deposit. The leader, the cute brunette with blue eyes, only has $40. His buddies pull out crumpled wads of greens from their fatigue pockets. Another $30, a $10, $7.

$87. I want to tell them that I'll just take it, but we can't jerk around with the deposit. So one of them pulls out a quarter. Then a dime. Before I know what's happening, they have another $10 in change. They start to pull out pennies and I say, "That's enough, guys. I'll just take what you have. You don't have to keep pulling things out of your pants."

They laugh. "I was this close to selling my skivvies," one of them says. Maybe I should have let them keep going.

As they leave, one of them, Sommers, stops to shake my hand. "Thanks, ma'am."

"Sure," I say. "Have a good one."

Aside from being one man away from a fantasy, those guys were wonderfully refreshing. They looked my age with baby faces. I don't know where they're from or if they're away from their families, but they were enjoying each other and making the best of the situation. A lot of times, people will come in and freak out if they don't have the right amount of cash or we don't have what they're looking for. They blame each other, they blame us, sometimes they just leave without a thank you or even acknowledge us as human beings. Those people leave a sting that stays with me all day.

"Assholes," I'll mutter trying to shake it off, but their shit attitude stays with me. Sometimes at the end of the day it takes all the energy I have left not to drop armfulls of files and just leave. Thanks to the boys in green though, today will not be one of those days. Today will be a day when I can go home and think, "Y'know, today wasn't so bad to get through."

Thanks, beautiful boys in green.

*I say dangerous because it's almost stroke inducing how cute they were. Is it possible to die due to adorable overexposure?

Dirty Christmas

Today, Garland and I took a drive to the mall so I could finish up my Christmas shopping. All was going well, then this happened:

Me: I hate it when people are too southwestern. I get that you like it here, but enough with the kokopellis already.
Garland: What about boot tassles?
Me (confused): Boob tassles?!
Garland: Yes, boob tassles. Except they're southwestern so they're bolero tie boob tassles. And in the middle are kokopellis.
Me: That would be so heavy! It'd make your boobs sag so much that National Geographic would have to film you.
Garland: Like a really dirty native tribe. The Inaprop-Hopis.

After that conversation, the day went from a good day to an AMAZING day. It was the first day I actually felt in the Christmas spirit. After I dropped Holly off I drove home with the windows down and let the wind whip across my face. I looked at the sky and thought, "Good one," to whoever was listening.

Good one, indeed.

Dating the 10-year-old way

Tonight I was going to blog about my Christmas shopping, IHOPing, gym going and other general -ings, but the powers that be (read: Garland) is making me entertain her. I AM NOT A MACHINE! So I'm doing what any other sane, rational person would do: I'm writing about our conversation in the blog because that way I kill two birds with one stone. Win-win.

Turns out, writing and talking are hard to do at the same time. I'm writing right now and she's humming the Jeopardy theme song. New subject.

I went to Target tonight to get my present on. Because everyone knows that Christmas is all about going broke buying people things they kinda, sorta want. But I digress. I only had one goal in mind: to buy my cousin/goddaughter something awesome. When I was little, I judged people solely on how good their presents were. There's always the family member who gets you socks or, god forbid, underwear. You pull out a pair of granny panties in front of everyone one time and suddenly it's "Grandma KV" this and "knit me some socks" that. But Christmas was always saved by the cool family member who got you the newest toy, an amazingly warm sweater or pretty much anything with flashing lights. I want to be that person for my goddaughter. I am not above bribing kids to like me.

So I'm perusing the toy aisle asking myself, "What did I like when I was ten?" Now there's a question. I can't even remember what I liked a month ago, let alone eleven years ago. I end up in the board game aisle, awe struck and overwhelmed.

"I know, I'll get her Uno," I thought. "That way everyone can play and enjoy the game."

Then I looked to the left and saw Twister. "That might be fun," I thought. "She'll get a little exercise and learn about sexual tension when she plays with her friends."

Then I looked to the right and I saw it. A High School Musical Mystery Dating Game. I couldn't take my eyes off it. When I was a tween, I used to have a Mystery Dating Game, except it wasn't High School Musical. It was from a little show I like to call Saved by the Bell. That's right. I, like everyone else in 1993, was not immune to the curly haired mullet that graced Mario Lopez's pre-pubescent face.


AC Slater showed up on screen and it was like, "I'll AC your slater*."

But I remember loving that game. I was so hip. I was totally with the times. As I stared down High School Musical Dating Game, I knew that was the one. So I bought it and brought it home. And now I'm having second thoughts. The Mystery Dating Game was awesome when I was 10, but ten years later it's just embarrassing. Furthermore, why should 10-year-olds be worrying about dating? And just why is Zac Efron staring at me so intensely? Is there something on my face?


I don't know that I feel comfortable about him staring at my 10-year-old cousin so, lustily.

So, the Mystery Dating Game sits on the chair across from me. Zac Efron's weird kidnapper face stares at me as if to say, "You know you want to date me. C'mon, just roll a 6 or an 8 and we can make-believe date all night long." No. No I don't want to do any of those things. But Dani might. So, I think I'll keep it.

After all, everyone needs an Aunt Tina.

*My sexual innuendos don't have to make sense.

Suck it, math class

I'll forget about you, but don't you forget about me.

Let's talk about me!

Sorry for not writing in a few days. I've been busy and in all honesty, not really in a blogging mood. I haven't really been in a "I'm going to accomplish something today!" mood in a while. I blame the holidays. Christmas rolls around and it's just an excuse to check out early.

"Hey KV, did you get that file I asked you for?"
"No. I've been busy preparing for the holidays. I completely forgot."
"I hear ya. Christmas is coming up quick this year!"

It's those seven magical words: I've been busy preparing for the holidays. It's like civilized code for "Hell naw, I ain't done shit since December 1st!" I know this cause I haven't. I've got an incurable case of the lazies. Sure, my body has gone to work, school, out with friends, hill climbing and treadmill running, but my mind is where it always is: wondering when I'm going to be able to lay around in bed all day and watch movies. Because that's mostly how I want to spend every minute of every day for the rest of my life. Is it possible to have a job where one just lays around and watches movies all day? Like my own personal Mystery Science Theater 3000 except (sadly) with less robots.

However, I will settle for being a professional Channel watcher. Someone could pay me six figures to sit around (with or without pants) and watch The National Geographic Channel, The History Channel, The Discovery Channel and The Discovery Health Channel. Hell, I'd even throw in the TLC channel for no additional charge. Really, you're the one getting the deal. I'm just the lady who's been wearing the same tank top for three days watching TV on your couch. Just sayin'.

Anyhoosie, I'll try and get around to writing more this week. Maybe about something meaningful, but no promises. I've got to prepare for the holidays, you know.

It's not Christmas until it sparkles

Today at work, this happened:

Co-worker: Hey, how was your weekend? Have you done any Christmas decorating?
Me: Not really. I've been kinda busy, which is too bad for Christmas because the way I decorate would make Santa cry and elves sing.
Co-worker: Really? Why don't you put up the Christmas decorations for the office? The decorations are in the box in the basement.
Me: Uh, well I'm kinda busy and I don't have the basement key right now and--
Co-worker: I'LL GO GET THE BOX!!

Crap. Did I say I could decorate? I meant to say that I can watch others while they decorate and provide helpful comments ("That balloon is a little lopsided", "The table cloth is wrinkled", "I'm hungry"). Decorating freaks me out because there are just too many options to commit to. Should I put the Christmas tree in the center of the room or off to the side? Should I wrap garland around it? What if I moved the coffee table over to make room? Should I move the rest of the furniture around? There are literally limitless options when it comes to decorating. It's like the old choose-your-own ending books. I don't want to chose my own ending. You're the one who wrote the book!

But, I didn't want my co-worker to think I was a dirty liar, so I bit the bullet and decorated. And let me tell you, I decorated the crap out of the front office. I used the only fool-proof technique that I know for Christmas decorating: wrap things in sparkly garland.



That snowman was boring and kind of off-putting before the sparkly garland. And the pine cones? Puh-lease, forget about it. I fell asleep twice trying to wrap garland around those bad boys because they were so dull. And now? Well, let's just say that once you lay down in a bed of sweet, itchy garland, you never go back.

The heck is this?!

Today I come home from work to find my mother, my own flesh and blood, entertaining the bane of my existence: Tyra Mother Effing Banks. I DO NOT CONDONE TYRA BEING IN MY HOUSE AND ENTERTAINING MY MOTHER.

I hate her so much (Tyra, not my mom). But since my mom frowns upon me telling her what to do, Tyra "Plague Upon The Earth" Banks is still using our television set to transport herself into our living room. That's right, my home, the one place of comfort and safety, is now filled with the loud sounds of a shrewish banshee woman. And who does Tyra think she is? You know what I hate, when she tries to "open people's eyes" to the injustice in the world. Like when she dressed up in a fat suit and lived a day like a plus-sized girl.



Hey, guess what? I didn't need Asshat VagWeiner to dress up in a fat suit to tell me that being fat sucks. I've pretty much been able to figure that out myself. And of course because she's Tyra and a fart face she was all up in people's business about it. Like she would walk up to random strangers and be like, "I'm fat! Why are you judging me?!" and then when they looked at her strangely, she would be like, "People treat you so badly when you're overweight." No, people treat you badly when you're a crazy D-list celebrity dressed in the worst fat suit I've ever seen.

There was just a preview for another episode of her show where they make a little white girl drink dirty water from a water bottle so she can know what it's like to "live in Africa". Puh-lease, Tyra. You're no Oprah.

For Christmas, I'm going to ask Santa to please expel Tyra banks from the face of the earth by any means possible. Or at least cancel her shows. Or a pony.

Prime and Commiting Crimes

About a month ago, I made a choice to take a late start math class.

I know, I thought. I'll get a jump ahead for the spring semester.

Guess what? It was the wrong choice. When I get ideas to shortcut it with subjects like math, I forget that I'm not good at math. In fact, one could argue that I'm terrible at math. I am to math what fire is to wood: a bad idea.

In high school, I would doodle all over my math notes when I no longer felt like paying attention. I guess I should specify that math is difficult for me because I don't care about it. It's not that I'm stupid, it's that I'm lazy. I'm lazy and I couldn't care less about factoring and real and imaginary numbers. Last I checked, I was able to survive 21 years without knowing the quadratic formula and as soon as I pass this class, it'll fade back into oblivion just like all the other useless knowledge I've accumulated. I'm looking at you, lyrics to every Will Smith song and that animal sexual behavior class I took that one time.

I thought I was past my doodling phase. I've taught myself write down the notes, bite the bullet and just get past college algebra. But tonight showed me some things never change.



In case you're wondering, yes, that is two prime numbers in their number-mobile running me over. That's what sitting in a math lecture for three hours makes me feel like on the inside.

Is it time for turkey yet?

Thanksgiving up in here

It's Thanksgiving! Well, almost. Some of us still have our day jobs, y'know. We can't all just take the day before a holiday off and go galavanting around town with the top to the car down and being fun and fancy free. And by all that, I mean that I have exactly 13 minutes left at work so this is gonna be a quick one.

I hope everyone has a fun and super delicious day tomorrow. I'll be going to my uncle's house in Queen Creek and hanging out with my family, all 159 of them. My uncle makes the best food I've ever had the pleasure of putting in my mouth.* Don't believe me? Well check this: he likes to wrap things in bacon. Oh, you want some shrimp? How about shrimp with a bacon blanket. What's that? You want some zuchinni? You know what you make that zuchinni dance in your mouth? A nice strip of bacon. Ok, so maybe it sounds gross when I talk about it here but you get the picture.

I'm off! And since I'm too lazy to Google a picture of a turkey, here's a fancy picture of the Northern Lights that someone at work sent me.


Pretty!


*I don't have time for a "that's what she said" reference, but you get the point.

This immune system isn't big enough for the both of us

This is a picture of a healthy, well-functioning cell (the yellow guy) eating and beating the shit out of some anthrax (that poor orange bastard):


This is what your immune system should do. It should attack disease and sickness like an old west outlaw. My immune system should be like the rough and grizzled sheriff that everyone is afraid of. And disease should be like the new, headstrong but foolish outlaw. Sure, Disease may have claimed the cells of helpless immune systems a couple towns away, but he's too silly to realize this was one immune system he should have left alone. This is one immune system that's tired of running from fugitive deases and renegade illnesses. This is one immune system that's not afraid to fight back.

But, seeing as I'm sick for what is literally the tenth time this year, I imagine my immune system is a little more like this:






Really, immune system? You were fooled by a fake glasses/mustace combo AGAIN? I'm going to die by contracting the common household variety cold. And at my funeral people will be like, "Wait how'd she die again? Wasn't it something cool like a zombie bite or falling 200 feet from a cliff face or being smushed to death by a monster truck?" And my loved ones will have to respond, "No. She caught a cold one too many times." There will be shame in their voices and shame upon my family. You mark my words.

Magnus Samuelsson ain't got nothin' on me

I joined a gym today. I had previously been a member of particular lady gym that shall remain nameless (but not lame-less). I was kind of unhappy there and the ladies who worked there were bitches. I already had kind of crappy self-esteem so I don't really need Nazi work-out ladies riding my ass while I was trying to tone that exact same ass.

So after putting in a year at the lady gym, one of my friends suggested I join the gym he was going to. I'm all for breaking a sweat with friends (nothing strengthens the bond between friends like sweating profusely and grunting excessively*) so I agreed.

I'd been a member of this gym before when I was younger so I wasn't too nervous about going back. When I was a member of LA Fitness, I had to give myself a half hour pep talk and drink three Red Bulls before I could even step foot inside. And even then I could only spend twenty minutes on a machine before the voice in my head that said "HOLYSHITEVERYONEISLOOKINGATMECAUSEI'MSWEATINGTOOMUCH" took over and I became two breaths away from being the gym's resident crazy lady. It was a bad scene.

But this gym is more laid back. Nobody cares what you're doing and I like that. I feel good about this change. I've lost a good amount on my own just kind of half-assing it, so now that I'm thinking about maybe possibly putting in a solid effort maybe the rest of what I want to lose will come off easier and/or quicker. Plus I get really hyped up on the endorphins and by the time I leave there I'm relatively positive I could bench press a Volkswagon Beetle if I needed to. In fact, today when I left, I gave a fellow gym goer a high five and accidentally launched him across the parking lot.** Guess I don't know my own strength, which can happen when you look like this:


This is me. Actual size too. Jealous?


* That's what she said.
** This may or may not have happened.

If I only had a brain

Today at work, someone called and asked for directions on how to get to our building. I'll admit it; our building is kind of difficult to find if you're not from Tucson. The freeway is a mess of orange tape and rubble and hasn't been open in years. It's like the apocalypse happened only on this little strech of freeway. If you're coming from Phoenix and looking for our building, it's not going to be an easy quest. Many people don't survive the journey. But you know what's interesting about people: most of them can take directions. If I say, "Head east down Broadway towards the grey building" most folks will know what that means. Most folks, but not the dumb girl who inspired today's post.

Dumb Girl called a bunch of times looking for our building. I said head east down Broadway and she heard "find a hotel parking lot". I said turn around and head south towards the Art Museum and she heard "find a Baggins". She's dumb and passive aggressive.

"There's no grey buildings. You said you were in a grey building," she says.

Lady, we're the only grey building. Downtown looks like it was painted by a six-year-old on a sugar high with a new box of Crayolas. We're the drab looking one on the left. The only building left uncolored in a sea of bright pinks, beighes, magentas, blues and, fuck, every color except grey.

"Wait, is it the one with windows?" she asks.

Yep. We're the only building in the entire city to have windows. It's a recent development, something the rest of the city hasn't caught onto yet.

God, Dumb Girl really gives a new meaning to dumb. Finally she gets here and looks exactly how I imagined her. She's wearing a shirt that doesn't fit right and is way too low cut for an office environment. And not that I looked (note: I totally looked), but her chest blossoms were nothing to write home about. If you're going to pull out the girls to give yourself an extra advantage, then at least have something to show. It was a lot of hype for nothing, much like college and my first kiss (zing!).

Her skirt also was revealing a bit too much, like say, glitter body lotion. How on earth is glitter body lotion appropriate for a sales pitch or job interview or whatever the fuck she's here for? That means that wherever she sits, there's going to be a greasy, glittery residue left behind. Which means that whoever sits in the chair after her is going to be covered in second-hand glitter and the cycle will just continue until we're all covered in stripper glitter. I don't want to be covered in stripper glitter. Not again.

I hate Dumb Girl with every fiber of my being for no other reason than she's a moron. I might be a bitch, but at least I know how to dress appropriately for my job and follow directions. Which reminds me, she even printed something from Google maps to find out how to get here. Google maps knows everything. I could type in "my purpose in life" and then click the "get directions" button and Google would direct me to my purpose in life using clear, concise language and a map for easy viewing. Come to think of it, that might be easier than actually doing all this soul searching.

I've compiled a list of things Dumb Girl could get directions to on Google maps:

- A brain
- A properly fitting shirt
- Victoria's Secret (if you're going to be a slut, at least own a good push-up bra)
- A shower
- On-coming traffic
- A better handshake. Pussy!
- Conversational skills. I can hear the meeting and she's bombing. I don't mean that in the sense that she's awesome, I mean that in the sense that she's dropping out of the sky like a destroyed fighter plane. War analogies are always appropriate. You don't know.

EnV2, will you marry me and commit to a lifetime of good reception?

I forgot my phone at home today. I feel cut off from the world. Everytime I forget my phone (which believe me, isn't often), I get really stressed out and anxious. What if someone really imporant is trying to call me? What if I'm missing out on some hilarious text from a friend? What if I've won something and they're calling to let me know but I'M NOT THERE TO ANSWER?!

My skin gets all goosebumpy and my voice gets really high pitched. I've been trying to mentally teleport my phone to my office building all morning. So far, no go. Damn it, this is why I need to be enrolled in Hogwarts instead of lame, no magic college. I could apparate anything in a matter of seconds. But no, I'm enrolled in learning-through-boring-textbooks-and-lectures-instead-of-flying-around-on-a-broomstick-and-hanging-out-with-Dumbledore college. Effing muggles, man.

Aside from missing my one true love (I'm looking at you, Verizon EnV 2), I'm feeling better. The weekend did me well. It was a weekend long birthday celebration of the awesome blossom that is M, my older, cooler brother. Drinks were served, vomit was plentiful, burgers were grilled and fun was had. I just found my camera today and let me tell you, that bad boy went on an adventure this weekend. So now there's photo documentation of all the drunken, obnoxious antics. Great. Perhaps I'll get around to posting them later. If I remember. Maybe.*

*Maybe not. My ego is still pretty bruised on account of me embarassing myself. I was all up on that shorty like, "Wassup yo?" and she was all, "You don't know 20 different ways to make me call you Big Poppa," cause I don't, yo.**

**What?

Feel Sorry For Me Like I Feel Sorry For Me

Guess what the fuck is up? Give you a hint: *my estrogen levels* Being a chick sucks sometimes. I've had a serious case of the fugs lately. I feel disgusting and am pretty sure I still look like Godzilla. So today, I decided to do some retail therapy.

Nothin' cures the blues like spending some greens.

Except, oh right, my wallet is empty. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. I gathered all my clothes that don't fit anymore or I don't wear anymore and decided that instead of donating them to charity, I was going to be selfish and sell them so I could get a little charity. It's a win-win situation, for me at least.

So I packed my shit up, stuffed it in a trash bag and went to the phenomenon that is Twice is Nice. Twice is Nice has a serious arrogance complex. It's above a Savers but definitely below a Buffalo Exchange. I'm sorry, you want me to pay how much for a pair of Kathie Lee Gifford jeans? But being poor and in desperate need of new jeans (but not desperate enough to buy anything from the she-devil known as Ms. Giffords), I sucked it up and went in.

Now, this may be icky, but everyone knows that shopping when your, uh, estrogen levels are off the fucking chain and you've gained five pounds in water weight is probably a bad idea. But time of the month be damned, I was going to try on some jeans. Big mistake.

Nothing fit. Nothing. Every pair of jeans in my size were tight in the waist or loose in the leg, or squeezed my leg to the point where I lost circulation or gave me a motherfucking muffin top. My dressing room was like a war zone. It was like I was young, fresh faced America and the British were coming back after all these years to claim my thighs in the name of the Queen. As if the Queen doesn't have enough stuff, the greedy bitch.

There were one pair of jeans though. Dark wash, boot cut and didn't make my ass look like it was two watermelons shoved in denim.

Not bad, I thought. Not bad at all.

So I look at the tag to see how much they are and what the brand is and find something terrible. They were Daisy Fuentes brand. DAISY. MOTHER. FUCKING. FUENTES.

Needless to say, I stripped out of those jeans like someone was gonna pay me money, threw them on the ground, stomped on them, collected my $50 in trade and bolted. Daisy Fuentes jeans deserve worse. So do my ovaries.

Whore-o-scope

As an informed, intelligent young woman, I often start my day out by reading the paper. Keeping up on current events is imporant, you know. But I'm going to let you in on a little secret. The entire time I'm scanning the latest headlines, all I'm thinking about is how many more sections I have to read before I get to the horoscopes. So my eyes may be reading "Robbery on South 6th Early Tuesday Morning" but my brain is wondering what gem of a prediction is waiting for me just six pages away.

My favorite place to read my horoscope is in the local paper, the Tucson Weekly. Most of the times they're pretty good. I should say that most of me just reads my horoscope for fun. I need something amusing me every second of every day or I'll collapse of boredom. True story. But there's a teensy, tiny, itty bitty little part of me that is just looking for some guidance. That itsy bitsy part of me reads the horoscope and thinks, "Wow, this free, weekly, liberal paper really gets me. This must be the Universe's way of telling me to get my shit together." Well, that little part of me that was so optimistic and believing just shrunk a little bit today.

Per the Tucson Weekly:

Cancer (June 21- July 22)
Dolphins love erotic play, according to the book "Dolphin Chronicles". For almost a third of their waking life, they caress and touch each other. They're ingenious about using their Frisbees, plastic boats and rubber balls as sex toys. Gender isn't much of an issue. There's as much same-sex as opposite-sex cavorting. If you'd like to place yourself in alignment with cosmic rhythms, Cancerian, you will consider taking a page from the dolphin "Kama Sutra" in the coming days. Remember, the key for them is simply to play freely without any specific goal. Bliss comes as much from experimenting with creative intimacy as from diving toward orgasm.

Uh huh, great. So does this mean I need to take a trip to Sea World? Should I buy a plastic boat and see what "adventures" I can set sail with? Or is this horoscope telling me it's time to just straight up get freaky with anything that moves? Cause I'm not going to lie, it'd be really cool to have a plastic boat. Not for canoodling purposes, but just to show off. I think that's what I'm choosing to take out of this week's horoscope. Dolphins around the world are humping and rubbing and I'm in Arizona playing with my plastic boat. Awesome.

I Hate Cute

I have something to admit that I feel like my gender frowns upon: I dislike cute animals. Well, maybe dislike is too strong of a word. I don't fawn over cats dancing or puppies wedged into small spaces. That dramatic chipmunk thing just freaked me out. When introduced to the Cute Overload site, it suddenly became the new bane of my existance. (Also I'm too lazy to insert the link so you're going to have to look it up yourself. It's way too much cute in one place, which has the opposite effect and just makes me angry.)

But today as I was going through my gossip web site line up, I found the cutest mother effing video. Ever. I watched it twice and giggled throughout the entire thing.



You loved it.

Backup Plan

Today I feel like this:



Which sucks for two reasons. The first of which being that feeling like I resemble a 50 foot tall dinosaur doesn't quite give me the self-esteem boost I'm looking for. The second reason being that if I were going to be any monster, I want to be a zombie. That's right. I want to be a rotted, green, eyeball missing, people eating zombie.

I'd make a good zombie because it'd be the easiest profession* ever. Their only goal in life, er, un-life, is to eat. Granted, what they eat is human flesh, but that's just a small price to pay to be a member of the everlasting un-dead party. All my worries about school, work, social standing and self-esteem would be gone because I'd be dead and wouldn't care. The only thing Zombie Karina would care about is eating and trying not to trip over my decomposing peers. My estimation of what a day would be like in the life of a zombie would go a little something like this:

7 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
8 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
9 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
10 a.m. -Wander around looking for food.
11 a.m.-3 p.m. - Groan.
4 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
5 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
6 p.m. - Stare at something off in the distance; wonder to myself if it's food.

I think you get the idea. If my plans to be a professional, well educated and well adjusted adult doesn't work out, I plan on becoming a zombie. So if in the distant future you see me wandering around, dead with half my arm missing, you'll know that behind my cold, lifeless eyes I'm smiling. But, uh, you probably don't want to get too close.


*This is of course assuming that being a zombie is on scale with having a full time job. You would have to have qualifications like, "Can eat up to 10 pounds of brain" and "Has 2+ years experience in being un-dead" and "willing to work holidays, weekends and dark, foggy nights".

I'll show you some Steps of Knowledge

Whew, another Halloween down the pipeline! Verdict: success. As promised, here's what I looked like as a Blue Barracuda.



Blue Barracuda was the best team from Legends of the Hidden Temple. Everyone knows it. So much so, that during our bar hopping we ran into another Blue Barracuda. Who knew so many former LOTHT fans liked to discover their very own Temple of Vodka on a Friday night.

The rest of the group looked great. Don't believe me? Don't be silly. Check 'em out.


M dressed up as Period Pants and Garland was an 80s fitness instructor.


Garland's sister and her fiance.


Deezy rockin' the no pants look from Risky Business.


When I tried on the Risky Business glasses, it looked like I was blind. And have carpal tunnel. So pretty much exactly what I was going for.


The ladies.

I have to be honest, most of the ladies we saw looked scandalous. Deezy was not the only one showin' off the risky business. Just by wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I felt way overdressed. We saw a couple girls wearing only underwear and corsets and one girl who was just in a bra and a small piece of fabric trying to masquerade itself as a skirt. Ladies, I realize Halloween is code for "vaginas dress like sluts". I get it and I've made peace with it. I'll even go so far as to say that some of the slutty fire fighters, slutty policewomen, slutty Dorothys and even that one slutty witch looked alright. But c'mon, wearing your underwear and putting animal ears on is just lazy. You aren't even trying. I mean, at least the slutty (insert job here) had some sort of idea what they wanted to be, even if they got it terribly, inappropriately wrong. Ladies, we're better than that. We're much more creative than that. And if you're not, then at least don't let the drunken Tin Man in the corner touch your yellow brick road. It's just ooky.

Hope you all had a good Halloween! Now onto November.

Teach Me, Sensei

I'm by myself at work today and bored. It's quiet and my dance party music isn't all that great company this morning.

There's a janitor here that kind of flirts with me when he comes up to do his janitorial business. He's a nice enough guy, but it just makes me really uncomfortable. He used to bring me flowers of the hand picked from someone's garden variety. I didn't have the heart (read: I'm a giant, passive aggressive, heartless robot) to tell him to fuck off, so I made up some story about how I already had a boyfriend. I thought that would pretty much be the end of that. I assumed that the boy radar in his head would say, Bummer, she's already got a hunky, super fly if not completley made up man and look elsewhere. It's not even like it was a good lie on my part. He gave me some flowers and I was all, "Oh cool, my boyfriend, who I've been dating and who I am seeing exclusively and who is the only guy I'm ever going to be interested in ever and please leave now, gets me flowers like this all the time."

Sadly, my boyfriend lie kind of backfired. Now The Janitor asks me about him all the time. My fake boyfriend works in a store not related to my job, has dark hair and is named Jason. I'm like a black widow with all these lies I'm spinning. Here's the thing though: I CAN'T STOP. I could be like, "Hey, I don't have a boyfriend. I made that up so you would leave me alone," but who actually says things like that? This isn't a Saved by the Bell special.

Unfortunately, this exchange happened today:

The Janitor: How's your boyfriend today?
Me: Oh, he's just fine. Still working at the store with his hair (I may not have said this part out loud).
The Janitor: So when are you guys getting married?
Me: Not for a while.
The Janitor: But you will get married some day, right?
Me: Probably, just not anytime soon.
The Janitor:Oh good, because you wouldn't want to be alone all your life, like you were before your boyfriend, right?
Me: Uh...

I think I may have met my passive-aggressive match! I still have so much to learn about the subtle, seething art that is passive-aggression.

Also, Happy Halloween everyone! Costume Blue Barracuda is making it's debut tonight on the streets of Tucson. Pictures to follow. Have a fun time tonight. Or don't. Whatever. I don't care.

Good one, entire male population

Hey, remember when I said at the end of the last post that I don't understand boys? Guess what-- that still totally holds true an entire day later.

As soon as I decide I'm done with the "boy sitch" and I'm going to move into a convent and hang out with nuns for the rest of my natural born life, the boys come a runnin'. Is there some sort of pheramone I'm giving off? In my head it goes like this:

Me: I'm done! I don't understand boys and I'm moving to the Island of Lesbos. (note: serious, Wikipedia it.)
Boys: Code Lesbos! Everyone swarm her with your adorable boy ways!

You know what, fine. I give up. Mark my words, every male who is not related to me, I don't fucking get you. I'm going to stop trying to understand your crazy ways and just keep on doing whatever it is I'm doing. If you want to date, hang out or whatever with me, I'm going to need a notarized letter, a copy of your birth certificate and at least one real date* before any sort of deal is sealed.

From now on, the only thing I will understand about boys is their love of zombie movies and making out. Everything else I'm going to chalk up to being horribly, horribly lost in translation.


*Note: One real date consists of a period of time where I dress up nice and you try to impress me by being witty, funny, cute, adorable or any combination of the four. It does not include offering to "hook my ride up" with new headlights, trying to get fresh before the check has come or letting me tag along with your friends while you're at a bar.

Slowly turning into Macho Man Savage (on the inside)

I can't decide if I'm having a good day or not. I think I am, maybe, kinda, a little, sort of having an alright, not terrible, eh, fine day. I can't settle on adjectives that I like! I feel like I'm split into two folks: Happy KV and Turning into The Hulk Inside KV.

Here are some things that are making Happy KV so damn chipper:

Friends
I'm just going to put this out there: my friends are bomb. They're amazing, hilarious, fun, ridiculous and all around mother effing awesome. But most of all, they all seem to have this sense where whenever I feel like blarg they happen to show up or call just to see what's goin' on. It also just goes to show that I don't keep crappy, lame, silly or redonk people around in my life. Homie don't play that, which leads me to my next point:

Silly Phrases
I think I get it from my cousin Beezy, but I will occasionally latch on to a word and say it until I have taken all meaning and coolness out of it. For example, I'm trying to make the word "woof" catch on. I've been trying for a while. Let me set the mood for you. Say you're at the mall/store/eatery and you see a girl dressed something disgusting. It's terrible. She's wearing something horrible like moccasin boots, cutoffs and a bedazzled sweater with feathers. And not only is her hair stringy, but she's wearing sunglasses inside. And her sunglasses are smudged. You have to squint to look at her because if you opened your eyes at full capacity, your brain would laugh in your face and then quit. You turn to your friend to point out the walking atrocity and the only word you can muster to describe it is, "Woof." It's a powerful word. Go ahead and try it out.

Halloween
There's something about dressing up as someone you're not that's wonderfully comforting.


And since I said it's a 50/50 sort of day, here are some things that are making me die a little inside, even as I write this. True story. I'm 1% more dead than I was a second ago.


The word "excellent"
This word has become dangerous to me. I started using it as part of the words I'm trying to bring into my vocabulary, but it has since gotten horribly out of control. I can't stop saying it. And try as I might, I can't say it without sounding like a.) a surfer from 1991, b.) stoned or c.) feeling like I should be in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. I am officially looking for a new word to bring into rotation that hasn't been popular since the late 80s.

My contacts and my eyeballs
Yesterday I went to put my contacts in and found that one of them was ripped. Ripped! Granted, I've been using these monthly contacts for 6 months now, but what the hell? There's nothing that will make me fly into an unsubstantiated rage quicker than having to break out my glasses. I feel like a huge geek and for some reason there's hair spray residue all over them, even though I haven't used hair spray since I was 14 and rocking the chola bangs. But I tried to make peace with it. Tons of people wear glasses, what's one more? Then today at work this happened:

Co-worker: Hey, I really like your glasses!
Me: Oh, thanks. (feeling less mutant like)
Co-worker: Where'd you get them? I'm trying to find some like that because I'm going to be Sarah Palin for Halloween.
Me: *sigh*

Sound effects eaters
Alright, this is a serious topic that needs to be discussed. I absolutely cannot stand people who make moaning, groaning or otherwise questionable pleasure noises whilst eating. Hey, I get it, that pear is delicious. It's so tasty it might even make you let out an involuntary moan or two. But I don't want to have to hear your sex noises because you're so smitten with your fruit. It's gross and kind of baffling. How is it possible to groan and swallow food at the same time? Any scientists in the house who can explain this to me? Mostly, it's just weird and makes me feel a little uncomfortable. In fact, sound effects eaters have just joined my own personal Axis of Evil.

Boys
Every last one of them are confusing and stupid. I remember thinking this when I was in fifth grade and a boy tripped me with a jump rope because he liked me. I remember thinking this when I was in 8th grade and had my first boyfriend. And I remember thinking it after every bad date, every bad argument, and every bad everything in between. Boys are silly and there is no point in trying to figure them all out.

Now that I think about it, tonight is Dollar Tuesday night at the local theatres, so perhaps my day is more 70/30 in favor of Happy KV. Good thing my love for cheap movies far outweighs any gripes I have with life at the moment. You win, Dollar Tuesday. You always do.

Hot Damn

I'm telling you, it's like I woke up this morning covered in sunshine. And instead of stress and insecurity, I'm surrounded by puppies and rainbows and cake. I'm talking like the most adorable puppies you've ever seen playing on a rainbow made out of cake. It's been a super splendid morning and there's absolutely no reason for it.

I also would like to point out that I think I have a new celeb crush.



Ladies and gents, Mr. Ben Foster. You may have seen his adorable face covered up with yuck in 30 Days of Night or wearing chaps in 3:10 to Yuma.

For those of you concerned, my fake husband Clive Owen is still around. But he's okay with Ben Foster being in the picture now. Clive is confident like that.

Don't judge me

Second to a Sitcom was feeling a little too pink. I'm messing around with the layout. Sorry the blog is a mess. It's just, I didn't know you were coming and I didn't really have any time to pick up. And my roommates left a total mess and..and...I'm working on it. Just have a seat anywhere. Except on that chair. It's not safe.

If I see a clown on a bike, I'm quitting

Last night I was bored so I watched Saw 3. It was gory and gross, but all around entertaining. I slept pretty good, woke up and came into work. This morning I ventured down into the basement of my office building to get some water from the break room. The basement has always been creepy, but I just chalked it up to fact that all basements are kind of scary and icky. But after watching Saw, I think I've figured out why the basement at work scares the holy ghost out of me.

My basement


Stills from Saw 3




I don't know for sure, but I think Donnie Wahlberg's dead body may be in the basement of my building.

Procrastinators Unite

Go figure. The day I plan to write about being a slacker I spend all day doing actual productive and meaningful work. Ha ha, good one, Universe. But the joke's on you Big Guy. Thanks to the magical wonder that is Wikipedia, I will always have a reason to put off doing something productive.

My friends, let me tell you about a little game called 7 Degrees of Wikipedia. It's the best game you're not playing. I know this because if you'd already heard of this game, you'd have no time for this blog because you'd be spending all your time trying to connect Erik Estrada to pie. Alas, I'm getting ahead of myself.

An old co-worker told me about this game and it's simple, easy to follow rules. It requires only two things: a love of wasting time and a working computer with Internet access.

First, pick any two subjects. It's better if it's two totally unrelated subjects. Example, Elizabeth Shue and actual shoes.

After you have decided on your subjects, head on over to paradise in the form of Wikipedia. Type in the first subject. So in this case, it's Elizabeth Shue. Now, here's the fun part. Since everything on Wikipedia is clickable, you have to connect Elizabeth Shue to actual shoes in 7 clicks. You can click on anything on the page. Any word that you think will get you closer to your goal, click it. You click on stuff 'til Kingdom Come! But don't worry baby diapers, I solved his one for you. Sit back and observe.

Step 1: Type Elizabeth Shue into Wikipedia
Click 1: "girl next door"
Click 2: "girly girl"
Click 3: "dress"
Click 4: :"shoe"

BAM! No need to thank me. The idea of everyone secretly playing 7 Degrees of Wikipedia on their work computers is thanks enough.

Happy Faux-Lumbus Day!

Do you know what today is? Columbus Day!



On the scale of holidays, Columbus Day just barely makes it. It is nowhere near the same level as Christmas, Thanksgiving or Halloween. I'd rank Columbus Day between Arbor Day and Summer Solstice. But, if my place of employment demands I take the day off to observe the day Columbus accidently discovered America, I'm not going to object.

To properly celebrate the day, I did what most people with the day off do: shop. I decided it was time to update my wardrobe for the fall and my bank account was all, "Sure, go ahead and shop for some new things...at the thrift store." So much like Christopher Columbus who came before me, I discovered and raided the thrift shop in the name of cheap fashion. I went in with a positive attitude. There was even a point during the first few minutes I was there that I thought to myself, Gee, I wonder why I don't shop here more often. Oh wait, now I remember.

CRYING BABIES WERE EVERYWHERE. How is it even possible to have that many crying babies in one place?! It's like the amount of crying babies are directly proportionate to the quality of the thrift store. I'd say the crying baby to grown-up ratio was about 1:3, which means the probablity of me banging my head against a rack of old hats drastically increased. It was terrible. But I will say that like Columbus I didn't leave empty handed. I purchased four shirts (the only clean shirts in the place) for less than $20.

Thanks for bringing disease, Christianity and dirty, crying babies to America, Columbus. God Bless America.

A Plague Upon Thee!

I am having quite the ass day. I went to bed in a terrible mood and it's like while I was sleeping, my mind was all, "Hey body, let's be super achy and lame tomorrow just to piss her off." So I woke up this morning even more angry and my body does indeed ache. Bleh. I feel like I'm on Grumpers Isle, population 1. But even when you're a Grumpy Angryson, you still gotta make that paper. So I'm here at work listening to my dance party music (that's these guys if you're interested) trying to shake myself out of the funk that is trying to smother me. It's not really helping. Although I should point out that in addition to being in a bitch mood, I do feel like dancing all my troubles away.

Also, Flickr refuses to upload the pictures I'm trying to work with. ARGH! What the hell, Universe?! That's it. A war is waged upon Flickr. And upon my work computer. And Tyra Banks, just because I can't stand her. So for those of you keeping track, my own personal Axis of Evil now looks like this:



I need to be doing some of this:

It's On

Gah! So here I am, minding my own business, having a good day. All is well and I'm happy. My mom called to take me out to lunch and everyone knows that having your parents take you to lunch is pretty much the best thing ever. I'm serious, it's right up there with finding a long lost $20 in your pants pocket and waking up Christmas morning. I sometimes forget how awesome my mom is, so I decided the least I could do for her is buy her a delicious, super yummy sandwich from Baggins.

Now keep in mind, it's been a good day so far. Work is going alright, my iPod radio is working today and I've got some good evening plans. We're at Baggins and I pull out my debit card, looking smooth and saintly for buying my mother lunch, and my card gets declined. DECLINED. What the eff just happened?!

Wells Fargo has once again screwed me. They wait until I get paid to charge me like a gazillion dollars in fees that don't even make sense. In fact, I'd like to take this opportunity to formally annouce that I am waging war on Wells Fargo. Next time I'm at the bank, I'm taking all the deposit envelopes and not telling anyone. And I'm going to steal all the pens and maybe even knock over a fake plant. My chewed gum is going beneath every hard surface in that joint. And those mint candies they have at the tellers counter? I'm stuffing all of them in my mouth. Then Wells Fargo will know what it's like to feel loss.

I'm going old school, ladies and gents. I'm getting a vacuum sealed bag, stuffing all my money in that, and then stuffing that bag into an old mattress. Because I truly believe that The Bank of Old Stained Mattress will be better than The Bank of Let Us Rape You With Our Fees.

You just wait 'til Christmas, Wells Fargo. I'm tipping over a Christmas tree. Mark my words.

Weekend Shenanigans

I realize it's not the weekend anymore. I was busy and didn't have time (read: was too lazy) to blog. What was I doing? I'm glad you asked (read: get ready for this week's blog post).



Friday

I should start by saying that I don't do girly things. I was raised with brothers and even my girl cousins were alway a little tomboyish. I don't do facials, I don't really get together with my girlfriends and watch "Sex and the City" and I'm not really one to paint nails or do make-up together with my lady pals. Yet on Friday evening, I pretty much did all of those things. Ria (of my Gossip Girl/OTH post fame) invited me over to watch movies and do facials. In the spirit of trying new things, I agreed. Here is what happened:




Looks like a good night, right? Then this happened:





I looked like a ghost. My face was whiter than my shirt and I'm pretty sure I scared myself by looking in the mirror at least once (read: three times).


Ria was having way more fun than me.





Saturday

Someone in my office told me about Oktoberfest. Since I've turned 21, I really want to go to things like this just to prove that I can. It's really weird, but I get a tremendous amount of joy when someone asks me for my ID. It's like, "Suck it, I can totally drink." I'm trying to tone down my looks of satisfaction.


I convinced my brother M, my sister-in-law Garland and my best friend Poppa J to accompany me to Tucson's own Oktoberfest (read: in the middle of a ball park). It was fun! We got some drinks, M and Garland got down with some Greek food, and a good time was had by all.

M and Garland rock the camera phone


Myself and Garland


Oh that guy? That's my pal Poppa J and his amazing hand face. I know, science should study him. That's what I keep saying.

I'd like to take a second to discuss the food situation. This Oktoberfest felt a little like the fair. There were booths where you could get food and beer, and then seperate booths where you could buy things or play games. Everyone was filling their bellies with beer and food, and we saw this guy.





I don't get people and their need to consume huge pieces of meat. But this guy, this guy was classic and not to mention, very enthused about devouring that baby thigh. Then Garland and I decided we'd really like pickles. You know, those gigantic ones that only taste good when you're walking around in public, suckling them and generally looking really inappropriate. We waited a ridiculous amount of time in a really long line, only to discover that we're really stupid and there were plenty of stands with pickles that did not have a line the size of Germany. We got our pickles, and some of us were less pleased than others.




Also, wtf is happening with my hair? It's like it's eating my face in order to try and get closer to that damn pickle. And apparently pickles turn me into a mutant. Weird.


After the Great Pickle Search of 2008, we capped the night off with a bag of kettle corn the size of my leg (read: Garland's body).



Love at first sight.


This picture was mostly taken to illustrate the classiness of the evening. If posing with kettle corn next to empty kegs of Coors Light doesn't scream sophistication, I don't know what does.


The rest of the weekend was great too. Hamlet in the park, watching movies, being lazy and late night drinking with friends made it a great weekend. Sometimes I forget how awesome my friends are and then weekends like this come and I'm like, "Oh yeah, this is why I continue to know these people." Duh.

Halloween For The Ladies

Whew! Today at work my computer crashed AND it was map inventory day. So, needless to say, doing actual work today was quite tiring. Also, I don't understand how people used to function without a computer. I mean, I know I had a life before computers but it couldn't have been that great, right? I don't know how I could've functioned all those years without knowing what celebrities were up to or what free stuff was up for grabs on Craigslist.

Anyway, do you know what today is? October 1st! So it is officially the first day of my Halloween costume search. I did what all Halloween enthusiasts do and went to Google. So here I am, searching costumes and I see that the women's costumes are are surprisingly similar.







I think it's pretty safe to say that the designers of women's Halloween attire pretty much follow this equation:




I don't know that I feel comfortable showing off my lady bits in Spandex outfits just yet. But I am considering being a contestant from Legends of the Hidden Temple (Team Blue Barracuda, of course) or Velma from Scooby Doo. Because Velma was a hip, hip lady who never got any play.

Holy Thursday!

Question: Which day of the week totally swooped down and rocked everyone's world?
Answer: Thursday.

Aw yeah, suck it Friday! Here comes Thursday, just trodding along totally unassuming and BLAM, pop culture goodness all over the place. Need something to watch? KAPOW, Thursday. Need something good to read? SHAZAM, Thursday. Yesterday was great for two reasons.

Reason 1: The Road by Cormac McCarthy



Okay, so I know I'm like a million years behind and everyone's already read this and even Oprah has recommended it, but Jesus. This book was more than a book. It was the most beautiful, heartbreaking thing I've ever read. It was brutal. I avoided all human contact yesterday in order to stay in my bed (that I fashioned into a fort for me and my dog, Simon). It was completley worth it. Cormac McCarthy is the master. I will never accomplish anything as amazing as Cormac McCarthy. It's a scientifically proven fact. Which leads me to add, you probably shouldn't read this book if you're depressed because you may not make it through. But barring a deep and soul crushing depression, READ THIS BOOK IMMEDIATELY. You won't regret it and if you do, then we may need to evaluate our friendship.



Reason 2: The Office



Michael: What's the #1 killer of Americans?
Dwight: Shotgun weddings.

Holy amazing, The Office was fantastic tonight. If you haven't watched it yet, I recommend you stop reading this now because I'm about to go off like a middle-aged secretary. First of all, let's discuss the best part of the show: Jim and Pam finally got engaged! I didn't think I would ever stop squealing. Man, that was amazing. Four seasons of build up and I was not disappointed. Also, I'd just like to take this moment to say that I love Kelly Kapour and Creed more than anyone on The Office. Jim and Pam are great, don't get me wrong. But Kelly steals all the scenes she's in and Creed is hilariously weird and awesome. They need to have a Kelly/Creed show and invite me on to guest star. C'mon NBC, you know you want to.

Way to rock the party, Thursday.

Northern A to the Z

This past weekend, my clan packed our bags and drove to Sedona. I had all these witty stories but I don't really feel like writing about it anymore. So, to sum up, this is everything that happened:

1. Watched Austin play football. It was awesome. Austin, who is my not so little younger cousin, cleaned up. He's #1, both literally and figuratively.

2. Ate at a Sizzler

I'm serious when I say I really did not know Sizzlers were in existence anymore. Ugh, buffets are gross unless it involves breakfast or Chinese. There were some upset tummys that evening in Sedona.

3. Drank at the hotel bar with a dozen stuffed game animals.

4. Partook in some "haunted eating" in Jerome, AZ

Now I will say this: I like haunted things. Haunted houses, hotels, inns, corn mazes and even the occasional hamgurger are all very appealing things. I am the biggest baby when I'm actually at said haunted places, but I still really like to go. So when someone mentioned the eating establishment "The Haunted Hamburger", obviously I was game. Hey, I thought. Maybe I'll see a ghost or if I'm really lucky, a zombie. Nope.

What the hell?! There were no ghosts or zombies anywhere in sight. I wasn't expecting bleeding walls or anything, but I don't think it's too much to ask for a poltergeist to throw some dishes around or my burger to moan. Especially when I realized that the H.H. has help from the DEAD AND THE UNDEAD.

Um, last I checked the undead were awesome. As far as being haunted goes, this place was not so awesome. But I'll forgive the H.H. because my veggie burger was delicious, even if it didn't contain the souls of the recently deceased. I guess I can settle for that.