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I have to tell this story. I must. It's just too good. So if it offends any with a delicate nature...so be it. You'll have to take one for the team. Stupidest saying ever. I don't even really know what it means.
Monday night, Amy, Marie and I went for Happy Hour at Kells...because it was Monday. We had several...more than we meant to, mainly because the waiter was hot. Well, I thought he was hot, Marie and Amy do not share my taste for dark, unkept looking hipster boys. We all have our faults. Good thing I can overlook theirs.
Anyway, at some point in the conversation I was throwing out my usual lament about dating someone who lives two hours away, and how it's never going to work, especially since my filler "object" just broke. Scandalized aren't you. Or confused. If you're either, you're a prude, or you've never dated anyone who lives two hours away.
So I need a new "object", and I don't have time to wait for one of those "purchasing parties"...I need one now. And I refuse to shop for it alone because that's just not as fun. So we finish our drinks and it's off to Spartacus. If you can't figure out what they sell at Spartacus by the name, then you're a prude. The poor sales girl. First she had to check our IDs to see if we were 18...ha! And then she had to outline the good and bad points of pretty much everything on the east wall. Are sparkles beneficial? What about remote controls? Can this go in water? Can you be allergic to texture? Why are some straight, and some are bent? What is this for? Oh my. Wait, wait...why does this one have antennae? Poor poor girl.
And then, there were the other walls. Walls with signs like "Please do not whip the other customers". I kid you not. So of course absolutely everything had to be picked up and examined. Directions read out loud...and then...Amy knocked over an entire display of "enhancing pills". If you don't know what they enhance, you're a prude. They went all over the floor. It took three of us to pick them all up. Oh god, the giggling...so much giggling. Did I make a purchase? You'll never know, will you. The end.
Stupid Oregon.
I am of a foul disposition on this day. And I will cease and desist the Jane Austen speak from this moment on.
So I just read about the arrest of this Jeffs guy in The Vegas who was the head of a Mormon "fundamentalist" sect (you know, as opposed to the "mainstream") that still practices polygamy. Apparently he was arranging marriages for teenage girls to older men. Lovely. The whole concept of polygamy is disgusting (well, at least the way it's currently and historically practiced) . It's an "accepted" way for men to continuously trade-up without having to divorce. There's nothing spiritual about any of it...calling it part of the religion/culture is nothing more than justification. Empty empty justification. The same kind of justification I used to get that extra drink at happy hour last night. You know, 'cause I thought it just might give me shamanic visions. And I needed one cause there's never anything good on TV Monday nights. You see my point.
Anway, I'm trying to be a good girl and not battle my grump with retail therapy and/or booze therapy. But I'm going to a party tonight so I might not be able to help the latter. Oh, and did I mention I saw the Violent Femmes and Cake this last weekend for the first time ever? Rocked. The Femmes especially. Gray, portly and bald and they can still rock my socks off. I'd gone through a HUGE Femmes thing back in the late 90s. Since they haven't really done much since then...it kind of petered out. Logical, I suppose. Cake was fantastico as well...that lead singer guy makes me want to like beat poetry. Want.
And now I'm going to go get a chicken caesar wrap. Evil things. They look healthy. They taste healthy...they even feel healthy. But they're not. They're slowly killing me with fattiness. I can feel it...coming in the air tonight...hold on. Oh god.
My mother once told me that boys don't like mean girls. What I think she meant was boys don't marry mean girls. In which case, she's probably right, but I'm prepared. Marriage is over-rated anyway...like Tarantino films. Besides, I've got my back-up "become a cat lady and live next door to my equally mean and future cat lady best friend" plan at the ready, so I'm all set.
But the fact of the matter is...boys DO like mean girls. The fun ones do, anyway. We're novelties. We' challenge them. But eventually, we're like Arrested Development...we get canceled by the third season because at the end of the day people would rather not have to think while they're being entertained. Assholes.
I know what you're all thinking...you're thinking uh oh, Kara got dumped again...or at the very least, realized that her latest boy toy is a drip. But I assure you this is not the case. The latest boy toy is a blast. But it's just that...he's a toy...and he will remain a toy as long as he lives in the land of patchouli and birkenstocks (for all of you who don't know much about Oregon...that would be Eugene).
I was just thinking about all this relationship stuff yesterday as I was watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (best movie ever) with a chum and eating Popeye's fried chicken for the first time since I left New Orleans FOUR YEARS AGO (welcome home, friend). There's no real relevance there...and that's what makes this good writing. Subjectivity can suck it!
Anyway, I'm not sure what my point was. But if I knew, I'm sure you'd all agree that it was a very poignant one. Oh yeah, I'm going to be alone forever...that was it. Damn.
So for a while we had the option of getting a temp dangling before us...before it was snatched out of reach yesterday. That's ok...who really needs a social life, right? Anyway, no one could find the job description to post on craigslist so I offered to write one. Sadly, it didn't make it past HR. Laura thinks it's funny so I'm including it below:Position Title: Copy editor/QA for email marketing firmWe are looking for someone who can dress well and knows when “enough is enough” with the wearing of the perfumes.
Job Description:
a. copy edits and functionally tests email crap spam
b. is a slave to all who are higher on the corporate food chainc. babysits account executives because they were never quite weened from the teetd. is bitter, sarcastic, and condescending to anyone making requests of the department
e. has no outside life...because why bother
Qualifications:
- must have working knowledge of what is popular on HSN at all times
- must know how to spell “cowlick”
- must be able to convincingly warn us that there are “motherfuckin’ snakes on the motherfuckin plane”
- must have a college degree with enough student loan debt to pay back that they’ll not take sick days
- must enjoy hitting buttons
If you do not fit the above description, don’t bother applying. We mean it. Piss off.Short and sweet. Yes...sweet.I think I missed my calling...don't you?
This is why...because it's so freaking cold up there, they have to stay constantly moving to keep their limbs from getting frostbite...even inside. So they play music. They practice and practice all day long, wildly hitting the keys on the keyboard, or frantically strumming the guitar...or beating the hell out of their drums. They do this so often (it's winter 9 months out of the year up there, I totally saw so on TV this one time) that lo and behold, they become amazing musicians. And then they break off into bands. Bands like the band I saw last night. Bands like Wolf Parade. Best thing to come out of Montreal since...I don't really know what else has ever come out of Montreal.
I knew they were special when they showed up on stage drinking Rolling Rock. I often get teased for my love of Rolling Rock. Usually I blush and say "I'm an equal opportunity beer drinker!", but now I don't have to blush...I can lift up my head proudly and say "Wolf Parade drinks this nectar of life so SCREW YOUR FACE!". I'm looking forward to that. The opener was a little alarming...some band called...well something about a Frog, I think. The lead singer was what the product would be if Jack Black, Meatloaf and Joe Cocker had a love child together. What? Science does magical things...it could happen.
Toward the end of the show we moved toward the back, by the staircase...and I happened upon the most fabulously spastic dancer I've ever seen. She was like a clogger on crack. There was a little Tina Turner...and even more James Brown going on around the feet area, but her arms were all Flashdance. It was amazing. I'm still surprised she maintained an upright position the entire time...that's talent, my friends...talent.
Oh, and my bike didn't even get stolen so on the whole, I'd call the night a smashing success...thanks to our arctic Canadian friends, of course.
I know there are important things going on in the world (such as Israel agreeing to a cease-fire and then killing people anyway...bullies), and I know that I just got all holier-than-thou on AOL chattering on about Paris Hilton's new album instead of the bedlam that IS Iraq. But this is serious. I'm going crazy. It's about my hair. I can't stand it anymore. I could really benefit from a wig, I'm telling you. Every day is a bad hair day with me. Why you ask? I have toddler hair. Always have. My hair just never matured past the age of 4. Is that the right word for hair? "Mature"? Probably not but I double dare anyone to show me up with a better one. Don't you dare.
Anyway, back to my hair. It's fine and strange shades of blond and doesn't have enough decency to be stick straight...it's stick straight with weird directional issues at the ends. Some of it turns under, some of it turns out...some of it goes both ways at once...it's like black magic. And then there was the whole falling down stairs at age two and breaking my head open, causing a funky shaped scar on the top of the head creating this cowlick incident. So flat pony tails are impossible. I've had to just bide my time til messy hair is "in". Thank yahweh that time seems to be now.
When I was in college I was too poor/cheap to get it cut and it ended up down to my waist. I'm not sure how I managed that without shivving myself but it was up all the time. Then I graduated, got a job, and chopped that shit OFF. It was glorious, but high-maintenance. Yes, to me having to own a hairdryer is high-maintenance. I don't want to take one to Morocco so I've been growing it back out this year and it's in that AWFUL purgatory where it just brushes the shoulders in sometimes goes IN the collar, and sometimes sticks "OUT" of it. ARGH!
Maybe I should just pull a Natalie Portman and be done with it. But then everyone would see the scar. Jesus, it's a quagmire. I need a doughnut.
[16:05] Jennifer: you read about Kate Hudson and Owen Wilson yet?
[16:05] kara: yes, the "supposed" brangelina scenario?
[16:06] Jennifer: it would be tough to be an actor, you'd always want to do someone else
[16:06] kara: well, especially when you're doing love scenes
[16:06] Jennifer: yup
[16:06] Jennifer : I'd do Owen
[16:07] kara: i'd SO do owen
[16:07] Jennifer: I'd do Owen a lot
[16:07] kara: not so much luke
[16:07] Jennifer: I know huh. And Owen has the effed up schnoz
[16:07] kara: yeah but luke looks like his face is swollen after widsom teeth extraction
[16:08] Jennifer: double wide
[16:08] kara: that shit's not hot
[16:08] kara: have you seen their brother andrew? he looks like a henchman
[16:08] kara: i don't do henchmen
[16:09] Jennifer: was he in Bottle Rocket? Maybe , but I don't remember what he looks like
[16:10] kara: yes, he was there. that's the only place i've seen him...henchman. and i think he was in a polo shirt, that might have something to do with it
At the conclusion of the extraordinarily deep conversation, I realized what a profound and illuminating existential dilemma Jen and I had stumbled upon. I began to wonder...just who does prefer Luke Wilson to his hotter brother Owen? And why is Owen hotter, he DOES have the effed up schnoz. And whatever happened to Andrew? We...I...need to delve deeper...I need to find an answer to these oh, so penetrating questions. Please...someone...help me understand.
VS.
Today I was testing in AOL (no I'm NOT an AOL user...but I have to use it occasionally for work) and the big headline with the bold font and the glossy color picture was "Sure She's Sexy, But Can Paris Sing?" with a whole spiel about her new album...WITH soundbytes. Below it in a tiny font under the heading of "Top News" was "Iraqis Suffer Deadliest Month"...just a headline, not even a blurb...guess they have their own definition of "top". I'm going to screenshot it for you unlucky non-AOL users.
Apparently AOL knows what America wants when it's On-Line.
I'm disgusted.
In other news...I remembered to wear lipstick today for once. I feel like a big girl now.
Never ever ever give your sister the login and password to your blog. She may SAY she's going to put up pretty pretty polka dots, and a swingin' new title with a disembodied head of hair...but what she'll REALLY do is post a picture of half of your 1985 head.
I mean, look at that eye. That's an evil eye, right there. That's the eye of a ne'er do well. I wouldn't trust that eye as far as I could throw it...and provided it wasn't still attached to her face, I could throw it pretty far.
Look at that smirk. Have you ever seen such a smirk? That's a shifty smirk if ever I've seen a shifty smirk in my life. If your sister looks this shifty, I'm telling you, be on your guard. 'Cause chances are she has an embarassing picture of you at age 5...and chances are she's going to use it in a mean mean globally impacting way. 'Cause she's shifty, and that's what shifty people do.
Everyone see my pretty new blog? I've already been informed by some that people with loser MACs have to view it in Firefox and not Safari because otherwise the dots get all crazy-like. But I say you deserve it for owning a MAC. Shame on you.
Have I mentioned that I'm pretty sure my upstairs neighbor is a vampire? I haven't held a mirror up to his face or anything, mainly because I wouldn't dare get that close...he might bite me...but I will try to snap a picture when I think he isn't looking. But then he might see it on here and hunt me down. And there's nowhere I can hide because the layout of his apartment is exactly the same as mine. Damnit!
He's a HUGE man with long stringy hair and a fu manchu that reaches to the middle of his chest. I do believe he grooms it, because it always comes to a perfect point. I wonder what kind of gel he uses? I sure as hell can't get that kind of control from any of my regular products.
He's always wearing a blue dress shirt with a black vest and black pants and shoes. Depending on the weather he may or may not sport a long black trenchcoat (vampires are so sterotypical, I mean really who does he think he's fooling? I'd respect a cloak more). The clinching tidbit of evidence is...he never sleeps. It doesn't matter if I'm up at 9 am or 3 am...he's always pacing back and forth upstairs. It's so WEIRD. Sometimes he has a girl visit him...but she hasn't been back for a while so I assume that he's drained her and dumped her body in the river. Yesterday there was an old man visitor carrying a black leather brief case. Who visits someone on a Sunday with a brief case? I bet there was a stake in it.
Can anyone really lust after a month? Well, if not, I shall be the first! It's all I think about, it's all I want. I wait by the calendar for it to arrive. I plan for it, I work towards it, I buy clothes and shoes for it. It's just like dating!
So what happens in October...exactly two months from last Tuesday??? MY VACATION! First real one I've had in two mothaeffin' years! I'm going to sling on a backpack that is just slightly shorter than myself, grab my matronly Dansko sandals, my almost-dead jeans, some wet wipes, a hat, and my passport, and maybe a book, I haven't decided yet, and I'm going to MOROCCO.
I'm going to ride a camel, and buy pointy shoes, and watch other people smoke on a hookah while I sing White Rabbit, and learn to say something fantastic in Arabic...maybe the word "fantastic". Two months is like the home stretch. I have four more pay periods...two more PTO accruals...2 more rent checks...I haven't counted actual days left of work because I'm not a dork, but if someone did it for me, I would refrain from mocking them.
I have to stop talking about it because I feel the excitement bubbling up...though that could just mean I'm hungry. I might even blog whilst I'm there...who even knows. Though, I've used French keyboards before and I don't enjoy feeling like an old person learning how to use the computer for the first time. I'll send updates through dromedary post.
Fucking men. No I don't mean that as a verb. Sod them all. If they don't turn out to be creepy then they just turn out fucked up. You change plans on them and they become wounded puppies, but they change plans on YOU...then it's followed with the requisite "So are you angry now or what?". Well, I wasn't until you decided to act like an ASSHOLE.
What is it with double standards? Why is it so hard to act as you expect other people to act? I'm guilty of them, I'll totally admit that, but at least I can recognize it. If I call a guy out on his double standard, then the defensive missiles strike. That's a stupid analogy, no one use it. The BULLSHIT of it all is...when the wounded puppy surfaces, my goddamn nurturing instinct, that I wish I could have surgically removed, flares up and I try to soothe THEM! And when the tables are turned, yep, all I get is "So are you angry now?". If I knew how to spell the sound of an outraged growl, it would go just here.
Oh, and the actor turned out to be creepy. That's what that reference was.
Ugh, I'm too angry to even find an appropriate picture for this post. Maybe later when the seething subsides.
*update: regardless of all amusing and poignant comments, I still seem to be quite annoyed with menfolk as a whole...but I couldn't leave this post pictureless...and so I give you The Wounded Puppy (only because the scalpel image wouldn't upload)
I got maybe an hour of sleep last night. Curse you summer...curse you.
So I look like ass, I'm drinking coffee, which I never do because it makes me feel crazy. So now I'm also feeling crazy. I don't match, my skirt is too big and looks like something out of my mother's closet, my hair wasn't dried and therefore resembles an unkept toddler head, and I've still got 7 hours of work left. Oh god.
Someone told me yesterday that you know you have a drinking problem if you drink alcohol at breakfast on a weekday. I'm fairly certain I've done that at some point. After far too much drinking last week, I decided not to have any alcohol at all yesterday. Then at 11:30 pm I realized that I'd forgotten my little pact halfway through a Corona. Which sparked the "am I an alcoholic?" convo. Which sparked the "you know you have a drinking problem..." tidbit. I've decided that I will make no decision about my status as a possible alcoholic until one or all of the following things happen:
a. I get interventioned by friends who I thought drank with the same frequency I do
b. I wake up with a man in my bed who's name I cannot remember (so far, so good)
c. I am swayed either way by a commentor on this blog other than my sister
d. I decide that I really do look good in blue eye shadow
I live in terror of 'd'.
Those are my legs (unflattering angle). That is my cheap ass beer (free). And that is my hairy nephew, Quimby (dog).
So I'm very poor this year. But I refuse to spend all my evenings in my hot pocket of an apartment. Living in Portland really allows one to revel in the resplendence of nature via the attendance of the Parks and Recs free concert series. Oh yeah, and they allow booze.
So far this summer I've seen a zydeco band (pictured sorta), a Cuban salsa band, and this week, wait for it...Afro funk! The afro funk band was the best. It consisted of 8 or so people, only two of which were actually black. And only two of which were playing an instrument, not just shaking some sort of gourd. Now don't think me ignorant...I know there are white Africans...but there's no way in HELL these other people were anything more than Portlanders with a Minor in African Studies. I've never seen so much dashiki-wearing discomfort in all my life. And the more I drank, the funnier it got. There was so much flailing...so much flailing.
Anyway, next week will probably be something like bluegrass. It better be a jug band. If not, I might heckle and throw empty cans at them. I can only go so long without hearing a rendition of Summertime on the saw without getting violent.
So, this is my type. Over here to the left. Muss up the hair a little bit more, fade the shirt and the jeans, and remove thumbs from that horrid "senior picture" photo shoot stance and add some ancient chuck T's and that's pretty much it.
I never actually date that type. That type never asks me out. Assholes.
In the last couple of weeks I have gone out or am going out or am going to go out with an actor/social worker, law student who wears suits, and a real estate agent. All of whom, if they ever read this, will probably stop calling me.
I like to define my men by what they do. I know it's wrong, but if you knew me, you'd know how funny it is that I'm dating(ish) these people. Their jobs are so not me. Shit, MY job is so not me. So anyway, top all that with the continuation of the extraction process from the ex systems administrator and you can see the mess I have made. I'm back to juggling, something I tried only once before and failed miserably at. I don't know how men do it. It's never going to work. I'm going to call somebody the wrong name or tell a story too many times or something. And then it'll all fall apart. And you all will sit back and laugh. Assholes.
I have to tell this story. I must. It's just too good. So if it offends any with a delicate nature...so be it. You'll have to take one for the team. Stupidest saying ever. I don't even really know what it means. 
