The Best Buy Guy

When boyfriend and I first moved to Oklahoma we were staying in an apartment complex as part of boyfriend's relocation package. We were on the top floor with me, boyfriend and a now 85 pound puppy. It was miserable and I cried often.

About a month ago, we ran out of that apartment complex 100 miles an hour and moved into this chic little 3 bedroom house with a fenced in backyard. Praise the Lord.

Before leaving Houston, in a really practical move I sold all my furniture. Out with the old. The point is, we moved into our 3 bedroom with no furniture. Two weeks and a million dollars later, we were furnished and I cried much less often. But the most prized possession investment was the 60 inch 3D television that boyfriend bought.

Mind you, boyfriend went to a military school for college and spent 4 years in a shoebox with three other roommates and no television. It was time to go big. And he went big. We picked out the most expensive television at Best Buy and drove 13 miles an hour down a major street in Oklahoma City. I start cracking up and boyfriend shoots me a sharp look because NOTHING IS FUNNY ABOUT SAFETY.

"What?"
"Do you realize, we would not drive this carefully if there was a newborn baby in the car?"

That makes him laugh. Plus one for the females.

Anyway, the whole TV buying process took our entire Saturday afternoon and the help of a nice Best Buy Guy. He told us the ins and outs of televisions, sound, 3D, Blue-Ray and generally had a pretty good time spending boyfriends money.

There goes my Caribbean vacay. Thanks, Best Buy Guy.

So we get the television, sound system, 3D, Blue-Ray all home and (similar to a newborn baby) we don't know what the fuck to do with it. We stare at the massive box, hoping that the TV will just mount itself.

Turns out, it didn't.

The next evening, I get home from work, kiss boyfriend, kiss the dog, kiss the TV. Boyfriend says to me, "Eli is coming over later."

"Who? Who the fuck is Eli?"

"You know, the Best Buy Guy."

"Of course. The Best Buy Guy. But...how did you....what....why?"

"I had some questions so I called him, he's coming over."

At this point, I've got two things going on in my head.

First, how quickly men bond is blowing my mind. I have the same friends I had when I was 10. I've got a handful of (kickass) soul sisters from high school, college and Houston. My friend-making: see frigid, guarded, selective.

Secondly, what if the Best Buy Guy is a serial killer?

Eli ends up eating dinner with us that night and coming over again that weekend. He has since become a staple in our life in Oklahoma City, growing our technology and still spending boyfriends money.

This is not a paid advertisement for Best Buy, however, thumbs up on the customer service.

But seriously, what if he's a serial killer?

A Blood Donation

Today I am going to do something I really hate.

When I was a freshman in college I gave blood for the first time. I was trying to be involved and make friends so I volunteered for something that I assumed would be really rewarding and easy.

What an idiot.

I went with a friend who I just met. We were trying to do that new college thing and hang out with someone outside of your high school for the first time.

Conveniently, she went first, finished giving blood and then had to leave. "Bye Girl!! TTYL!!"

?

So here I was, a room full of strangers about to give away my precious, really cute blood.

So as I'm sitting there getting ready to be poked and prodded, there was a girl next to me with a needle in her arm squeezing the little stress ball thingy and I look down and turn green and my eyes bulge out of me head.

THEY TAKE THAT MUCH BLOOD.

Gulp.

Then the nurse says something to the girl that I will never forget, "Wow, you're really filling this bag up fast! Doing a great job, your blood is moving great!"

AND THEN IT WAS ON.

I instantly hated her. If her blood could move fast, mine could move faster. I'm a fucking runner, OK? I will win and I will cut your time in half.

I needed validation. Look at me! Look at me!

So they poke me, oh I don't know, 12-15 times before they find a vein and once the blood is rushing I squeeze that little stress ball with vigor. I make a sharp look at the girl with the fast blood in an expression I'd like to think said, "see this bitch?" I'm pretty sure I'm sweating, have an under bite and am loudly mouth breathing at this point.
Of course, what happens next is pretty foggy but I'm pretty sure that the nurse commented on my fast blood too. As I'm on my death bed, I put this compliment in my back pocket to use for later.

Turns out, blood donation isn't a competitive sport.

And then I pass out.

I wake up to ammonia under my nose and a throbbing headache. I have no idea where I am and lucky for me, I know no one in the room.

The nurses seem worried at first and people are rushing around to recline my chair and lay me completely down and someone is feeding me canned Gatorade out of a straw.

Who are you people? I love you.

Did I win? Was my blood faster than hers?

So then some nice overweight nurse explains to me what happened and says I have to chill there for like 30 minutes to make sure I'm OK.

So I sit there, white as a ghost and wondering if my friend is coming back and still not knowing if my blood was faster. Why is no one telling me this?

And as a freshman in college, I just want my mom and dad.

So I leave the blood place, and like everything else in college, have to walk back to my miserable dorm room. My legs weigh at least 400 pounds each and it takes me 20 minutes to walk a few blocks.

Is my friend coming back? Who will help me?

I get back to my dorm, call my dad and demand that he comes to pick me up so I can sit in the fetal position at my parents house for the rest of the weekend.

Well, that was the blood donation heard round the world because turns out, I have a really rare blood type.

Goodie.

So, to this day, that same blood donation center calls me asking me to give blood. I went a couple more times in college and they were equally traumatic. The last time I went (luckily) my iron was too low. So I high tail it out of there feeling released from prison and holler, SEE YA SUCKAS!!!

Fast forward to present day - I get a call yesterday from a nice lady named Shannon who commented that they 'haven't seen me in awhile,' no shit, that's on purpose, and is telling me how they 'really need my blood type as we get into the holidays.'

My first reaction is, HELL TO THE FUCK NO.

My second reaction is, some day I'm going to need a massive blood transfusion that will save my life and the doctor will say, "dang, that's too bad, no one from your blood type has donated in like, 10 years. We will just sit and watch you die now."

And because I'm Catholic and have a crippling guilty conscience, I'm going to give blood today.

UPDATE: I gave blood. To my surprise it wasn't horribly traumatic. BUT THEN. Passed out at work 2 hours later and almost yacked in someones trashcan. Subtle.

I love the Internet

A Houston Farewell

Yeah, so I've been out of commission for awhile. And I'm not going to explain myself because I just don't feel like it. 


It's my blog, not yours. 


So, it's official. 

This Schizo will be living in a new city. 

Boyfriend accepted a fabulous dream job in Oklahoma City.

But what if I miss you?

And that's pretty much all it took. 


So what?


Stop judging me, I can't handle it. 


Good thing I finally got that Texas driver's license and tags. 

But when life gives you lemons...you find a way to make a margarita and say hiiyaaaaa. 



What is she talking about? She's all over the place. That's not at all insightful. 

The family that I nanny-ed (nannied?) for in high school and college has decided to take me back so in the interim, while I look for a more responsible job in Oklahoma City, I will be nannying. 

And making more money than I make now. 



FML. 

Nanny sounds so much better than babysitter. 



The American Dream. This is why we went to college, ya'll.

But I'm thinking, it will be JUST like Real Housewives of Orange County. 

Except I don't own a house, I'm not rich, and I'll be borrowing kids. 

Basically the same exact thing. 

Hayyy bitches.

This is OKC.
 **Buildings in images are smaller than they appear


Regardless, I have come to love and own this sweaty, large, fabulous and highly schizophrenic city they call Houston, Mexas. 

I've come up with a list of things that I will miss about Houston:


1. 9 month summers

2. Feeling like you're in another country because English, to my surprise, isn't exactly required. It's basically the most exotic place on Earth. 

3. Professional baseball. 'merica. 

4. An epic skyline

5. That guy in the green above

Are you crying yet? This is SAD. 

6. Running at lunch

7. Palm trees. OMG the palm trees. 

8. 25 dollar mani/pedis

So what if I'm shallow?


9. Drinks to-go in Hobby airport. WHY didn't I think of this. 


10. Drive thru margaritas. Obviously the overall casual attitude towards drinking and embracing drinkers as not fuck-ups of society but rather as, a business opportunity for all. 

11. Fabulous, perfect friends to explore this unreal city. I became grown-ups with these people, in this city. Plenty was witnessed.


12. My first grown-up girl, apartment. I have emotional attachment to this place. It's mildly inappropriate. 

13. I regret I don't have a picture for this - but the best, BEST restaurants, fine dining, grub in here in Houston. They don't call it the fattest city for nothing. Houstonians KNOW their grub. A foodie's paradise. Truly, madly, deeply.  


14. The Texans. Not because they're great, but because living in a city with no NFL team significantly reduces the likelihood that I will see a Rolls Royce in drive-thru and a Ferarri on I-10. Because lets get real, that's the closest I'm going to get. 

15. The everyday chance of running into Beyonce or anyone in the Knowles family. 


In the event of not being in Houston, I am working on a complete site overhaul. Stay tuned for more ridiculously charming entertainment to come. 


About my hiatus, sorry I'm not sorry. 

Twatter

I got a Twitter. 

And I'm probably going to sound like I'm 108 years old when I say this but, I feel the same way about Twitter that I do about DVR.

10 percent useful and 90 percent a total cluster fuck. 

I don't understand a freaking thing and and black out trying to figure out how it works and typically just end up giving up entirely. What is the meaning of this?

WHATEVER. I'll watch the fucking commercials. I lived without it before, I can live with it now.

Difference is, now I pay for it. Served.


The other day. boyfriend was on my DVR trying to record man shows like Deadliest Catch and Orange County Choppers and I was in AWE at how quickly he navigated through...truly shocked. Who taught you this? Was there a college course for DVR?

So he goes to the part where it shows you 'my recordings' and I'm all whoaaaa and then the screen pops up and its like 57 recordings of the same episode of Bethenny Ever After. 

As a side note, if I watch one more episode of Deadliest Catch, I'm going to throw myself down the stairs.


Anyway, I got Twitter so that I can have another avenue to stalk the Kardashians promote the blog. 


Right off the bat, I followed the entire Kardashian Klan (too many Ks? is that too insensitive after the white comment?) yes, including Rob.

Katy Perry, Britney Spears and Shia LeBouf quickly followed. 


THIS IS BUSINESS, PEOPLE.


So all I'm wondering is whyeveryonetalkswithoutspaces and the primary significance of @ and #. 

So far, I don't understand and I'm not enjoying myself. 

Ten days and several techo nightmares later, I went to log in to take another stab at this Twitter phenomenon. 


I forgot my password. 


Gave up. 


And there goes that project. 


Good thing Twitter is free.

Because if faced with the responsibility of trying to figure out how to deactivate a Twitter account, it's probably going to send me over the edge.


It is free, right?

Once Upon a Time There Was a Blog...

And it was good. 

I'm sure you're wondering by now if I got that job. 

Well I didn't, so suck it. IT WASN'T MEANT TO BE.

Except it totally, totally was meant to be.

But, I did get a super nice email from the manager as a consolation prize. Sort of a 'hit me up in 2 years' email. That's probably exactly how Cindy Crawford started her modeling career.


Did the email make me feel better? Slightly. 


Are they signing my paychecks? Not.

In the meantime, I am applying violently.


Regardless, my hatred towards my current job has me convinced my future imaginary company is just working hard to present me with a ballin' package of benefits, salary and other legit things I don't even know about yet. I probably haven't even heard of these benefits 'cause they're gonna be so sweet. 

Yeah, they're totally just waiting for me. Whoever they are. 

It's all about getting your hopes up for something that won't happen positivity. 



In an attempt to distract myself, I've had a bit going on. 

Boyfriend bought this

I won this

Drove to Oklahoma like this

Aaaaaaand the big reveal.

I'm white.

Boyfriend and I ran a race just like this 

And this

 And this

It was called Mud Run and was 6.2 miles and 35 obstacles of dirty sweaty insanity. And free beer at the finish line. 

If you say the first part really quickly then free beer at the finish line is convincing enough. 

It worked for us.

Boyfriends puppy grew into this 

Started a marathon training that looks like this

Cooked a dinner like this. Or was this, rather

Suffocated to death in weather like this

When Life Gives You Lemons...and Oranges, and Kiwis...

If it's not a speeding ticket and a court date, evil corporate minions lay off my boss and leave me an orphan at work. 


And if it's not work, it's dental surgery.

Yes. Dental surgery. 

Turns out, I am grinding so diligently and aggressively that I have, in good form, fractured my tooth. 

My parents always said I was driven. 


Yes. Fractured. 

The proof is in the puddin'. 

Actually, this x-ray means nothing to the attention deficit human eye. I definitely did the baby ultra-sound nod like, 'oh yeah, I totally see it. It's beautiful. It has your nose!'

When I'm really thinking, "whoaaa look at my skull. Sweet."


Except, it isn't sweet. It's horrible. 

And like everything else in my life and in Houston, expensive. 

So like then next day I get news that boyfriend probably might be most likely it's happening: getting a job transfer to San Antonio with his company. Good for: career. Bad for: psyche.

So in sum, my job is giving me stomach ulcers probably, I'm on probation, I've aged 10 years in about a week, my boyfriend is abandoning me and I'll be a spinster for life, and I'm grinding so much that I'm breaking my own bones. 


AND THEN.


AND THEN AND THEN AND THEN.


A beacon of light shone upon me and on this day a child was born out of Bethlehem and they named him Jesus. Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.


Wrong story. 


I got an interview! 

For a job!

For a very kick-ass company that won't lay off my boss because they are looooaded and don't need to lay anyone off.

Or make any anxiety-ridden employee a premature work orphan. 


So, I called in sick to my current job, went to my interview, fell in love, and tried desperately to impress.

Came back to my job the next day to 300 emails in my inbox. 


Blacked out, marked all as read.


Fight or flight.


So, now all hope for my life is hanging on the result of this job interview and if I don't get the job then I will ABSOLUTELY die and be in the fetal position crying under my desk. 

Cheers to my luck going 8500 miles in the opposite direction.