Oh HAIL NO

The Fright Walk = my life.

OMGOSH. SO MANY THINGS TO TELL YOU. First off, it’s June. Second off, it feels like February. Like, it’s been freaking snowing. Which is like, cool and everything but it’s not cool … you know?

Like, ok — on my day off from work yesterday I drove back to my house in the hills with my sister to get what was left of my summer clothes. However, what I was unaware of was that on the drive back to Folsom, I would be caught in the hailstorm straight from hell. You think I’m exaggerating but I’m not. I mean, my knuckles were whiter than the hail balls. NOT. EXAGGERATING.

So just to spice things up, everyone decided to come to a screeching halt at the bottom of this massive hill in mid-shit-ton-of-hail storm. Now, in all honesty, my car isn’t necessarily the most … um … “treadworthy” of cars if I may. So needless to say as I began to apply pressure to the break (in a COMPLETELY calm, not-freaking-out, lady-like fashion) my little blue car began to glide gently towards to cars spinning off the road in front of me. Not to be outdone, my car began to spin off the road — also, in a lady-like, elegant fashion. But of course, being the expert driver/human being that I am I handled the situation perfectly. And by that I mean after doing a complete 180 and taking out 953 orange cones, I sat on the side of the freeway silently staring wide-eyed out the window as my sister searched my blood-drained face for signs of life.

After my vital organs began functioning again, I restarted the car and continued on my merry little way — past the rest of the car carnage at the bottom of that demon-seed hill.

A little cherry on top of that sundae was the fact that over the past three weeks I have had a dull-ache on my right side that decided to go ahead and become HUGE-STUPID-APPENDICITIS-LIKE-ACHE 2011 about a day and a half ago. So today I went ahead and ducked out of work early to make a trip to the E.R. Which is always a good time. Also, I’m pretty sure the receptionist has something against 23-year-old-girls with appendicitis because she made me wait like, an hour and a half and let the 20-something guy with appendicitis go right on in like 10 minutes after he got there. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for flirting with cute guys at work but not when you’re also flirting with my life. Ok great.  

And when I went up to the counter to ask her just WHY I was the one waiting so long to get my obviously exploding appendix out she responded with something I didn’t expect. She said, with as much attitude as she could muster, “you’re going to have to wait just a minute. We put people into pods.”

I stared back at her with a look that I was hoping expressed, “is that another term for ‘pain-bracket’ or do you literally put people into bean pods?” And she responded with a stare that said, “bitch, you better get up out.” Not wanting to argue/stare further, I sat down.

Eventually they called me in. It’s not appendicitis — it’s a stupid cyst. I go in for further testing tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I’m going to work on a stare that says, “I’m going to sue you if you don’t call my name right this second.” That one will take some time.

The Tree of DEATH.

Look at it ... standing there all self-righteous. HOW DARE YOU INTERRUPT OUR LIVES/FAMILY GUY.
Also, I took this picture.  

Hey guyyyyyssss. So did we all survive THE RAPTURE FROM HELL? Or I guess it would be from heaven. Whatever. Well I know I did. Except the internet was out when I got back to my house. Which is basically like hell on Earth. Also, NASCAR was on. Which is also lik— wait … maybe … I, what … OH MY HOLY CRAP DID THE DEMONS RISE FROM BENEATH WHILST THE HEAVENS OPENED THEIR GLORIOUS BOUGHS TO THE BLESSED BE ON EARTH? … thus, um … disabling wi-fi? Perhaps.

Also, something important to note — when I say that I “went back to my house,” that is indeed because we are living at our house no longer. “Why is this so?,” you may ponder. WELL, PONDER NO LONGER. It’s because this freakin’ tree fell on our house like, 2 months ago. I KNOW RIGHT??

Here is the story.

So, there we were (mom, dad, sister, self) sitting on the couch watching Family Guy when ALL OF A SUDDEN the microwave goes off. AND THEN … my dad got up to go check on the banana bread. Oh and then the tree fell on our house. All’s I remember is feeling something super heavy hit me in the face/arm. Now, I say, face/arm because at that particular moment in time, my face and arm existed as one entity as my superhuman reflexes forced me to cover my moneymaker with every limb I had available … which was three at the time seeing as one of my legs had fallen asleep moments before.

Now my sister on the other hand got hit square in the face. When I looked over at her seconds after performing “essential body parts roll-call” on myself, I noticed that her glasses had been pushed into her nose as there was a decent amount of blood streaming forth from … well, um … the top of her nose.

My mom was cool though. Also, my dad was still in the kitchen baking. He later disclosed that he thought it was something on the TV to which I rhetorically asked what exact episode of Family Guy he thought we were watching.

Also, our cats didn’t come upstairs for like, two weeks.

So yeah, that’s the story. And now we live in a hotel in Folsom until our house is fixed in like, two months. Oh and the hole in our ceiling sort of looks like genitalia. 

RIGHT?! --->

Seventeen Again

The date of my birth is located somewhere in this picture I took on Pacific Coast Hwy.
So I'm either 23 or 1652 years old.

My mama turned 50 today. She was born on Mother’s day. She has six brothers and sisters. Uncle Jim was born on Thanksgiving, Aunt Sandra was Christmas Eve, and Uncle Jeff was New Years Eve. They are a family of holidays. I have absolutley no idea the significance of any of that. But it’s a cool thing to mention if your conversation ever hits a lull.

Example:

Fellow party goer: “So …um, I hear they’re repaving the road across from Walma-“

Me: “ALL OF MY AUNTS AND UNCLES HAVE HOLIDAY BIRTHDAYS.”

I’ve been known to be awkward at parties. And by awkward I mean the life of the party.

So anyways, my mama decided to spend this joyous halfway mark at the mall … ehhh. I mean, the mall is ok for like, 10 minutes and then I’m over it. HARD. I don’t know why I don’t share the passion for twitting around their little commercial domes that most people possess — I just don’t. Maybe it was all the countless childhood hours I had to spend with my mom in the dressing room at JCPenny watching her try on one shoulder-padded monstrousity after the next while my little 5 year-old body wanted to explode with boredom. I was five and I knew shoulder pads were a bad choice — FIVE.

Plus, half the population of Earth was there today. You heard me right — 3.5 BILLION PEOPLE WERE SHOPPING AT THE ROSEVILLE GALLERIA. It made parking super difficult.

Also, I tried to (finally) buy a cover for my iPhone but as it turns out, about three-quarters of the population I quoted above was actually shopping in the Apple store so that was good times. Two hours after entering the iEmporium, I actually managed to squeeze my way to the phone-cover section. As my eager eyes grazed over the endless choices that lay before me I began to feel joy. It was the sort of joy one can only experience immediately prior to overspending for something you definitley don’t need. But then I felt despair. The sort of despair you experience upon realizing that they don’t make iPhone covers for a 3GS anymore.

And then I saw it. The single cover left that was made specifically for my little outdated electronic device. It was really ugly though. BUT I CARED NOT. As I reached out for it’s slightly scratched box and lifted it from its hook, the hook decided to come with it — and then subsequently fall off taking out all the covers that lay below/in its path. And if anyone of you ever wonders how you silence 2.625 billion people then you should just go ahead and follow the exact steps I have outlined above. And yes, I did just have to get a calculator to figure out what 75% of 3.5 was because math is in the axis of evil. Everyone knows that.

Needless to say I handled the situation flawlessly. And by that I mean I acted like I didn’t do it and left immediately.

Oh and I found out that my mom doesn’t know how old I am exactly. So if she asks, tell her I’m 17. Or maybe 31 … I can’t decide.

Happy Birthday mama ;) 

A Tale of Two Women. One of whom was bitch.

I made this. Not that it's like, a big deal. But I made it. So compliment me. Now.

AGHIPNIPQWHR9Q73YR2N3E91P219J01RJOQ3NDQJ.

What if that’s all I posted? You guys would be SO mad. Actually probably not. You’d probably be relieved. Well I’m posting more so you can all suck it.

Ok so this weekend was just … I mean … it was just. So as you all may know I work part time at a store up where I live and this weekend I was helping out our florist as it was prom for two high schools, Mothers day, and some stupid art festival. So just like, the perfect storm of crap. Like, I’m serious, it was Def Com 5 in the floral department. I don’t even know what Def Com 5 means but there were leaves, and ribbons, and Asiatic lilies flying everywhere.

Plus there was this one bitch. It took every fiber of every fiber I had within me not to throw a blown glass vase at her head. First off, she was a bitch — which I believe I mentioned. Second off (<- that sounds awkward) she had us completely redo her daughter’s corsage when it was clear that we had 12378645983 other people waiting. And third off, it takes like a good 15-20 minutes to make one of those bad boys. — NOT an easy task. And let me just tell you all the reason WHY she wanted it completely taken apart. The tiny purple flowers in the background were not facing COMPLETELY forward. Literally, they were tilted ever so slightly to the side. And THEN she had the balls to say that her daughter was waiting for her to take pictures and we needed to hurry up. Only the Lord knows how I didn’t pop the eff off on this B but I didn’t. I held my composure while thinking, “your daughter is going to be grinding to Kanye West in like, an hour and a half and isn’t going to give two shits which way her purple flowers are facing on her damn wrist.” But I said nothing and had the floral manager finish it off while I moved onto the next.

As the day winded down and the irate people began to fade into the mist, a customer waiting for her boutonnière (<- thank YOU spell check) told us she had some shopping to do but would be right back. Approximately 10 minutes later she returned to pick up her tiny floral arrangement and handed us a tray of three mocha frappuccinos (<- spell check has no spelling suggestions for that one — sorry I’m not sorry).  She said it was for, “doing such a great job and putting up with bitchy people.” As we thanked her incessantly and she began to walk away from our hellish domain, I thought I heard (ever so quietly), the angels begin to sing. I could be wrong. Except I’m not. She simultaneously renewed my faith in man kind and got me jacked up on sugar. A saint, a saint.

Also, I heard that other bitch’s corsage fell apart when she put it on her daughter. I have no idea why that would have happened. Or do I? Nah, I don’t. 

BLOGGG-GUH

SEE. I'm not shallow. I post deep pictures about life and crap. 

Oh my God. It’s been forever. What’s new with you guys? That’s cool. So here’s what’s new with me. WHERE TO START.

Ok so I had to get a little part time job here in town which is actually pretty great because it’s forced me to scrape my fat ass off the couch and actually exercise and crap. Also, I’ve made new friends. Also, I got into the University of Glasgow’s MFA in Creative Writing program (or “programme” as they say … god they are so barbaric right?!? …). So, I mean that’s pretty great. I’m of course expecting every man to resemble Gerard Butler/James McAvoy. I’m not sure what exactly that combo would look like but I’d still date it. That means I’m not shallow. Because I don’t care about what it would look like. Yeah.

Oh and by the by, I’ve had like, at LEAST three people tell me (seriously) that I’m going to need to learn Scottish. Like, SERIOUSLY. On all three occasions I’ve tried not to laugh in their face/apologize for the miserable failure their elementary school education proved to be.

My point is I’m pumped. I actually almost just typed, “pimped” — which I also am. But that’s a different story.

Oh and I kinda met somebody. Which I was also pimped about for a while. It sorta started around November-ish I guess. It wasn’t the dude in the last post. Long story short, we became good friends (ish) and now he’s gone. I would disclose more but since I’m a lady (ish) I won’t. Nothing really ever happened. It always seemed to be on the cusp (ß funny word) of something but then it just ended. I don’t know — it was kind of weird. Guys are weird. If I ever get drunk and get the urge to blog then I’ll tell you all about it. Actually, intoxicated blogging would be kind of fun … I wonder what I would say …  hMMmMMMm. It’d be more interesting than this crap. Just kidding. This is really interesting. 

Murder by REST STOP

My man. SO BACK OFF. Just kidding. But, seriously. 

Well hello everybody! I’m sorry it’s been so long — I’ve just been supes busy (“supes” that’s cool people talk for super, in case any of you aren’t cool … which of course is not possible). Anyways, so I’m 23 now. Yeah, how ‘bout them apples.

I went to the land of Disney for the big two three and it was just fantastic. I was accompanied by my old roommates Ashley, Lexie, Rachel (who is an old roommate too except I was roommates with her in Africa last summer … which I should tell you about sometime), and Ryan — but we all call him Waddles. He doesn’t actually waddle, his last name just rhymes with waddles. Sometimes he waddles.

Disneyland was just beautiful — all Nightmare Before Chirstmas-ed out. And just so everyone knows, that happens to be my favorite movie of all time. Like, I’m serious. I’ve been in love with Jack Skellington since I was eight. Way before it became some weird gothic phenomena. Is it weird that I’m attracted to a skeleton? Not if he has the Danny Elfman’s vocal chords.  Then it’s not weird at all. So shut up.

The whole weekend in LA was pretty great. Lexie bought me my favorite cookies — which just happened to be breast cancer themed because apparently October is breast cancer month. So I ate breast cancer cookies — on my birthday. Thanks a lot breast cancer.

Anyways, since Ashley and I are both from the northern (and better) half of California, we carpooled back and the adventures were absolutely endless. Anyone who has ever driven through central California (Fresno, Bakersfield, Kettlemen City, Hell … etc.) will tell you the same thing — natural wonder as far as the eye can see. I know you can’t see my face right now but it has the dull expression on it that often accompanies sarcasm. In case you wanted to know what my face looked like — which you most definitely did.

Actually we did have one adventure at a rest stop … a rest stop that turned out to be NOT SO RESTFUL. It was actually not that exciting. But wouldn’t that be a great tagline for a scary movie about rest stops? I think so.

So anyways, we were at this rest stop and everything was going great until we walked to the bathroom and noticed something fishy. There was both a male and female door to two separate bathrooms except the men’s room had the usual white-stencil man while the women’s sign was nowhere to be seen. Instead, in its place was a small piece of torn-off, binder paper that looked like a convicted felon had written “Women’s Restroom” on it with the closest available pen. Just kidding, I actually have no way of knowing whether it was a convicted felon — but I mean, let’s be real. It was a rest stop. WHERE THE ONLY THING THAT STOPS IS YOUR LIFE.

Ok I’m done with the tag lines.

After reading this small parchment that seemed to be foreshadowing the danger that lie beyond the portal to the potty if I may— we both looked at each other as if understanding that we may be entering a room that will lead us down the road of therapy and relationship issues for the next 30 years.

And then she said it — the exact phrase that would have emerged forth from my mouth two seconds later if she had not said it.

“So is that like, covering up something that says ‘rape room?’”

As we both chuckled over the ridiculousness of that statement we pushed the doors open and I tried to act brave as I secretly scanned the room for any sign of the mass murderer who had written that note.

There was no mass murderer — only a hand drier that didn’t work. Which is just as bad as murder. Just kidding. A broken hand dryer is totally worse. 

In the Land of GIANTS

The exact amount of people that apply for every journalism job I have applied for since I graduated ... it's either that or I have a giant "DO NOT CALL ME BACK" watermark on my resume ... moving on.

SO MUCH HAS HAPPENED. It’s actually going to blow your mind right out of your socks … so hold onto those.

First, it’s over the hill and through the woods to San Francisco we go. Ya, I went to the bay area again — what of it. Anyways, I met up with some Pepperdine friends who included one of my college roommates from last year (whose name also happens to be Ashley … so she’s obviously great) and Zach who had just returned from his temporary position as a bartender in Chicken, Alaska.

As we embraced at the mass transit station somewhere between the bowels of Oakland and the epic Giants game we had gotten the cheapest possible tickets for — I realized how great it was to be in the arms of people who understood the 43 different quarter-life crises I go through on a day-to-day basis. They too looked tired, they too looked confused, and they too looked like they had also been wondering why they spent so much on a college education that only added debt to their youthful lives. I’m just kidding. College is totally important.

Anyways, after using our higher-educated minds to figure out the ticket machine, we plopped down on the bus and began the necessary catching up questions that always seem to severely put your life into a focus so sharp that it’s painful.  Zach is planning his trip to India, Ashley is getting weird job-offer phone calls from a company that doesn’t actually exist, and then there’s me. Applying for grad schools and looking into being a snow reporter for Sierra at Tahoe — a ski resort that’s not too far from my house.

Yeah, you read right — a SNOW reporter. What duties does that entail you ask? Well … a lot.  I would be responsible for reporting conditions on the mountain and finding leads for possible stories I could write. So it’s awesome basically. PLUS, I get to snowboard for free and I get free lessons and stuff. Not that I need free lessons. I’m just not really like … Olympic material. Example: the last time I went snowboarding I fell off the ski lift at the top of the mountain and when I went to get up, the next chair hit me in the back of the head. Thank god the ski lift operator took a break from hitting his bong long enough to look up and notice that there was a strange woman face down in the snow, appendages fully spread. By the way, it’s only alleged that he was high. But he was allegedly REALLY high. Oh and that was in Denver, Colorado when it was 7 degrees outside — and that is not alleged.

After Zach, Ashley, and I made it to AT&T Park in all of it’s drunken mob glory, we began our ascent to the seats made for the poorest of the poor — the viewing deck of left field.

This game however, was no ordinary game — it was against the DODGERS … of Los Angeles. And I’ve gotta say, there was something therapeutic about screaming “BEAT LA” in harmony with 2938752086528 other people from my home region (ß- that’s an exact count).  It really felt like we were all sticking to the man … or in this case the land we all three had called home only 4 months ago. A land that turns women into wafers and men into people that are attracted to wafers.

And we crushed them — we seriously beat them 10 to 2. And we even got to see a Dodgers’ fan get thrown out of the game for trying to ignite fury among an entire section of wasted Giants’ fanatics. Like, there’s being a badass and then there’s just being stupid.

After the game we made the mile-long walk back to the BART station and listened to Zach’s stories from the land of Sarah Palin while trying to block out the drunken, triumphant screams from the San Francisco fans that had flooded the streets.

After we made it back to Ashley’s house, which was only a short drive from the station, we did probably the best thing to do for anyone who is trying to remain fit and trim — we ate an entire pizza at 1 am and stayed up talking until 5. We got it all out at least — frustrations with the job market, frustrations with life, and which on-screen roles really helped Leonardo DiCaprio become a household name. Was it Gilbert Grape or Titanic? … All important things.

And now I’m back in black. And my 23^rd birthday is coming up. Which can only mean one thing … 2 more years until I can rent a car! Wow … nine years after I get my drivers license and I finally feel like I’m really capable of driving a car that’s not my own. But don’t worry Enterprise — I know that with great power comes great responsibility.

But seriously, they really should think about lowering that age — like, now. Because I’m thinking about going down to Disneyland for my birthday and just WHAT am I going to do if my car craps out? Not a darn thing that’s what.

I mean, I’m going with friends so I could probably just … borrow one of theirs. Whatever.