Thursday, December 31, 2009

TMI Thursday: Please, Just Hair Me Out

It's TMI Thursday! Go see more stories over here:

Sooo...

Do you remember that guy in high school that was two years older than you and totally out of your league? Remember how you drove by his house three times a day, wrote down what he was wearing (and critiqued it), and were positive that one day he would saunter up to you in the hall and admit his un-dying love for you?

And then remember how he graduated and moved away and you never heard from him again until you were at a bar in college four years later and you were all OH MY GOD, TRACY, THERE HE IS! WHAT SHOULD I DO?

And remember how Tracy was all, "HOLY CRAP that is him! Wow, he's still so...well, he really doesn't look hot. And he looks totally wasted. And kind of fat."

And remember how you were all, "Well I'm totally wasted, too, and he's NOT fat. He's more muscular...or...well, maybe his face is swollen from a root canal and both sides this afternoon and that's why he's downing shots. Go buy me a drink, I'm going to go talk to him."

Okay, so then remember how you took a shot of something fruity and tart and OH SO AMAZING and walked up to the boy you fondly remember batting eyelashes at in the hallway while he passed you and probably thought your pants were the most hideous thing on God's green earth?

Remember that?

No?

Just me, then?

Okay, well it happened to me. And things should have gone swimmingly after that.

Should have.

I should have looked into his (slightly full) face and heard bells and sparklers a la Bobby Brady in the Kissing Episode. But I didn't. But it was okay, cuz I was drunk.

(And because if I keep telling this story in the "remember when" tense, you may never come back and visit this blog, I will now revert back to normal story telling mode.)

Here's what happened after I walked up to The Boy:

So Tracy gives me a shot and I approach The Boy's table. He's sitting with -shocker- the same two friends he hung out with in high school. Pointy Nose Friend still has a pointy nose, although it should be noted that it has less acne on it. Muscle Monkey Friend is still muscle-y, but is nearly unrecognisable due to the 80 pound Gamma Givsa Hummer sorority hussy trying to chew his face off with her tongue.

Ignoring the friends, I lightly tap The Boy on his shoulder and say something eloquent like, "Um, hey. Are you The Boy from Loserville Highschool, class of 2007?"

To which he replies, "Um. Yeah. Hi." After which he does a fully obvious super hero laser stare right at my gazungas. And smiles.

"Oh!" I shout nervously. "I'm Kim, but I was two grades below you. I don't know if you remember me..."

It's a bit fuzzy after that, and the details don't matter. The Boy remembers me (or at least does an Oscar-worthy performance of convincing my ridiculous ass that he does) and we drink until last call.

And then comes THE MOMENT.

The Boy insists that I come with him to his apartment because he's truly concerned about my alcohol toxicology levels. Never mind that The Boy has had a minimum of seven drinks more than I.

Details.

Minutes later we arrive at his humble abode. We enter the living area which is stuffed to the gills with 700 pieces of black leather Dude-My-Apartment-Is-Such-a-Chick-Magnet furniture, and several tye dye blankets tacked on the wall.

It's creepy. But I don't care, because we make out. A lot.

As we smooch, my mind wanders and I contemplate whether The Boy and I will have a swing set or a slide in our back yard. Will we send our children to our high school or a prestige private school? Will we be in the 25% or 28% tax bracket, because I probably won't work after the first-

"So, is that okay?" The Boy asks.

Oops.

"Um, sure." I reply.

(Because really, what question other than "Don't you adore my tye dye blanket wall coverings?" could he possibly ask that I would say no to?)

"Great." The Boy stands and motions down a hallway. "I'll be there in just a second," he says. "I'm going to get a drink from the fridge."

Ahhh...I am to go to his bedroom. Do I want to do that?

HELL YES.

So I do. Seconds later The Boy appears in the bedroom doorway, shirt off and (somewhat) saucy. I notice the glass of water in his hand and immediately realize that I need to pee.

"Hey, Boy. Sorry, I need to use the restroom really quickly." I hop off the bed and head toward a door cracked open a few inches across the room.

"This is your bathroom, right?" I fumble for the light switch and look back at him with my sexiest bedroom eyes. "I'll be right back!"

As I close the door behind me, I faintly hear him asking me to use the bathroom down the hall, but there's no time for that. I have to go.

So I do.

I won't bore you with details.

And then...it happened. My perfect night was blown into tiny little bits. As I stood to wash my hands, I noticed something in the sink.

No, wait. A lot of somethings. Furry somethings.

Is that black pillow stuffing?

My eyes flash over to the outlet on the wall. A plugged in razor lay sadly on the sink counter, obviously exhausted from a long day's work.

Oh. My. God.

In the sink bowl lay hundreds, nay, thousands of trimmed little black curly hairs. It looks like Shaft's head has been ritualistically shorn and the remaining contents placed in The Boy's sink.

Twice.

WHERE DID ALL THIS HAIR COME FROM? The Boy has a decent amount of hair upon his head so it isn't like he shaved his head this morning. And there's no way THAT much hair could come from his...region. So where is it from? Two possibilities immediately enter my mind, both of which are beyond awful.

Either:

A) The Boy is really hairy and had chosen today to rid his body of all follicles, both foreign and domestic, and has forgotten to remove of the evidence in the event a GIRL COMES BACK TO HIS APARTMENT.

or

B) The Boy is of the normal hairy variety and has been (gulp) shaving off his normal amounts of hair over a VERY LONG PERIOD OF TIME and failing to dispose of the clippings.

T. M. I.

I wish I could tell you that I immediately left the apartment screaming "EEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKK!" all the way out, but please remember that I have allowed The Boy to drive, and I have no way to get home.

So I stay.

And try not to vomit.

The next morning The Boy drives me back to my apartment and promises to call me. Which he does multiple times. And I take great pleasure in ignoring every single call, much in the way he completely ignored me in high school.

It all comes full circle, people.

On another note, if there are any single boys reading, please remember this. No matter how hot you look when you leave your house, if you return to the house with any normal female, she will not be impressed with:

* Debbie Does Dallas furniture replications in your living room

* Dirty underwear strewn across the floor

* Captain Crunch crummies in your bed

* Shavings of ANY KIND IN YOUR SINK OR IN YOUR BATHROOM


You're welcome.

Monday, December 28, 2009

times, they're not a changin'

I've managed to surive 28 new years in my life, and they usally come along with the same new (or old, depending on how you look at it) promises.

Start running three miles a day.

Eat more fruit.

Drink less Dr. Pepper.

Recently though, I've come to terms with the fact that, in the new year, I will be more likely to:

Sleep in as long as it would take to run three miles.

Eat more Cheetos.

Double my Dr. Pepper intake.

But whatevs, I can accept that. I no longer feel the need to make gigantically huge proclamations about better health and living, when, in reality, I'm quite content with the way I live my life.

(This doesn't mean I'm completely resistant to change. After all, this year I took a huge gamble and changed jobs.)

(I didn't do it willingly, but still, I did it. Yay me!)

So, this year, rather than focusing on the thing I'm bound and determined to change, I'm going to make a list of things that will remain constant for me so long as I have air in my lungs.

And who knows, you just might see yourself in some of them.

Without further ado...until I die I will:

1) Need to count on my fingers the number of hours of sleep I received the night before (a la "7,8...wow, 9 hours is a new record!")

2) Require a calculator to figure out how old a celebrity/stranger/relative was when they died. Those 1937-2009 calculations are just way over my brain capacity.

3) Suck at math. Clearly.

4) Forget the name of the person I met three seconds after meeting them.

5) Run around at least three times a day screaming, "Where did I put my effing sunglasses!??" only to find them wrapped securely on my head.

6) Mentally whisper "please forgive me" to Jesus every time I drop an F-bomb.

7) Bark at my children that PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE...as I mentally condemn the bank teller to hell for taking so long with my deposit slip receipt.

8) Love my Hubs, children and cats more than life itself.

9) Require my mother's presence in order to feel better when I'm sick.

10) Wonder if Hubs' and my house will ever feel like "home" as much as the house I grew up in as a child.

11) Be very generous with forgiving, but very stingy with forgetting.

12) Wonder if there's a kick-ass novel inside of me somewhere, dying to get out.

13) Love hearing Hubs say "Bye, babe" at the end of every telephone call.

14) Keep adding to the number of awkward stories I still have in my memory banks.

15) Secretly know that I am the next American Idol/Top Model/Shear Genius/Real Housewife/Iron Chef - and that my limitless talents are simply reserved for my families entertainment.

16) Size up every female I pass in the mall and think, "I could never wear pull off acid wash black denim" or "Damn, I wish my arms were that skinny" or "Who let her out of the house in THAT?"

17) Always have a pile of clothes on the floor- unless company comes over. In case of which they will be shoved into a closet.

18) Never unpack on the same day I return home from a trip.

19) Continually try and be someone else, only to discover I'm always going to be me.

20) Question everything.


It's possible a miracle will occur and I'll post more than once this week, but in case I don't, have a great holiday and new year. And, dear bloggies, if your 2009 was anything like mine, keep in mind the phrase that always keeps me going: This Too Shall Pass.

Monday, December 7, 2009

a cut above

I'm not what you would call a follower.

(Except for blogging, in which case I follow everyone. Obsessively. Yes, that's right. I'm following you. And you. And you didn't even know it.)

I usually pride myself on going against the grain of the norm. When the skinny jean heroin model trend started up, I refused to participate and purchased extra large knit drawstring pants and a cheeseburger.

When Seventeen magazine told me to be proud of my God-given hair color and leave it alone, I swiftly purchased a $4.00 box of hair dye entitled something like "Eggplant Parmesan" and ended up looking like this:




You get the idea.

(Yes, I had a mustache in this picture. I was only 17 and had not yet become privy to the uses of Nair, Nads, wax, or, clearly, a mirror. Shut it.)

In keeping with my trend of personal trail blazing, I did it again this weekend. In a world full of Grow-Your-Hair-To-Your-Ass or Buy-$5000-Extensions-To-Make-Your-Hair-Look-Like-It's-Grown-To-Your-Ass messages, I opted to chop my hair off on Saturday.

This was not a well thought out decision.

First of all, I live in Kansas. It is WINTER TIME. So far this year, our fine state has managed to avoid an all-out snow fest.

So far.

Apparently Mother Nature, in all her infinite wisdom, took it upon herself to patiently wait until I removed approximately 5" of hair insulation around my neck to dump a snow storm on the city. Therefore, on Wednesday, if you happen to see a crazed lunatic with an out-of-season bob haircut pumping her fist at the sky and screaming "WHY dammit? WHY?", it's me...

Secondly, I recently bought a brand new Chi flat iron.

It wasn't cheap.

Now I have an outrageously expensive piece of hair styling equipment, perfect for my really long hair...when a $9.00 hot pink Conair piece of shit will do just fine.

I am so brilliant.

On a side note have having nothing to do with anything, I have approximately 15 ridiculous silver gray hairs IN THE MOST OBVIOUS PART OF MY HEAD.

I'm off to get some more Eggplant Parmesan hair dye...

Friday, December 4, 2009

smells like teen spirit

Over Thanksgiving Hubs and I spent a large majority of our time with family.

Scratch that.

Over Thanksgiving Hubs and I spent a large majority of our time drinking with family.

Which is fine.

Until I drink too much and start remembering things about myself that no one a) wants to hear or b) wants to picture.

So I share them with you.

The conversation that sparked this memory was my sister-in-law and I discussing some of our more unflattering fashion looks during our formative years. She recalled jelly shoes, I recalled bodysuits.

Yes, bodysuits.

Do you remember? They looked like this, but mine were uglier.





Egads.

Back in 1996, I loved me some bodysuits. Laugh all you want, but Beyonce still wears them, so they must not be so bad. See?

I digress.

One Christmas (during I believe 8th grade), I received the ultimate gift. A brand new plum bodysuit with a pair of overalls.

Heaven.

Despite my un-dying love for the unitard bodysuit apparatus, I did have one problem when it came to wearing them in school. As a young, hormonal teenager, I had a...sweating problem.

Whatever, you did too, admit it.

Seriously, I had the glands of Michael Jordan after four quarters and a mile sprint. It just wasn't fair. I tried everything to get it under control. (And by everything I mean I Teen Spirit and Suave antiperspirant deodorant.)

Nothing seemed to work. I would bring stashes of deodorant and corral them in my locker and back pack, secretly re-applying nearly every chance I got. I was a sweaty girl to deodorant like a fat kid is to candy.

Anyway.

Making things worse were my raging hormones, which would kick into full gear whenever I was around a boy I was particularly fond of. (And in 8th grade, you're fond of nearly every guy who doesn't kick you in the ass when you pass him in the hall.) In other words, people, I sweat a lot. And sometimes it didn't smell so nice.

So...there I am, the first day of school after Christmas. I dress in my plum body suit, my overalls, and gigantic yellow contractor-style boots. (Like these.)

Slammin'.

When I arrived at school that morning, I was convinced this was going to be the best day ever. Not only did I look rockin' in my overalls, but my body suit beneath it was nice and tight; the boys couldn't help but notice my rockin' curves.

(Of course, at the time I was unaware that tight clothes tend to keep the body nice and warm.)

And then it hit me.

I. Forgot. Deodorant.

Shit.

Immediately my body went into panic. Which made me sweat. Then I remembered a test I had to take later that afternoon. Which made me sweat. Then I saw the boy of my dreams across the commons area.

Niagara Falls.

I vaguely remember anything about that day except for many frequent trips to the restroom to mop up the land of 10,000 lakes I had going on in my arm pits.

For last period started, I(gently)raced from my locker straight to my seat and planted myself there, determined not to breathe, worry, stress, get excited or look at any cute boys.

It seemed to be working, and the period went quickly. However, last period also happened to be my computer class.

So...lots of CPU's and printers, in the room, running all day long.
The room got hot. And hotter.

And so did I.

You know that feeling when you get out of the shower and put on a shirt too fast, and the wetness immediately seeps into your clothes? Take that, multiply it by a million, and add a pair of warmth preserving overalls.

I was a hot mess. Literally.

When the end of class approached, my classmates packed up early and crammed in next to the door, willing the bell to ring a few minutes early. I couldn't risk drawing attention to myself by staying in my seat, so I too packed up my bag and stood by the door.

Smooshed like sardines.

With only one minute left to go, I thought I had escaped the day unscathed.

Until...

Suddenly a boy in my class known for being rude, loud and generally unpleasant, proclaimed loudly, "What is that SMELL?" Immediately everyone began looking around, trying to locate the offensive odor. I too, awkwardly looked at my other classmates, praying to God that someone had let out a horrific fart.

Alas, I felt the Mean Boy's eyes land on me. In his defense, he was probably just wanting to stare at my boobs. Naturally though, the giant burgundy stains growing exponentinally by the second beneath my arms swiftly tore his attention from my boobies.

His eyebrows shot to the top of his pimply face as he loudly shouted, "OH MY GOD, it's KIM! Did you forget your-"

Apparently there is a God, because at that moment the final bell rang, and Mean Boy's desire to expose me to the whole class was washed away with thoughts of after-school Nintendo and freezer burnt pizza rolls.

(Thank heaven men are like dogs and can only concentrate on one thing at a time.)

To this day, though I no longer have a horrific sweating problem, but I still use the strongest deodorant money can buy. And then some.

And I'll never wear a bodysuit again.

(Unless I look as good as Beyonce.)

Sunday, November 15, 2009

flying by the (assigned) seat of my pants

I've been spending monumental amounts of time in airports lately.

Because I'm trying to be more like Victoria Beckham.

Okay...not really.

All of my airport shenanigans have been for work, which means I haven't been able to endure the airport with the knowledge that there's a poolside cocktail and bathing suit weather waiting for me at the other end of the plane ride. Rather, I've logged my airport hours alone, wishing I was at home with a warm cup of tea and dreading the inevitable horrificness that occurs every time I get on an airplane.

Without fail.

Seriously.

(Remember this?)

What is it about traveling alone that causes the most ridiculous, had-to-be-there-to-believe-it stories that you can only repeat at a later time in which people severely doubt your sanity and sobriety?

Maybe it's just me.

Allow me to give you some fantastic-o examples this week. I literally have so many I might be able to do one a day, so keep checking back.

***

A few weeks ago I was on my way to Green Bay, WI for some sales training. I specifically booked my seat on the window so I could have an excuse to wear sunglasses rest my head against the plane. As I entered the aircraft, I could already see that someone was in my seat.

I have x-ray vision like that.

(Or I'm just a perpetual pessimist.)

Upon visual confirmation that a woman was indeed in my assigned seat, the Mean Demons in my brain immediately began to prepare a verbal attack. Somehow I managed to keep my composure.

Perhaps this woman simply didn't comprehend the cartoon signs that are designed to make sure EVERY PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE CAN FIND THEIR APPROPRIATE SEAT.

They can be confusing.

Ahem.

I approached the woman in the window with a completely ingenuine ear-to-ear smile that would make my mother proud.

Me: (approaching seat) Oh! Tee hee! Are you sitting in 12-F? I think might be my seat. Not sure, though! (squinting at Seat Explainer Cartoon as though the information might change before my very eyes.)

Seat Stealer: (not even looking up from her texting) I'm in D. You're in F. It's an aisle seat.

Me: (incredulous at her blatant lie and awful black roots) Um...okay! I guess I read this wrong so...

Seat Stealer: (continues texting)

Guy in Row Behind Us: Actually, Miss, you're right. She's in your seat. D is an aisle seat.

Me: (vowing to give the guy a hug later) Oh, okay! That's what I thought. Hee hee!

Seat Stealer: (glancing up from her phone and peering at me over her glasses.) So did you want this seat, then?

Me: (internal monologue) No, no, not at all. That's why I'm standing here HOLDING UP THE AIRPLANE LINE. I just wanted to make sure you were aware that you were being a complete ass. I'll be happy to sit in the aisle seat and have my elbow broken in 9 places by the effing drink cart.

Me: (siging loudly and plopping into aisle seat) No. It's fine. Whatever. You can sit there.

Guy in Row Behind Us: Wow. That seems kind of silly.

Me: (loudly over my shoulder) Oh, ya know, it's not that big of a deal!

Seat Stealer: (Realizing the kind of crazy vindictive bitch she's dealing with) Well, if you really want the seat...

Me: (smilign oh-so big) Really. It's totally fine!

Seat Stealer: (squirming) Well, um, I'll probably have to go to the bathroom anyway at some point in the flight, so it would make sense for me to sit there.

Me: Well, if you insist.


****

Let this be a lesson to you all.

I am the Queen of Passive Aggression, and I will NAIL YOUR ASS TO THE WALL with it every time.

In fact, I'm so good that I can make a grown woman tell a plane full of strangers that she has to pee when she really doesn't.

Revenge is mine.

Check back tomorrow for another harrowing airport story...

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Awkward Tuesday: Shake a Leg

I've been busy.

(Like, every-second-of-my-day-filled-with-things-I-need-to-accomplish-without-having-a-clue-how-to-accomplish-them kind of busy.)

(But no excuses. I still should have been blogging.)

So let's not beat around the bush. You don't want to hear about my time management issues. You want awkward stories. And I have one for you.

But first let me tell you this.

I've noticed a pattern in a great deal of my awkward stories lately. The pattern is that most of these stories are not only awkward, but ultimately consistently fall under the heading of "foot in mouth". I don't know what it is, but I have this enormous unrecognized talent of talking about people, places and things when those things are a) next to me b) right behind me c) right in front of me or d) on the phone with me.

It's like I can't be stopped.

This leads me to believe that I need to start paying more attention to what I'm saying and who I'm saying it to.

Or I just need to stop talking shit on people.

Either one.

Okay, so onto our awkward story for today. (If I even have any readers left after this most recent hiatus into oblivion-dom.)

This story actually takes place only one month ago. Yes, that's right. I basically haven't learned anything from my past awkward experiences and simply continue to repeat my mistakes over and over again.

You got me. Yay for you.

So...a month of so ago Hubs and I attend an Iowa State Football game together.

(Yes, I graduated from KU but I am an avid supporter of Iowa State.)

(Mostly because it's in our pre-nup.)

(Not really.)

(I'm just really easily swayed.)

(Which means I'll stand for nothing, fall for anything, etc. etc.)

Hubs and I generally leave the stadium at half-time to meet up with his family, drink more beer and lodge official complaints about the Cyclone's football capabilities.

This day is no different.

Following halftime, as we begin our journey back into the stadium, I am...um...inebriated. When I get to that point, I also get extremely lazy tired. Being drunk is not an ideal physical climate for crawling up into bleachers and walking 18 miles of frozen tundra from the parking lot to the stadium.


I just didn't want to do it.

As Hubs and I walk back to the stadium, I begin my incessant whining about the huge hill we must climb to get up to the actual stadium.

(Because some genius thought it would be awesome to place the football stadium atop the only Pike's Peak in Iowa.)

So there I am, acting like a 9 year old, bitching and whining about the trek back to our seats.

(And when I say whining, I mean all-out bitch fest.)

Something like this:

Me: UGHHHHH!!!!!! I don't WANNA walk up this ridiculous HILL AGAIN!

Hubs: (sighing) Let's just take the stairs then. It won't seem so bad if you don't have to actually climb up the hill. Stairs are easier.

Me: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! I hate stairs!! When I work out, I always avoid the Stair Master because I HATE IT SO MUCH.

Hubs: Well, we're taking the stairs anyway because I think it will be easier. And we'll end up near the concession stand that has the ice cream cones.

Me: Oh. In that case, let's take the stairs.

Okay, so, all this time that I'm complaining, the two gentlemen in front of us are quietly giggling. I ignorantly think they're laughing because they think I'm cute (I mean, c'mon. Doesn't everyone?) and they secretly wish they were married to me.

Um. No.

As we approach the stairs, I decide to really kick up my whining in the hopes that Hubs will give in and carry me up the stairs Gone With the Wind style.

I open my mouth to begin the mother of all bitch fests, when suddenly, one of the gentlemen in front of us turns around and says with a big smile,

"Come on! You can do it. It really isn't all that bad."

Just as I am about to inform the un-educated man that I happen to have a sore ankle and an ingrown toenail thankyouverymuch, I happen to glance down at his legs.

Or should I say Leg.

Oh. My. God.

Here I am, a perfectly capable person with a fully functioning body with all of its parts, and this poor man is standing on flesh and a stainless steel rod.

And he's beating me up the stairs.

After I turn three shades of red darker than the Iowa State shirt I'm wearing, I immediately shut my mouth and begin to climb the stairs silently.

Then I have a thought.

Should I overcompensate for my blunder by running as fast as I can to the stop of the stairs and loudly proclaiming my thanks to God that I have fully functioning limbs?

Believe me, I considered it.

In the end, I simply climbed the stairs silently while Hubs scratched his head and tried to figure out what caused me to suddenly shut up.

(Mostly so he could use it to shut me up in the future.)

There are many things I take for granted in this life, and after that little run-in with the man who wasn't afraid to politely show me that I'm a complete jack ass, my limbs will no longer be one of them.

The rest of the day, with each step I took, I thought about how difficult it would be to perform day-to-day tasks without one of my legs. And I learned that my life isn't so bad after all.

Until the next Iowa State game in which I will undoubtedly find something else to whine about.

Like having to carry my popcorn, soda, ice cream and peanuts in only two arms.

Monday, September 14, 2009

the salesman sucketh

I got a job.

(Cheers, balloons, songs, joy!)

Calm down, it's not that big of a deal.

(Or maybe it is. I may or may not make Hubs toast to my awesomeness every time he takes a drink of his Red Bull.)

Anyhoodle, the job is going to be a great fit for me and I really think/hope/prah/voo doo/ Ouiji board/witchcraft that I'll do well in it.

One of the best perks about my new job is that I have a car allowance.

(I know, what?)

It's true. Due to the high volume of driving I'll be performing in this position, my company provides me with a moderate car allowance that will assist in purchasing a new, reliable, attractive to customers, safe to drive vehicle.

Naturally, because of this development, rather than focusing on the exciting new products I get to sell, I am instead focused solely on my new car.

(Two minutes into my job, and I'm shopping already. Heaven help us.)

Therefore, during the majority of Friday afternoon, Hubs and I went around to various dealerships trying out vehicles that meet my company's expectations and requirements.

The requirements are basically:

a) new
b) SUV or truck (Insert snort here. Like I'd ever drive a truck.)
c) decent gas mileage
d) adorable body style that inspires Hubs to say, "Damn you look hot in that thing."

Okay, maybe "d" is my requirement.

Whatevs.

Anyways...on the way to the dealerships I was peeing my pants excited to be checking out cars that are normally way outside my budget.

I mean, the allowance my company gives me by no means pays for my vehicle, but it does help to ensure I'm not driving a $3,000 beater car, either.

So there Hubs and I are, visiting dealership after dealership, trying to narrow down which vehicle is going to do the best job, for the best price, with the cutest accessories and MP3 space.

It's not as easy as it sounds.

I have to admit, I envisioned a slightly different car shopping experience than I received.

(Like, red carpets, champagne, and caviar snacks while shopping.)

Clearly I'm exaggerating, but I did I assume most dealers would treat us with respect, help if we had questions, and in general try to MAKE THE SALE.

Um...no.

Instead, much to my surprise, we had to GO AND SEEK OUT the sales people ourselves several times.

I mean, no, I wasn't wearing my pearls and 6" stilettos that day. And yes, Hubs was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. But really, is it a requirement to put on your Prada to receive decent service in a dealership??

Cuz it shouldn't be.

(I'm aware I probably sound like a whiner. Poor princess has to go seek out a salesperson to show her a car. Like, big deal.)

And you're right about that.

But in reality, it was the manner in which the sales people acted once we had identified ourselves as serious buyers that had me seeing red.

Look, to start with, I wasn't about to share with the sales dude that, "HEY! My company is giving me x dollars to spend on a brand new car! What kind of deals can you give me?" No, no. I wanted them to earn my business, and the pay off would have been good for them.
Apparently no one wanted that pay off.

One particular dealership really had me pissed. We arrived and (after several minutes) went inside to find a sales person. Here's what happened:

Me: (walking around showroom floor) I wonder if the guy destroying that doughnut over there might want to help us rather than taking his cholesterol up another 8 points.

Hubs: Stop it. Your voice carries.

Me: Well. I'm just sayin'.

Salesman: (sees Hubs and me and waddles walks over.) Ahem. May I help you?

Me: (smiling) Hello! We were wanting to look at some cars.

Salesman: (looking me up and down disapprovingly) What are you interested in seeing?

Me: We're just checking things out. You guys have some nice cars here.

Salesman: (rolling eyes) Wellll, yes, we do.

Me: (pointing toward the Ford Flex) How much is this one?

Salesman: (staring at me blankly and fiddling with his pen.) I don't think this would fit your style.

Me: (incredulous) Well, I didn't ask if it would fit my style, I asked how much it was.

Salesman: (calling across the showroom) How much is this, Mike?

Mike: It's very expensive.

Salesman: (looking back to me) It's very expensive.

Me: (starting to cry and pulling wads of cash out of my pocket) Look I got money to spend in here!!

Salesman: (taking broad stance.) I don't think we have anything for you. You're obviously in the wrong place. Please leave.

And then I ran out of the dealership crying while the orchestra swelled behind me. Then Richard Gere brought me back and he let me try on any car that I wanted and eventually took me to the opera.

Oh, and I walked back into the dealership later and said, "You work on commission right? Big mistake. Big. Huge. I HAVE TO GO SHOPPING NOW."

****

Okay, so it didn't quite happen like that. But what did happen was the salesman basically treated Hubs and I like we were red-headed hookers in thigh high boots.

Joking aside, I would think in this day and age, a car salesman would be thrilled to have a serious buyer on their hands.

Especially a non-hooker buyer.

Regardless, I do get to purchase a new car in the next few weeks, and I WILL find a salesman who is happy to see me.

Any recommendations on where to go? Do you have any car buying horror stories?


Thursday, September 10, 2009

tmi thursdays: the pen is..mighty smaller than the sword

It's TMI Thursday, hosted by the lovely Lilu!






I eluded that this post was coming on Tuesday, remember? If you haven't read it yet, go do so quickly and then come back for the next part of the story.

Following the ego-crushing Sign Language Incident, I laid low on the flirtation with Customer Service Boy. Instead of drawing attention to myself, I focused on working, talking with my co-workers and generally pretending he didn't exist.

(Of course, at night I would doodle hearts and wedding dates and my name with his last name over and over psycho-like. It's what I do.)

Fast forward three weeks; it's Friday again and I'm at work. On that particular weekend, my parents went out of town. They specifically asked me to come home immediately after work to be with my brother ( who was 15 at the time, and also, as luck would have it, sick with the flu).

Being the amazing daughter I am, I promised to come straight home after work and hang out with my brother.

When my shift ended, I headed to the break room to clock out and head home. For some reason, Customer Service boy picked that night to ask me out.

(And when I say "ask me out", I mean he asked if I wanted to go to his house and drink beer. The romance was just oozing out his ears.)

Here's where things get a bit hazy. I remember drinking beer that night (something I hardly ever did back then because I was a bit of a prude) and I remember Customer Service Boy and his friend drinking a lot more than me.

Like, a keg each.

Classy.

By the time 1:00 am rolled around, I was sleepy and Customer Service Boy and his friend were blitzed. I could see the night was going nowhere considering my crush could barely find his own bathroom to pee in.

When I stood up to leave, CS Boy suddenly snapped out of it. He asked me to stay the night.

Dilemma.

A) Parents don't know I'm out drinking


B) Sick brother is at home wondering if I've been eaten by bears

C) I've had a few beers and perhaps shouldn't be driving

D) I've never stayed the night at a boy's house (read: I've never gone past 3rd base with a boy.)


In the end, I agree to stay.


(Because his slurring was so incredibly sexy.)


CS Boy's roommate was passed out on the couch, and I awkwardly crawled into bed with my super-crush. We made out.


(Ever have that moment when you look back and think, "Why did I ever even touch that guy?" I'm having that moment now.)

In my inexperience, I was stupid enough to believe that a little making out was going to be enough for this guy.
I soon found out I am dead wrong.


(I am going to tell the rest of this story as PC and PG as I possibly can. My relatives read this, for crying out loud.)


So...CS Boy, breathing out of his mouth and reeking of Pabst Blue Ribbon, ever so seductively removed his clothing, expecting me to follow suit.


(Or follow birthday suit. God, I'm clever.)


I inwardly went into panic mode, but calmed down enough to inform him that I was still in possession of my V-card thank-you-very-much and had no intention of giving it away to a drunken mouth breather.


Then...this conversation happened. Bloggies, I am not lying.


CS Boy: (attempting to nuzzle my neck) Ahh, it's so sweet that you've never done it before.


Me: (laughing nervously, as he is completely naked and I am still clothed.) Yeah, well, sorry if this is disappointing.


CS Boy: (gurgling) No, no, not at all. I mean, Kim, just to put your mind at ease, I'm not one of those guys that sleeps with a girl and then brags about it to my friends.


Me: (this is supposed to change my mind?) Well, that's great. I'm still not comfortable going any farther. I'm sorry.


CS Boy: (looks down at his...uh, member. And sighs.) It's not because...I mean, I know what you're thinking. (sigh) I might as well be a woman.


Cue scratched record noise.


WHAT???

Did this guy, who is trying to CONVINCE me to sleep with him, really just tell me that he MAY AS WELL BE A WOMAN???

Because really, I can't tell you how many times I've shared "first time" stories with my girlfriends and heard someone say, "He told me he had a small wee wee, and it TOTALLY got me going."

On another note, let's think about this logically. This guy knows I have never done this before. Chances are, I haven't seen that many boy parts. WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU TELL ME YOU'RE HUNG LIKE A HARRIET???

(Unless you're drunk and being really, really honest.)

Shortly following CS Boy's not-so-cocky confession, I pretended to doze off and prayed for him to give up and pass out. It didn't take long.

I left at the first hint of dawn the next day.

Not surprisigly, Customer Service Boy eventually told the entire grocery store staff that I not only slept with him, but he was my first.

As if.

This, I suppose,just proves that the old saying really is true: People who say negative things about others really are making up for their own short comings.

Or short pee pee's.

Either one.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

lesson learned

You're supposed to learn things in college. Important things. From people you respect.

No, not like what percent of alcohol you can consume in a 48 period and still live to tell about it.)

Seriously. You (or your parents) pay larege sums of money for you to get an education and receive a piece of paper that basically means "I survived". That education inevitably shapes the events that occur over the course of your next 60 or 70 years.

Looking back on my six (ahem) years of college, I could easily generate a list a mile long on the valuable life lessons I learned and still apply to this day.

(Many of them involve the phrase "get sleep", "remember to eat", and "put down the vodka bottle", but that's another post.)

But in my (over) half-decade of quality learning at Kansas University, there is one lesson that continually sticks out in my mind.


I didn't learn it from a teacher, a counselor, or even a professor.


I learned it from a cheater.


During my sophomore year of college at KU, I took a book reviewing class. On our list of literature were a few classics, one or two so-boring-I-want-to-gouge-my-eyes-out-with-a-screwdriver, and a novel by an author local to Lawrence, KS.


His name was Philip Kimball and he was the author of the semi-successful novel "Liar's Moon".

(There's some foreshadowing there. Wait for it.)

The book was a Western meets Folklore meets Tall Tale. I didn't so much love it.

(Mostly because my idea of a good book is focused on a slighlty less elevated theme. Like shopping. And kissing.)

Anyways.

After we finished the book in class, our teacher managed to coerce Philip Kimball into appearing as a guest speaker in our class. Though Kimball's topics of choice were less than thrilling to me, I was still excited to meet a real author and hear about his struggles, his accomplishments, and most importantly, his process.

On the day of his visit, Mr. Kimball arrived in our classroom and began to speak.

Slowly.

And kind of...um, boringly.

Okay, fine, I stopped listening after 30 seconds.

Though I'm sure he had interesting things to share, I found myself daydreaming about Fred Durst laying naked in my bedroom for the better part of his presentation.

By the time Kimball wrapped up his speech and began to take questions, I hadn't absorbed one iota of advice he had imparted. I mean, for a guy who supposedly writes stories that are so amazing and full of life and texture, I was ready to voluntarily slit my own wrists if it would make the talking stop.

I felt bad. Here was a real life author in front of me, and I had disrepected him.

I decided to ask a question. Confidently, I raised my hand and asked:

"Where do you get your ideas for your books?"

Predictable question, maybe, but valid nonetheless. Kimball thought for a moment, and I swear to you, said the following words with the fervor and zest of a witch over a bubbling cauldron:

"Plagarize!!! Plagarize!!! Why do you think God gave you eyes!!????"

He then proceeded to explain to the class that "Liar's Moon" is actually a spin on several existing stories that he stole and re-spun to create his novel. And yes, he used the word STOLE.

My teacher (who was also nodding off, I'll have you know) nearly fell out of his seat at Kimball's response. A published author just told a class of impressionable (and opportunistic) students that plagarism was the way to write a brilliant novel.

Looking back, I'm sure Kimball was attempting to say that every story, no mattter how original the idea, is likely the result of many experiences from other people and pulled together by an author.

Which is true.

But the fact that our guest of honor was explaning the HOW WHEN, and WHERE to get away with plagarism was downright shocking.

As if it wasn't enough that he pontificated for ten minutes on the wonderfulness of plagarism and concluded his speech by repeating his special poem,

"PLAGARIZE, PLAGARIZE! Why do you think God gave you eyes?"

Finished with his tirade, Kimball flashed a creepy grin and looked at us expectantly.

I think we clapped.

Immediately following Kimball's departure from the room and back to the land of Colossal Cheaty Cheatersons, our instructor vehemently apologized and requested we forget everything we had been told in the past hour and a half.

Ironic that out of all of my years of college lessons, Kimball's lesson is the one I remember most.

The obvious moral to this story is: don't plagarize. It's mean.

And in case you're wondering, God gave you eyes to read other people's stories and become inspired to write/draw/craft something you can be equally proud of.

So come up with your own stuff, no one wants to be a "Liar's Moon."

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

thing's I don't do

I'm bored, so here's a little list of things you would definitely never catch me doing when I'm alone.

I definitely do not drink three Dr. Pepper's in a row. Ever.

I totally don't talk to a non-existent camera as though I'm on The Real Housewives of Kansas City. (eg "I'm meeting Jane for lunch. She's been crabby this week, so we'll see what happens. I'm hoping for no drama, though. My new Mark Jacobs bag is so hot.")

I would never sing "My Heart Will Go On" at the top of my voice in my best Celine Dion impression in the shower because the acoustics are better.

I definitely have never tested the acoustics in my shower vs. my living room.

I certainly don't practice my appearance on Oprah after my best-selling novel gets made into a movie trilogy.

I could never fathom eating Wendy's, Chipotle and Chili's all in the same day.

I never secretly wish I was a flamboyant gay man so I could snap when I talk and put glitter on my jeans.

I abhor at the idea of thinking up sneaky ways to get into movies free.

I could never turn into Rachel Zoe after watching her on Bravo. (eg "Hubs, I need more shoes OP-tions for our dinner with Mark and Julie on Saturday. Oh my God, I just looked on Piperlime and found this totally amazing gorgeous pair of black pumps that are BANANAS. I die.")

I most assuredly would never whisper sweet nothings to Edward Cullen as I drift off to sleep. ("Goodnight Edward. Take care of my heart, I'm leaving it with you....ZZZZZZZzzzzzzz.")

What are some things that you never do?

Monday, September 7, 2009

Smoothie Operator

It's Totally Awkward Tuesday!

(Well, it's technically still Monday, but I know you're all hung over from the long weekend and won't really notice.)

Today's awkward story takes us back to 1999. I'm a senior in high school working at a local grocery store as a cashier, and I have made multiple friends at my job.

(Because, as you know, I'm awesome.)

So...I have a crush on this boy that works in Customer Service at the store. Okay, not really a boy. He's a kindofman because he's a few years older than me and smokes cigarettes. And has slept with half of the grocery store employees already. And listens to hard core rap. And drinks.

A lot.

I, on the other hand, don't drink, smoke, listen to rap, sleep with anyone or make waves in the boat of any one's life whatsoever.

We are clearly made for each other.

Anyways...

So, when Customer Service Boy isn't taking smoke breaks, he "runs the floor". This is a fancy way of saying he's in charge of monitoring the cashiers and our lunches, breaks, cleaning of aisles when people let their children throw Prego containers on the floor, etc.

Heavy responsibility. So attractive.

Okay, so fast forward to a typical Friday night.

It's pay day. I and my good friend Pinky (obviously that's not her real name) decide to take a trip over to my place of employment to collect my weekly earnings and say hello to all my work friends.

(And of course, inconspicuously check out if Customer Service boy is working so we can stare at him.)

(Because I'm so good at hiding my crushes. )

On the way to the store, Pinky and I stop at a local smoothie joint. I buy my favorite Juice Stop Smoothie entitled the "America's Cup." It is delicious, and tasty, and I'm feeling confident.

Pinky and I arrive at the grocery store to retrieve my check from Customer Service. As we walk in, I see Customer Service Boy working the counter...and he is the one handing out checks.

As Pinky and I walk to the counter we squeak back and forth to each other "Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod he's working! He looks so good in green! Look at his hands! They're so muscular!"

We are also under the delusion that we are whispering.

But we are not.

I ask for my check from Customer Service Boy and he smiles as he hands it to me. I die. He then tells me I look nice while I attempt not to faint.

Somehow I walk away from the counter with my cashed check without saying anything stupid. Until. Just as I am almost out of earshot, Customber Service Boys shouts, "I'll see you tomorrow at 2:00 when you work!"

OH. MY. GOD.

Clearly Customer Service Boy has looked at the schedule to CHECK WHEN I AM WORKING!!!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!

Now, on that positive note, you would think that Pinky and I would quit while we are ahead and leave the store swiftly.

That's what a smart person would do.

But no.

I quickly decide I haven't seen enough of Customer Service Boy tonight. I need more.

I tell Pinky that I need gum.

No, it can't wait until later.

Yes, I have some on my car but it's old and hard.

Yes, I know it will soften if I just keep it in my mouth but I NEED GUM NOW!

She gives in.

We walk to the cash register adjacent from Customer Service and I purchase a packet of gum. That's it.

So incognito.

Customer Service boy is only 20 feet away and lazily leaning on his counter, smiling. I can tell he wants to say something to me.

Casually, I glance up and catch his eye and smile. He opens his mouth to speak.

(Be still my heart.)

The conversation goes something like this...

CS Boy: (leaning over counter) Hey, I thought you left.

Me: (Acting surprised at his voice) Oh! Yeah, I was going to, but Pinky wanted some gum.

Pinky: (rolls eyes and resists the urge to punch me in the nose.)

CS Boy: (strokes goatee.)

(I know. Ew.)

CS Boy: Well I'm glad you came back. What are you doing tonight?

Me: (mentally planning the colors of our wedding) Nothing. Just hanging with Pinky and drinking Smoothies! (coyly play with straw in Smoothie.)

CS Boy: Ooooh! I love those things! Which one did you get?

Now, keep in mind this is in a grocery store on a Friday night. Cash registers are ringing, people are talking, babies are crying...

Me: (holding up cup) It's an America's Cup!

CS Boy: (cupping hand to ear) A what??

Me: (louder) AMERICA'S CUP!

CS Boy: (shakes head.) I can't hear you.

It wasn't important. It was small talk. He didn't really care what I was drinking. He was probably just staring at my boobs. But, for some reason, the next few seconds occurred because I truly thought I was being cute and/or sexy and/or clever.

Ever so seductively, I placed my Styrofoam smoothie cup ON THE FLOOR and began to tell Customer Service Boy that I have an "America's Cup".

In Sign Language.

That's right.

Sign Language.

At some point in my 18 years of life, I had learned the Sign Language Alphabet.

(Also at some point in my life, I must have read in a "How To Be A Jackass" manual that spelling out A-M-E-R-I-C-A-S C-U-P to a dude in Sign Language would result in a romantic dinner invitation.)

In reality, spelling out anything in Sign Language when you are a) not deaf and b) not even signing the letters correctly, will result in an entire grocery store stopping what they are doing to stare at you in pity.

Pinky crawls under the cash register and sucks her thumb.

(Not really, but I wouldn't have blamed her if she had.)

After a few moments, I finish my Sign Language masterpiece and look up at Customer Service Boy for a reaction.

The look on his face is a mix between bewilderment and disgust. Thankfully, reading his facial expressions isn't necessary because his thoughts are being broadcast across his forehead like a neon CNN crawler.

"THIS IS WHY I DON'T DATE HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS ANYMORE"

If memory serves, Pinky dragged me out of the store before I could do anything else to confirm people's suspicions that I belonged in the nut house.

At least the Smoothie was good.


Be sure to come back and visit me on Thursday for TMI Thursdays. The story will involve the same Customer Service Boy and one of the most awkward/gross/weird instances of my life.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

a word on interviews: the awkward edition

It's been awhile since I've participated in Tova's Totally Awkward Tuesday, and it sounds like she might be putting it on hiatus due to her lack of remaining awkward moments.


But fear not. I have loads of awkwardness left to share.

You're welcome.

Today I thought I would pay a tribute to what would be the Mother Ship if awkwardness were an alien life form.

The Job Interview. (Duhhhh, duh dun dun DUNNNN!)

If you're employed (or even if you're not) you've undoubtedly encountered and survived at least one of these in your lifetime, so you know well how strange and discomforting they can be.

Two people, meeting secretly for the first time, to discuss possibly getting paid on a bi-weekly basis for providing a service.

(If you didn't know better, it would sound like a prostitution ring.)

Interviews in and of themselves are awkward. Generally you don't want your boss knowing you're on the take, so when you get chosen for an interview, you must select a crafty place to meet.

Like a crowded Applebee's.

At lunchtime.

14 miles away where no one can find you.

So now you're meeting a stranger in a crowded chain restaurant, and you have one hour to be damn convincing because your boss will never believe your dental appointment took two and a half hours.

Awesome.

It usually gets worse from there.

You spend three hours the evening prior to your interview revving up for dreaded questions like, "What's your biggest weakness?" only to find out that your interviewer is a complete tool box who gets his jollies asking ridiculous interview questions like, "So, Kim. Tell me a joke. But not a dirty one, I'm married."

In reality, interviews are really a way for employer's to see you in person and decide you aren't a psycho with a history of mental problems.

(And also to confirm that you don't smell like B.O.)

Generally after the first meeting, there are subsequent, more official (and relevant) interviews that weed down to that one person that fits the job best.

And you just have to hope it's you.

(I'm not even going to discuss the joy of waiting for a call back.)

I have loads of lovely awkward interview stories, but rather than spell them all out one by one, I'll just give you the highlights of my most awkward interview moments. Please feel free to share if you've got some, too because, after all, we can all learn from each other.

1. At an interview for a grocery store cashier, the manager asked me if I knew how to count change back. I told him yes. He dug some dollar bills and change out of his desk and asked me to show him. Um...

2. At an interview for a chain store in the mall, the manager stopped the interview to poke me with a screwdriver and say, "Hey, wanna screw? HAHAHAHAHA!" She was 72 years old.

3. During an interview for an administrative assistant temp job, I walked in the door and my interviewer greeted me with, "Oh Jesus, another skinny bitch! JAMIE...come see the skinny bitch the temp agency sent over!" (I got the job and became friends with the woman, who was later put in jail for extorting money from the company.)

4. At an interview for a sales position, the interviewer stopped in the middle of the conversation and said, "I don't feel like this is going well. Am I doing something wrong?"

5. At an interview for a seasonal position (which means walk around asking people if they want to open a credit card) at a large electronic company, the HR manager asked if I had any special skills that would further qualify me for this very important position. I believe I said something to the effect of, "This is just a seasonal job, right?"

6. During a post-college interview for my first real career job, the interviewer shared that she was from a small town in Kansas. I (being super nervous) totally lied and said I knew some people from her town. She asked who. I made up the most ridiculous name known to mankind as the interviewer raised her eyebrows suspiciously and said, "I don't know them." (I eventually got the job.)

7. At an interview in which I was on the take, my interviewer showed up 35 minutes late and said, "Oh, I'm so sorry. You didn't mind waiting, did you? I never write things down and forgot we scheduled this today."

8. At an interview for an interior design job, the hiring manager informed me that I would receive no benefits or vacation for the first year, and for my second year I would receive 5 days of vacation. I must have inadvertently made a face because he then said, "If you can find better, you go right ahead." I didn't get the job, but I did find something better.

9. During an interview for a temp position over a summer, I was being interviewed in a small cubicle. During our discussion, one of the current employees walked by and exclaimed, "SH*T it's hot in here. Can't we turn the damn air on?" The interviewer explained that the employee was recently back from drug rehabilitation and was prone to outbursts.

10. During a two and a half HOUR phone interview for a sales position, the interviewer was so impressed with my qualifications and amazing phone skills, he said he couldn't wait to meet with me in person to confirm that I was as wonderful as I sounded and that I basically had the job. I came to the in-person interview ready to be offered the position, but when I shook his hand he said, "Now...remind me. Have we spoken on the phone? Are you the one that used to live in Colorado with the Westie puppies?" I informed him that, no, I was the amazing one he was ready to offer the job to after our two hour phone convo. He made an awkward face and said, "Oh. Right. Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves." I didn't get the job. Maybe I was too ugly.



Happy Tuesday, Bloggies!

Friday, August 28, 2009

inspiration

My lovely buddy Bess just emailed me this article. All I can say is, it's an inspiration.

To do something.

Anything.

Right now.

So what am I waiting for? Waiting just means it will take that much longer to achieve my something. Wait long enough and I'll just have a long stream of nothings instead of one gigantic something.

So I'm going to do it. Now. Fail or succeed, who cares? Failing is just one more step up the ladder toward success.

(I think I definitely just quoted something from a "Things I Learned In Kidnergarten" poster.)

(At least something sunk in.)

Friday, August 21, 2009

oops

As the lovely Lilu brilliantly pointed out yesterday, today is Friday, not Thursday.

(Unemployment makes you stupider.)

(Yes, I know that's not a word. I is making a point.)

So, instead of providing you with my TMI Thursday story, I'm going to save it for next week. You'll just have to wait and wonder, won't you?

For today's post, I'm kind of copping out. It's a gorgeous day (think 74 degrees and sunny and kind of crisp like a fall day) and I don't feel like living behind the computer, I'll just leave you with this...

I want this T-shirt.



You can buy it for me here.
You know you want to.