I Missed You Too. Really.

I should probably talk about the election seeing how it's today and all...but instead...

I'm going to talk about how I saw The New Kids on the Block last week and you didn't.

Suck on that.

New York was awesome...except for the fact that we got swindled. I'll talk more about that later when there are visuals.

But we saw movie stars. And Marie hit Kenneth from 30 Rock with a door while I sat watching Conan like a CHUMP (she had to pee so they let her out). We got pissed thanks to some hot Irish bartenders. Saw congealed garbage sculpture at the Whitney. Finished the last 100 yards of the NYC Aids Walk by accident. Caught a kite festival in Brooklyn. Drank boxed wine in our suite at the Hotel Chelsea. Ran into Matthew Modine. Twice. Gave directions to tourists. People watched at both a tattoo festival and the Waldorf Astoria in the same night. Squealed at some ginormous dinosaur bones. Went to H&M (don't have one in Oregon yet. I KNOW). Got text messages from people I don't remember giving my number to. And spent an hour at an airport bar sipping $8.50 margaritas and filling in my ballot. A team effort.

A fucking fantastic weekend. I'll show you pictures if you want to see them.

If you don't, well then I won't show them to you.

And I hate you.

I can't write anymore because I have to go catch up on all your shit WHILE trying to cook pasta. And it's wheat pasta so I always fuck it up because it takes longer or some shit. Makes me want to do away with wheat all together. It's a foul grain.

Rite of Passage # 36

All my adult life, I’ve done all my traveling with a backpack. Like here: This is probably why I can crack my back in the most relievingly awful sounding ways. Having just returned from three weeks of carrying cans and bottles of beer around Eastern Europe (yes, I know I’m an idiot) I decided to take a stand and buy a suitcase with wheels. So yesterday, a friend and I took a late afternoon “need to see daylight” break and went to find what turned out to be a sea of luggage in cRoss Dress for Less. I immediately began hyperventilating. They were organized by color. COLOR. And there were about 70 different sizes and all sorts of shapes and textures and brands. BRANDS. But my friend is an organized person and so the process of elimination went thus:
No black. Kansas had a black suitcase and I almost killed HIM in my impatience waiting for it to show up on the conveyer belt after the trip to the Homeland. Everybody and their goddamn grandmother has black.

No red. Despite the fact that I LOVE red and am drawn to it like a married stiff to a bordello…so is every other woman. It’s almost as prevalent as black.

No floral prints or anything that appears upholstered. I didn’t like it when Mary Poppins rocked it. I don’t like it now.

No backpacks with wheels. That’s just fucking LAZY. And there's no room for shoes.

Nothing big enough to fit my whole body in. I don’t want any accidental slave smuggling going on in my luggage. What…this shit happens. Watch TV, you’ll learn things.

No animal prints – this should be self explanatory, but I found myself walking toward an orange tiger print. Then I slapped myself back into good sense. It left a mark.

This left me with fluorescent pink and green hearts on a black background OR black and white polka dots. Guess what I chose. I’ll give you a hint – this blog is covered in them.

I’ll give you another hint because you’re obviously all quite thick – there’s a picture of the bag below. So now I have luggage. It only took an hour of opening and wheeling and examining and debating and extending and unextending and zipping and unzipping to change my life forever. I’m all grows up. See you punks in 4 days.

You Ask Me ONE More Time...

Everybody’s pushing me to vote. Don’t fucking rush me! I do my voting like I do my taxes…at the last possible second. I thrive under pressure.

Oregon may “decide” the democratic candidate. I may decide it by pushing over one of those Hillary Clinton sign holding crazies standing in the bike lane on the Burnside bridge. Up until now I’ve just been narrowing my eyes at them as I pass. I doubt this has much of an effect as I’ve also been wearing sunglasses. But I like to think they can feel the steely gaze. But we have something like 200 super delegates, so “they say” that by the time we have our primary…if Obamyomama wins Oregon, whatever unimportant states that are left won’t have enough super delegates to make a difference. That makes us awesome. And not to be fucked with. If only for the fact that we have killer beavers here that can devour your face in two seconds flat if you look at them funnilly. Saw it happen once. Still have nightmares.

But enough about politics. This shit bores me.

It doesn’t actually, but I like to wear nonchalance like an accessory.

The Waif, ty and the Face move out this weekend. I’ll miss them. I’m sure they won’t miss my cramped little place but it’s been fun having them here. Quality time with the Face is always appreciated…especially since I taught him the In Living Color Men on Film snap and he’s freakishly adorable when he does it. But now that they’re leaving, I’ll be missing out on these kinds of little precious moments brought to you by the letter W, the number 8 and my sister feeding the Face olives:

theWaif: My god, Beckett…you’re just an olive whore, aren’t you ?
Me: Laura, you just called your son a whore.
theWaif: Well he IS!

Precious fucking moments.

And in case you don't know the snap I am referring to because you're either too young or living in a box in the middle of the Gobi:

Why Do You Want To Live With Me?

Well I was going to write about what a pain in the ass the roommate search has been…but in light of the tragedy in Myanmar formerly known as Burma, it seems trite. 20,000 people lose their lives in a horrible natural disaster (though there’s nothing natural about the way people live in Third World countries)…and I was gonna be all up in arms about the 20-odd freaks trying to convince me to live with them.

Ok, well, I’m still probably going to talk about it. I can only be appropriate for so long before my heart goes numb.

Let me just start out with this: people on Craigslist are crazy. It’s a wonder I’ve ever found a place to live or a roommate who would have me with all the nut cases they go through. And you can imagine how well I do in interviews.

Anyway, I found a roommate, and hopefully he’s cool and doesn’t save his toenails in a box for decades at a time like some people. You know who you are. Sick.

But back to the freaks…one of the dudes I said “thanks but no thanks” to - because he a. didn’t have a job and b. had an Anthrax beard - actually called me up on Saturday night and ASKED ME OUT. Is it me or is that an inappropriate use of my phone number? No, it's not just me. It IS inappropriate. It’s not like he rolled up to me in a bar and said “I’d like to go out with you some time. Can I have your number?” and I went, “Sure, you seem like a fine, upstanding young fellow with an Anthrax beard. I’ll give you my number so that you may call me up and ask me out properly.” That didn’t happen. I gave him my number so that he could look at a room for rent. So he is abusing the phone number. Gross misuse!

And before any of you ill informed people ask…this is an Anthrax beard:
That’s all I have time for. I have a job, you know.

Wipe That Shit OFF Your Face

Today, boys and girls, we’re going to talk about a little something people like to call “the ironic mustache”.

But first.

The internets are back in my home. They were put there today by a messenger from god. I don’t know who’s god. You can take your pick…there’s a lot of them out there. But this messenger took the form of a Comcast Cable Installer. I have no idea if he glowed with divine light, because I wasn’t there to greet him. I took my sick ass to work. Yes, I have a cold. And it makes me angry.

Not having been in any city but my own lately, I don’t know if this trend is taking over other metropoli ™, but here les yeux have been getting assaulted on a daily basis by the newest hipster craze, the ironic mustache. Young, otherwise good looking, men have decided to sport a seedy banner of skeez on their upper lips and the epidemic is becoming positively RAMPANT! You know it’s serious if I use all caps and an exclamation point.

I don’t get it. Mustaches belong to fathers back in the 80s. And hippies in the 70s. And maybe on the occasional Civil War soldier. Other than that…they are a trend that NEVER needed to return…and certainly not to men in their 20s or 30s. I get the other shit, you know? I get the black glasses. I get the tousled hair. I get the tight jeans that are ever so slightly saggy in the ass region. I get it all. I don’t agree with it all, but I get it. I do NOT get the sudden urge to reinvent the porn ‘stache. Put that shit away! It’s bad enough that I saw some asshole walking down the street in acid washed jeans the other day like they were hot shit. It’s getting out of control.

Someone needs to be brought it to control it.

Suggestions are welcome.

And none of this "oh, Kara...it's not so bad as, say, leg warmers". Yes it is, people! This is my dating pool that’s being fucked with here. It’s a fucking red alert situation! I will never date a porn ‘stache supportee.

My other big issue is the term “ironic mustache”. To hipsters…and really anyone of this generation…the term “ironic” is worn as an accessory far too often. It’s like the mass produced individuality of a Hot Topic-type place, it loses its point when it becomes popular. The face velcro may have started out in an “I’m anti this ‘looks are everything’ world so I’m going to fug myself up with a poorly groomed mustache”…but when 5 other dudes in the coffeeshop sport one too…then it turns into “I’m pro looking ugly…because ugly is hot right now”. And BOOM, you’re Paris Hilton. It’s a slippery slope, you don’t even realize.

Look at this shit. I went to the site of a local venue and found several bands that illustrate this point BEAUTIFULLY...this is how prevalent the problem is:

I almost wish them harm. Really. I'm not going to any of those shows in protest of their stupid 'staches. Well, I actually really like A Hawk and a Handsaw...so maybe I'll go to that one and just not look at the dude.

But I'm not the only one taking issue with how people decide to adorn their faces. Check this little nugget of gold from Andrew. Someone I should've linked long ago, but haven't because I'm lazy.

I'm going to go be grumpy in the sunshine.