Homless and the City

The homeless people in Houston are a fuckin riot. I know what you're thinking, wow Schizo, you've really hit rock bottom, dogging on homeless people. 

Well, asshats, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. First of all, if you're gonna be homeless, Houston would be probably in the top two places to be homeless. Unless it's July or August. Because it's never cold, the likelihood of you freezing to death is low. So props on that. Thumbs up.

When you're homeless, it's all about positivity.

Nonetheless, the homeless in Houston are insane. I mean INSANE. For one thing, they are everywhere. They sleep in the park I run in, they lurk in the downtown I work in, they are posted on every intersection of the roads I drive on. I literally cannot escape them. I have felt pretty passionate about the Houston homeless but have waited some time to tell you guys about it, mainly because I was trying to get a good picture of this gem of humanity. 

So this ole dude, I see every day after work. He cruises around on his red Benz in the Jack in the Box parking lot and, notice the cup, asks passer-bys for some mulah. Sounds simple, right? Wrong. This clown has the nerve to heckle people in their cars, the very people that are trying diligently to ignore him, while simultaneously wondering how in the hell a homeless guy got a Hoveround. So he hoots and hollers and people in their cars, trying to get their attention, so they will shell out some dough. Some do, some don't. This is a show I see daily.

One afternoon, homie picked me as his victim. Oh god, please don't let him be talking to me.  Mortified, I had a dead stare straight ahead while my left eye tried it's best to secretly move towards him and stare at this shit show. After a good effort and my best ignoring tactics, I think he's gone. I look up.

On to the next. 

But here's what I'm thinking, I get it, times are rough, but you can't heckle people for money. That's like a hybrid between being regular homeless and mugging. People already feel a twinge of shitty when they are blatantly ignoring the pathetic cardboard signs, cause you know, it is sad. If you're a reasonably decent human, that is sad to you. 


But lots of things are sad. You can't go around making people feel more shitty than they already do. Isn't there like an unwritten homeless rule against this? 


Maybe it is actually written. Maybe it's a law.

The other day after a post-work downtown happy hour, a homeless man approached me.

"Scccuuusee me ma'am... SCCCCUUUUUUUUUUUUSEEEEEEEE MEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
"Uhh...umm...arhhgddhhs...yes?"
"Do you have any cash?"
"No, sir...I'm sorry I don't have anything."
"But I'm starving. I just need sumfin to EAT."
"I understand. I still don't have anything. Nothing."

At this point, I am high-tailing it to my car, parked like three blocks away. Awesome. 
 
Please don't let him kill me. Please don't let him kill me. My parents would be so sad.

"MA'AM. SCCUUUSEE ME."
"No no no no no. I'm sorry."

Why am I apologizing? Dude, I don't have cash. Do you want me to pull rainbows out of my ass? Contents of my purse are as follows : old gum covered in lent, Burt's Bees lip balm, a nail file. 


He is following me. The heckling ensues. DUDE. UNLESS YOU HAVE CHAPPED LIPS OR HALITOSIS I CANNOT HELP YOU. 


So then these other two homeless homies get on to my little friend and are all like, "ah, man, why you be botherin her like that? Get the hell outta hur, man."


I didn't stick around to see what happened because this was my great escape. 


So I called boyfriend huffing and puffing, "ahhhmaaaaaaaaaayygawd I practically just got murdahed."


Sometimes I'm dramatic to get his attention. Only sometimes.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

It's getting pretty frosty down here in Houston. We are trading our flip flops in for closed-toed shoes and while I'm pretty pumped about a slight dip in temperature (this coming from the girl who WORSHIPS the sun, but honey, it's hot) I'm not sure how the rest of the city is going to react. Pretty excited to see the sheer panic when Houston gets to a frigid 60 degrees. Brrr.

The other day when I was getting ready for my run, a coworker said to me, shocked, "wow! You even run in the cold, huh?!" Well first of all, yes. Second of all, I don't know what you're referring to, but an overnight low of 50 and daytime high of 70 isn't cold. I know I've got a good number of readers in Omaha, Nebraska (shout out!) and I can feel you rolling your eyes. Thank you for that.

I don't care who you are, this weather, in December, is pure bliss. I went on a run today at lunch and snagged the above photo of Downtown Houston. As you can see, the leaves are starting to change. For everyone else in America, this happened in October, September? Here in Houston, we are enjoying the leaf-changing in mid-December. The temp at 11:30am? 64 degrees. Be jealous. Gosh dammit look at that friggin sky. SMOG?! What smog?

See that ant of a man running a little bit ahead of me? I beat him. He didn't know we were racing, but, just for the record. 

We were also wearing the same shirt, so that was weird.

I do love this city. Don't tell anyone. Something about that skyline. I work there. 


Even if you can't get nutty about a city skyline, are you dying over those clouds and that sky? December, people. December.

This second picture I took was pretty artsy for an iPhone. Damn you Apple, once again, you own my life. 

The Most Dysfunctional Time of the Year

Unless you haven't been into a retail outlet since October, you know fully well that it is THAT time of year again. Let me just say, I friggin love Christmas. The Christmas season brings a whole lot to the table, but one of the greatest things that Christmas brings is the annual family photo. The forced image of denim and solid colored shirts that depicts a vision of "yes, we're doing great. We're so functional, we took a g-dang family photo." Family photos have definitely evolved over the years but the Christmas season, for whatever reason, usually brings out some serious gems. 

I'm not quite established in my adult life to get a bulk of my own Christmas cards (this, I'm hoping, comes with age. Crossing my fingers) but you better believe that when I get to my parents' house next week, I will stack up the Christmas cards, pour a glass of merlot, and die of happiness. This year, I'm really hoping to see a movement in over the top family photos. It's not fair that the 90s got all the denim and plaid. I don't know about you guys, but I'm pretty tired of seeing dogs dressed up as Santa. 

Is there anything funnier than a really bad family photo? No. There isn't. If you come up with something you're wrong and your sense of humor sucks. 

Because of my love for family photos, I've stumbled across a web site that consists only of terrible family photos. Named appropriately, awkwardfamilyphotos.com. 

See below for some of my favorites. You're welcome.

Nothing  says family like a pregnant mermaid.

Things I love: denim, white, and the whole family wearing it.

I wonder if the curtains match the... never mind

"How we gonna get baby Jimmy on the window? OK, hear me out...I got an idea..."

Yup.

What the fuck?

OH honey, I know.

I love denim. Have I mentioned that?

Family in a box. Please look at the kid in the back left, is he adopted? Why is he so far away?

Busted

So you know how I've been running during my lunch hour?

Maybe you need a refresher...

Ahhh, yeah now you remember. Well, I've been showering in this little piece of hell for about a month now, and up until this week, I was yet to see ANYONE enter this bathroom. Which is pretty legit and kiiinda made me feel like the CEO of the company I work at. "Yeah, I just have my own bathroom, it's not a big deal, just one of the perks of the job." I may or may not have just leave my shampoo and conditioner there sometimes. I might leave it there over night. It might have been sitting in that shower for bout a month. 

Yeah, OK, so I moved right in. Stop looking at me like that. 


Anyway, here's the big revelation I came to a few days ago. People do in fact use this bathroom. And by people I mean women. 


And my use I mean SHIT. This is the place where sneaky little girly girls go to take SHITS in private. 


I know this, because the other day when I was changing to run, I heard the uncommon sound of the door opening and closing. In total confusion I was 100 percent convinced it was one of three things 1. a murderer 2. a rapist 3. a ghost. As I peered around the corner, it was nothing like I imagined. A real life, living, human female. I felt like someone had walked into my house uninvited. 


Until I heard it. 


Poooooooootyyyyyy poot. Ker-plunk ppoottt parrrrrrrrrfff... gurgle gurgle. 


Flush. 


Sink. 


Paper towels.


Door open, close. 

Say whaaaaaa? Did that just.....?? Did she just........??


YOU ARE SO BUSTED.


WELL GUEZZ WHAT. THERE'S A NEW SHERIFF IN TOWN AND PRIVATE POOPING SESSIONS ARE NO LONGER. That's my bathroom.


hehehhehehe I hear you sneaky priss!


Come on, private poopers, don't be such a girl about it. Let 'er rip!


For complicated reasons, I am definitely probably overly comfortable talking about bodily functions. 


Another post, for another day. 

Obviously, I'm an extremely glamorous person. 


Isn't boyfriend lucky?

Safety First

And that's all I have to say about that.

If You Give A Mouse OCD

About that last post. 

I'm sorry, I was just kidding.

Parents don't penetrate each other.

That would be gross.

They just go to soccer games, pack sack lunches and pretend to be Santa.

I have the day off today. Remember I was working ungodly hours all this week? Today is the fruit of my labors. Guess what I did?

Don't guess, I'll just tell you!

Went to TJ Crack Maxx and got there before it opened. Waited outside from 9:20 am until they opened the doors at 9:30 am. What is this, Black Friday? How embarrassing.

I am a bargain junkie, so...if you give a mouse a cookie, she's gonna want to go to Marshall's.

theatreworksusa.org 

Went to Marshall's. Died of happiness. Then got a work skirt (zzz) and a top that has one sleeve. One sleeve, you say?! Yes. One sleeve.

Went to American Apparel. And damn you, American Apparel. Bought a dress that is a teensy bit slutty. Secretly obsessed. I also bought a crop top, which the way I see it, is sorta the devil. Because now I have to wear it. And suck in my tummy to the point of discomfort. But it's so dreamy. I love to hate you, crop-top.

Cleaned the bathroom.

Cleaned the bedroom.

Cleaned the kitchen.

Cleaned the entryway, back splash, light switches, tile grout.

Vacuumed.

Cleaned the vacuum.

Cleaned the bathroom again.

Here's the deal. I have cleaning obsessive compulsive disorder. What I mean is, I can't clean the bathroom without cleaning the entire house and all its crevices. The whole cleaning experience takes over me and makes me a mad woman, and by the time I'm done, the bathroom is probably dirty again. It is the EPIC example of If You Give A Mouse A Cookie.

Please tell me you know this book. Or else none of this will make any sense. Your head must be spinning with confusion.

simplemom.net

And if you don't know this book, I feel sorry for you. Have a childhood real quick, and go buy it. Stop resisting. You will learn a whole lot about humanity.

exodusbooks.com

Sigh. That mouse. He so gets me. 

And let me me tell you, there's a whole lot more OCD where that came from. 

bearhugsbaby.blogspot.com

And,

murray.k12.ia.us

Finally, 

spellboundchildrensbookshop.com

Love love. 

UPDATE: I just went in to change the font of the blog. 

I ended up changing the entire design and lay out. 

Let's Talk About Babies, Baby.

Seven years ago, my younger brother and I came to the traumatic and grody (remember grody?) realization that our parents were sexually active. 

With each other. 

And they were expecting.  


A baby. 


A human baby. 


At 15 years old, this was about the most devastating thing that could ever happen. Parents were embarrassing enough. Shoot, if a parent breathes the wrong way it is embarrassing to a 15 year old. And now I was gonna have a big, pregnant mom. And in 9 months, a baby? The trauma. Also, boys were gross and I was scared of them so I couldn't imagine how my parents, after all these years, still liked each other. Grossness.

Fast forward seven years and I met boyfriend and his olive skin, brawny muscles and blue eyes. And I died.  

Point being, now I get it. 

I texted boyfriend this morning, 'I'm making a grocery list, any suggestions?"


His response? 'Cheese. And dinner foods.'


Charming.  

I can hear him beating his chest from here. What a man.

I melt.


Sorry, I get carried away.

Anyway, back in my teenage angst and pessimism, I was certain this baby was going to ruin my whole life and all my plans.What plans I'm not sure, but if I had a couple goals or ideas for the future, baby would ruin them all.


Not. That totally didn't happen. 

My perfect baby bird was born November 11, 2003 and it was the day my life changed forever. He was then and still is my eternal entertainment and opportunity to mold and corrupt something small. And teach him fun phrases. I really underestimated the possibilities a baby would bring. 

I am yet to put any pictures of myself on this blog, but I am not above exploiting children. See below.

This is my baby, being an Avatar

Saying something weird I taught him

Being ridiculous.

Moral? I'm kinda obsessed with this baby. Happy birthday, baby!




Moral #2? Now that I'm older and sexually active mature, I realize what I was unaware of at fifteen years old...parents having sex? Thumbs up!

crnabiz.com

Not Another Running Story

At work we just started a new schedule that gives us hard-working employees every other Friday off. The catch of this, because there is always a catch, is that on those weeks we have Friday off, our schedule goes from 8am-5pm to a new and not so improved 7am-6pm. Ten hours is a long time, yes. Any of you that have worked 10 hour shifts, you know, tis murdah. However, Friday off will be extremely legit. I've got two primary issues with new schedule: 



1. Sunday was day light savings. Leaving work at 6pm in total darkness gives me a very paranoid feeling that my whole day is gone and I am watching my life, my youth, and my twenties pass before my eyes without any control.

2. When will she run? I can guarantee you homegirl AIN'T getting up at 4:30 am to run. I am psycho, but I'm not that psycho. Stay tuned.


Well unfortunately they didn't ask me when I want the sun to rise and set (if they do, I've got an answer ready, naturally), so I'm just going to have to let my paranoia subside. As far as crack running goes, I've decided to take on the challenge of running over my lunch hour-ish. I say ish because let's get real, no reasonable person can run, shower and eat lunch in under an hour. Maybe I have to just put a little, teensy fib on my time card. I am usually very paranoid and anxious about lying at work, but for running, I  break all normal rules of human conduct make an exception. 


Just yesterday I found out that my place of work has locker rooms and A shower. That's one. Singular. Shower. Yesterday late in the afternoon, I scoped it out just to see what I was getting myself into. It was interesting. This is me being optimistic. This shit is straight out of a horror movie. It is like the shower from Psycho and the bathtub from What Lies Beneath had a baby. Of course, me being me and completely addicted to running, will do anything for my DOC (a good friend just clued me in that this means, drug of choice). So I look at the sad shower yesterday and think:

Meh, I can make this work.

news.softpedia.com

 PLUS

shine.yahoo.com

 EQUALS

 Actual photos. Shower is in that creepy corner to the right. Behind the scarier brick wall. This is my nightmare.

  

Today was day one of my lunch hour running experiment. Read on to see how successful I wasn't...


You know what I forgot? A towel.


I went anyway. My rationalization for post-shower was that I would just use my running clothes to dry off a little.  


You know what my running clothes are? Dry fit. 


And very, very smelly. Does it even make sense to take a shower and then rub sweaty, smelly running clothes all over your body? It did at the time. 

You know what else I forgot? Soap. 


Instead I used my very expensive Aveda shampoo for body soap. Budget fail. 

The shower has two pressures, trickling nonsense and power wash. I opted for power wash just because I wanted it over with asap. Ouch.

I shower as fast as humanly possible and then jump out of the shower and use PAPER TOWELS to dry off. At this point, I am moving so quickly because God forbid someone I work with sees me in this state. I'm blotting my whole body and armpits with scratchy paper towels and can you imagine what a schizo I look like? Since I'm moving so fast, I start sweating again and I'm scrambling for my clothes and have you ever tried to put jeans on when your legs were wet? It's totally ridiculous and not even possible. Some how I get my clothes on and now they're wet too and my hair is a moppy disaster and my mascara is running all over my face and I'm looking...looking...no hair brush. GGUUUHHHHHH. So I say fuck it and throw my hair in a soggy, tangly bun on top of my head. 

Still sweating. 

How am I doing so far?

Nonetheless, I refuse to surrender to my horror film shower so I'm trying this again tomorrow. Sigh. 


A positive of this experience is that I did feel pretty city girl-esque running through the streets of Downtown Houston. So chic. So much famousness. 

oakhurstrunningclub.blogspot.com

As a result, I am looking pretty rough the second half of this work day. 

Does it sometimes feel like you learn every lesson the hard way? Yeah, me too.

Guilty Pleasure, Hold the Guilt

Since I've moved, I've picked up a pretty consistent habit of getting my nails done. As it stands, I'm good for about a bi-weekly mani/pedi visit. Yes, I realize how much of a girl this makes me sound and I realize every reader now thinks I'm a shallow piece of shit. Well, fucks, I don't watch TV. So this is my happy place like all you assholes that watch True Blood, Glee, Desperate Whorewives and the likes. Everyone has their guilty pleasure, so get off me.

The nail place I go to in Houston is ridiculous. You've got one lady on your feet, one on your hands, and in 27 minutes they give you quite possibly the best mani/pedi you've ever had. Like everything else in Houston, they are fast. There is this incredible sense of urgency in this city and three months later, I'm still trying to figure out what the G damn rush is. So the nail salon is basically a sweat shop/gang bang hybrid that is full of Asians and everyone is calling you 'honey.' The manicure/pedicure experience pans out and it is not enjoyable, not relaxing, and probably gives you more anxiety than your cubicle 40+ hours a week. The bonus is that it's hilariously cheap, $25 total, and they do a kick ass job. Needless to say, I endure.

Today I am going home to Oklahoma City and in an attempt to look put together and like my life is totally under control, in front of people I haven't seen in months, I decide to get a manicure and pedicure. It's funny how polished nails can make you feel empowered. I have this feeling that for some reason, you can look great and healthy and productive, but if you have jank ass feet and scraggly nails you're just not going to pull it off. Better safe than sorry.

This salon visit was just totally fucked from the start, and I should have known. I totally set myself up for this.

As per usual, I take an inconveniently long time to pick out my polish. So many choices. And this sends the nail ladies in a tizzy. They are rushing me and THAT IS NOT HELPING. Whatever, so I pick a color for my feet and hands and I hate them both already. Decision remorse.

So I sit down in the chair (which isn't comfortable or relaxing, aren't we defeating the purpose here? must. go. on.) and the lady is super friendly and asking me all kinds of questions, telling me I have great nails and overall I'm pretty much feeling like the cat's meow. And then,

"You have day off?"

"Yeah, I took the day off today."

"Ohhh dass nice. You have long weekend now."

"Yeah...well I'm going home this weekend."

<blink, blink>

"You home not here?"

"Oh, no my parents live in Oklahoma City."

Silently shaking her head. At this point, I have no idea what set this lady off. We were friends 45 seconds ago, shit was cool between us. Now I'm wondering if she's bipolar or there's something on my face.

Both wrong. For the next 20 minutes nail lady is lecturing me on how no girl should ever move out of her parents house unless she is married. You know how I said they were fast? Well this was the longest mani/pedi they have ever done because homegirl talked forever. Shockingly, her two daughters (26 and 29 years old) both still live at home and it's fantastic and they are beautiful. "The older is prettier than her sister, but I no tell her that." Well she tells me about all their special nights together when she goes up to their rooms and kisses them goodnight and hangs out until "11, maybe midnight," while the daughters "do on the laptops." Yes, I'm sure they adore this quality time at nearly 30 years old.

I guess she wanted to take a breath so as she's trying to work all this out in her head and find some kind of rationalization in my situation she starts asking me questions.

"So you live with you sista." She shakes her head as if reassuring herself that this was definitely the situation.

(I wasn't sure if this was a question or statement, I answered it anyway)

"No...I don't have a sister"

Silently shakes head. Speaks in Vietnamese to the girl filing my toenails.

Now she is visibly distressed with the situation. She says, with a total bullshit dramatic sigh that I don't appreciate, "you wok or what you do?"

"Yes, I work. My boyfriend lives down here too and he works for an oil and gas company. I work in advertising."

A light bulb goes off. Here it is. This was going to be her big opportunity. So she takes it and decides she'll attack boyfriend.

"You boyfriend go with you home?"

"Ooh, umm..no he's going up to where he went to school to go to a football game."

Speaks in Vietnamese to toe lady.

"This yo first time home?"

"No, not exactly. I moved in August, went home Labor Day weekend."

"Boyfriend go?"

"No."

"Ah, you parents no know him."

"Wait...no...umm, what? No, he knows my parents, they have met him. A lot actually. We've dated for awhile."

Speaks Vietnamese.

"So you go home now and go back fo Thanksgiving?" It's like she knows.

"Yes, exactly. BOYFRIEND IS COMING WITH ME." I felt like I had to defend him somehow, poor guy.

Speaks Vietnamese.

"OK, you pay now."

So I give her my credit card before she paints my nails and now I feel completely guilty like I've abandoned my whole family for selfish reasons. Luckily, I get to sit here and let my nails dry to really think about this. Let it soak in. I really just wanted a mani/pedi. I could have done without the guilt and serious questioning in my life decisions. Epically perplexed, but I know I can't quit this place.

What gives?

Shalloween

Maybe it's the fact that I am expected to be a civilized adult 5/7 days of the week but something about Halloween this year just made me want to go embarrassingly overboard. Boyfriend and I decided a long time ago that we were going to be Alladin and Jasmine. This is both racially insensitive and genius because boyfriend just happens to be 1/2 Iranian, so we've got the whole Arabian nights thing already happening. A requirement was that he had to be street rat Alladin, not Prince Alladin. For those of you whose childhoods were meaningless, I will explain the significance of this in pictures:

uweb.und.nodak.edu

tvdance.com

Additionally, I spent an uncomfortable amount of money buying a costume so that I could become my life-long idol. 

kids-comforter-set.com

Since my office is one chain email away from being The Office the show, we had dress up day on the Friday before Shalloween. So in an attempt to conform and be in with my new coworkers, I dressed up. The reality is, I'll take any excuse to wear this epic costume. I adore this costume. For about the first two hours of the work day, my coworkers were taking pictures and doing other various cliche bullshit but I play along because that's what people do, fake excited about really stupid stuff. In about five minutes we took dozens of pictures and in another five minutes they were all on the Internet. In looking through the photos on Facebook, I realize something. I am positively BEAMING in every picture. Like a little girl, I was beyond proud to be Jasmine for the day. Hopefully they didn't catch on. Obviously, I'm way too mature to be this excited about a child's holiday.

The next night boyfriend and I go to a party at a mutual friend's house for adult Shalloween festivities. Now this is when the shit really went down. This is something I can get excited about. This was my big shot to get all glammed up. And glammed up I GOT. Fake eyelashes, loads of makeup, and my shiny blue Jasmine costume. Boyfriend was geared up in his Alladin clothes, his muscles looking faboosh in his purple vest. This was going to be a great night. We were ready for the famousness. 

I understand that everyone gets a little too drunk for their own good every once in awhile. Everyone has been that person at the party. I understand. The person that, as soon as you leave/go to bed, everyone else can resume the functional fun that you were too over the top to handle. Well, there was a girl at the party that was exactly that. Let me tell you, I have never seen someone so out of their mind. And I went to a Big 12 school. Stammering, stuttering, falling all over the place, nipples out, bowl full of jelly, the whole package. She wasn't even dressed up, which just annoyed me from the start. Not only that, but this chick was on the prowl. You know the scene, the wasted girl who will literally pounce on anything that moves and has male private parts. Hilarity ensues.

Anyway, home girl is not my friend and I don't even know her name, so I'm giving myself permission to blog about her on the WWW. The most epic display of dysfunction occurred when a group of girls were posing to take a picture, smiling, pretty, glitter, etc, etc, and home girl wobbles up from the couch to get in the picture, jumps in front of us, and flashes her tits to all of our boyfriends. Well, if this isn't the biggest 'fuck you' then I don't know what is...At this point, I have second hand embarrassment so bad that I cannot take it. If I wasn't under the influence, my anxiety would have been off the charts. Then, after she shows her goodies to the world, she falls straight on her ass. THUD. The best part, in the meantime of this shitshow, this girl is taking the time to try to get us all to attend her party the following night. ????? OK, let me tell you what's not going to happen. Because, I've seen how hard you party, and I'm pretty sure I can't keep up. But, thanks for the offer. 


All in all, Shalloween was a success. I enjoyed being Jasmine and I'm pretty sure boyfriend was more than a little pumped about getting back to his roots as Alladin. And for the record, and since this is the first time this has happened ever, boyfriend did get significantly more intoxicated than me. Check mate.

We're already brain storming for next year. I promise you, we won't disappoint.

Cracked iPhone, Cluttered Mind

It happened. I did it. I cracked my brand new iPhone 4 screen. For any of you who have an iPhone, you know this is both a devastating and traumatically frequent event. This being my first time, I wasn't aware of the mental process. Considering I'm already the most melodramatic person ever, you can imagine 'the my life is over' attitude I adopted.

repairgameconsoles.co.uk

Either way, I figure that shattering your iPhone is a feeling similar to losing your child at the mall on a Saturday and discovering your bank account is in negative numbers.

Stage one: utter panic coupled with a knot in your stomach and feeling like the world is crashing around you. In this stage, you have no idea what life will look like beyond the current trauma.
Stage two: attempt and rationalization at trying to fix the situation. During this phase, you are ignorantly positive about the outcome of the situation.
Stage three: realizing that you cannot, in fact, immediately turn the situation in your favor. Panic ensues, this time coming back in the form of snapping violently at anyone that tries to tell you 'it's going to be OK.' As a matter of fact, the simple phrase it's going to be OK, just might send you into a raging, cursing, outburst. Something that starts with, 'it's NOT going to be OK!!!!!!!!!!!!'
Stage four: get wasted. Apathetic mood sets in.
Stage five: wake up feeling like more shit than you did pre-iPhone destruction. In this stage, a part of you thinks what happened was a horrible nightmare, but your gut is saying it is real life, and real life sucks.

Well after 24 hours of feeling pretty sad for myself and my sorry phone that I admittedly think has capacity for human emotion, I decide to take action.


I have a lot of opinions about The Apple Store. HOWEVER, my negative feelings about The Apple Store have ADD. What I mean by this is, any complaints about The Apple Store tend to lose focus when presented with something shiny. Play this scenario out: you bitch about how long it's taking to talk to a 'Genius', how expensive something is, how many people are in the store, how hot and smother-y it is, and the high concentration of nerds that are better than you. As your mind is going off in a violent tangent at the ridiculousness that is The Apple Store, you see something that sparks your eye. Eh, maybe I'll just look at this. But I still hate it. Tap, tap, tap. Slide, slide, slide. Click, click....oh, wow....cool...that's...OMG! THIS IS THE MOST AMAZING THING I'VE EVER SEEN. YOU MEAN I CAN _________WHILE I _______???!!!?!?!?! MY QUALITY OF LIFE WILL SEVERELY SUFFER IF I DO NOT OWN THIS. At this point, The Apple Store is the best thing that has ever happened since Nintendo 64 and you are SOLD. Even though The Apple Store has caused you more anxiety in the last 20 minutes than you had during your entire first interview, you cannot live without it and must convert your entire technology collection into Mac products, TODAY. You have officially drank the purple drank that is The Apple Store. 

westlifenews.com

The point is, I'm not going to complain about The Apple Store because, inevitably, I will look like an asshole. Currently using: iPhone, iPod, MacBook...need I go on?


Apple has the genius-ness of creating products that cause utter euphoria in their users, and when these products fail to work as we want them to, users experience pure anxiety and are completely helpless until their product is returned to a functioning state.


So I go to The Apple Store in Houston and put on my best pouty face, bat my eyelashes and hope for the best. I am embarrassed how many times I've used the line, 'I just moved to Houston.' Lucky for me, this Genius was a total sucker. I got a total iPhone replacement and didn't pay anything.  As a result, I'm feeling much more at ease with a crack-free phone. Anxiety relived. For now.

digitaldaily.allthingsd.com

Welcomes for the free advertising, Apple, Inc. Kudos. 

The Daily Grind

So I don’t know what is happening with America but Fridays always seem to stress me out more than any other day of the week. Isn’t the opposite supposed to be happening?

About a month ago, I was having THROBBING MURDER POUNDING pain in my tooth/jaw/head. This went on for several days and it was maddening. At the time, my only rationalization was that I definitely had a brain tumor. Intense pain mixed with a new life with a dash of my inherent paranoia makes me slightly irrational. Being new to Houston, new my job and unsure whether or not my health insurance had activated, this gave me substantial anxiety. When I had just about enough, I end up going to a Lady Dentist and spending a good portion of time taking X-rays and sitting with my mouth open, thus making my jaw and head throb in even more intense pain. After a couple hours, Lady Dentist reveals to me the geniusness that would cure me, I was GRINDING my teeth at night. First of all, I can’t even say grind without getting the hee bee geebies. Second of all, WHAT FOR? WHY ME?? Lady Dentist tells me in her doctor voice that most often, teeth grinding is a result of stress. For me, this is probably caused by significant life changes such as moving and starting a new job. So she gives me some muscle relaxers (which I’ve realized is a doctor’s way of saying, chill the fuck out) and sent me on my merry grinding way. Eventually, the muscle relaxers gave me stress-less sleep and the MURDEROUS pain went away. I assumed my grinding issues were behind me. Look how stress free I am!

 

wemetatcrabracing.wordpress.com

WELL. Last night around 3am I wake up to boyfriend handing me a cup of water. My first impulse is WTF but my second impulse is, what do you want me to do with THAT? He says in total desperation, ‘here, please take a drink.’ So I’m like garrrr whaattt?? whyyy?? And he says, you are doing something with your mouth, here. Apparently that was good enough reason because I took a drink and went to bed, hydrated nonetheless.

So this morning getting ready for work this comes back to my memory and I'm trying to remember if it was real life or a dream....so I’m like, skkkkkkkirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrttttttttttttttttt … boyfriend, WTF was that? He says I was grinding my teeth so loud it woke him up. What you need to understand at this point is that boyfriend sleeps through anything. Examples:

Did you hear the storm last night? Nope.

Did you hear that car alarm last night? Nope.

Did you hear that dog last night? Nope.

Did you hear the bomb under your pillow? Nope. 

Did you hear aliens land on the roof and abduct me? Nope?

‘That clicking noise woke me up.’

?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

So apparently I’m stressed out again and now I’m having anxiety about the anxiety I may or may not be having and WTF is this doing for my teeth and brain??

NO. 

wemetatcrabracing.wordpress.com

Sorry I'm Not Sorry?

So another significant thing I’ve noticed about Houston is that in media and social settings, anything goes. It seems to me like Oklahoma City is pretty safe, in terms of what the media discusses and what is deemed socially acceptable for a reasonable person. OKC pretty much stays under the radar. What I mean by this is…you can’t fart in Oklahoma without offending someone. Either Houston gets offended by very little, or no one gives a shit enough to censor anything. Ain’t no shame in the Houston game.

There is a morning radio show in Houston that I sometimes listen to on the way to work and occasionally they have a feature called ‘What You Doin’ at the Courthouse?’ Yes, the exact title. You don’t realize how much it hurts me to type botched grammar. You cannot make this shit up. Take a second to really soak that in. Basically, the premise is that one of the hosts of the radio show posts up outside the downtown courthouse and interviews people, asking them why they are at the courthouse to begin with. This is quite possibly the most intrusive radio feature of all time. It also happens to be amazing and something that I have found myself to be addicted to. One of those things that you hear and your ears perk up and you instantly turn up the radio, like the opposite of what you do when you hear Ke$ha. Although the answers are hilariously random and perfect, there are definitely some common denominators. Such as: 1) it’s never their fault 2) their grammar is questionable 3) they think they’re going to be famous, and never hesitate a shout out. This isn’t The Price is Right people, you’re going to jail.

Well listening to ‘What You Doin’ at the Courthouse?’ this morning got me thinking, several times a week I come across something random and think, ‘that would never happen in Oklahoma.’ Last week, I was looking online for some parties/bar events going on for Halloween. And let me tell you, there is a plethora. So I’m reading and see something about a swingers’ party. Cute, a costume, Halloween-themed, swing dancing class! Maybe boyfriend and I could…wait…no…I think that’s…OHMYGAWDDD…Yes. A legitimate Halloween party for those who swap spouses. Not only that, but it is advertised and promoted on a very popular Web site in Houston. Maybe I’m the most naive person ever, but, WTF. EW?

In addition to this, there are sex shops everywhere, a strip club called ‘The Church,’ (see what they did there? ‘Honey, I’m going to Church on my lunch hour today.’) liquor is sold in gas stations, and alcohol in Hobby airport has a to-go option. 

This is the shit that dreams are made of.

Did I mention liquor is sold in gas stations? You know what is also sold in gas stations? 40s. Not just 40s, COLD 40s, in a cooler, with ice. Drink and drive much?

Are you offended yet?

Me either. This is fascinating.

UPDATE: An instructional article outlining the basics of buying your child their first gun. This is too much.