February 1st, 2011 9:03pm - I am Awesome, Everyone's Going Down

By February 1st, I hadn't worked out in two months. I had traipsed through Australia, Vegas, and Tahoe accompanied by booze slushies and cocktails. The extent of exercise that I had accomplished in those months was swimming as fast as possible in the opposite direction of a shark while diving the Great Barrier Reef. I was later told that what I thought had been a shark was in fact a very large turtle.

Starting February 1st, I joined a gym.

I ate a roast cricket a few years ago in Thailand and immediately gagged. Typically, I would rather eat a cricket than go to the gym. However, Sonoma County was flooding and my abdomen was expanding so much that I was starting to look pregnant. Someone in the grocery store last week actually rubbed my belly. I desperately needed to work out.

Unfortunately, I am consistently under the delusion that I have superior muscles. I played sports constantly until I graduated college, and I like to think of myself as an athlete. The fact that I haven't lifted anything heavier than a beer in the past three years failed to factor in.

I walked into a FIT Extreme class at Parkpoint Health Club, and I scoffed. Aside from one twenty-something overweight chick in the corner, everyone else was over the age of fifty-five. I noticed one of the men in my office smiling and waving at me. He's sixty-two.

I glared around the room, swung my arms across my chest a few times, cracked my neck, and thought to myself, I am awesome. Everyone's going down.

Within a minute and a half, I was sweating. Within five minutes, every breath was a gasp. My arms punched less enthusiastically and my legs shook. On my fourth girl push-up, I looked up at the old bag in front of me. She was doing man push-ups, elevating and lowering her body faster than I was. When we shuffled across the room like crabs, sweat pored into my eyes and I couldn't see. I missed the change direction and crashed into a man called Old Balls. He put his dry arm around my soaked shoulders and asked if I was okay.

"Water," I whispered, but Old Balls had continued shuffling and all I could discern was a blur of movement every way I turned. "Water," I murmured, stumbling like a homeless drunkard through the elderly. The last detail I saw before the sweat stung my eyes was Mayonnaise over in the corner looking at me and shaking her head.

After shoving my entire head into the drinking fountain and consuming a liter of water issuing forth from the tiny water stream, I was ready to go back inside.

I am awesome. Everyone's going down, I repeated to myself.

That was a hallucination. At the end of the class, all of the senior citizens walked out laughing and talking. I was incapable of speech and crawled out of the room.

May 30th 10:00am - Airport Dementia

I booked a roundtrip flight from Auckland to LA for two weeks for a couple thousand dollars. Thank you California unemployment. My friend Jack got a roundtrip flight from LAX to Auckland for a week for four hundred dollars. She booked through a treasure trove. Jack is magical. She has an enchanted life where she can arrive at airports and get on flights she's booked.

Someone voodoo'd my airport life. I've been marooned in airports for days without money. The Swine Flu took me from Lima, Peru to Miami, Florida and then delivered me to my California destination three days later without luggage. Ganja and I went to San Francisco's airport without a visa for India. My flights get delayed and canceled. My planes get arrested because of diseases and bomb threats.

The weekend Jack was in New Zealand, Rob Awesome, MK Ultra, and Polly organized a reunion in Nelson. I traveled with the two Brits and Kiwi through India for a few months late last year. I found the cheapest flights to Nelson I could and handed my laptop to Jack.

"You'd better book them," I sighed.

"What? Why?" she reasonably questioned.

"I fall asleep taking standardized tests. I still have more of a chance of getting a good score on a test than I do booking flights."

I razzle-dazzled her with a sampling of my airline experiences.

"Okay. Flying Auckland to Nelson Friday, and Nelson to Auckland Sunday," she confirmed. "Look at this with me, so we can double-check."

I reviewed the screen with my 20/400 vision, and Jack clicked submit.

Thursday night, we went to Danny Doolan's bar. Before we went out, we shot back a bottle of whiskey. At Danny Doolan's, we boozed with beer, Jager, and a photo shoot.

While standing in line for the women's restroom, a male in the opposite line told us we should kiss. I kissed her neck. He told us we should kiss. I kissed her neck again. He told us we should kiss. Our lips met.

Briefly. An Aussie that looked a bit like a penis stalked Jack, so we left at three in the morning. Stepping out of the cab, I tripped over a tree root. At the airport the next morning, I was still leglessly drunk.

The morning after I've been drinking, my libido incites McDonald's lust.

"I need McDonald's," I told Jack.

"Me too, but we should probably check in first, because we're running late," she responded.

"I need McDonald's."

"You make a fine argument," she laughed, "But we should check in."

"I need McDonald's," I cried.

I have a male one-track mind for McDonald's when whiskey still slides through my brain waves.

"Okay, if we see McDonald's before we get to the check-in, we'll stop. If not, we'll get it after we check in."

When we checked in, the airline representative gave us our tickets to fly out that day, and mentioned our return on Saturday, the next day.

"No, we booked return for Sunday," we enlightened her, "We even double-checked."

"You booked your return flight for Saturday," she repeated.

"But we're going for the weekend, not just for one night. That doesn't even make sense," we argued.

"Your return flight is for Saturday," she iterated.

June 4th 1:02pm - Military Merriment Round 2

The following day, I met with a doctor. This was as delightful as the time my gynecologist called me, illuminating my results were abnormal and I had to return to the office. Two weeks later I received another call: nothing was wrong with me. 

Doc conducted a questionnaire, composing questions concerning family, drugs, alcohol, traffic violations, prior police involvement, etc etc. 

I had previously been carefully and abundantly debriefed by various persons in the recruiting process. Earlier debriefings had comprised conversations such as:

"Have you ever in your life smoked marijuana or any other illegal drug?" 

"Umm, not that much. I've smoked a bit with my friends, but usually only a handful of times a year." 

"I'm going to ask you again. Have you ever in your life smoked marijuana?"

"Ya, like I said, but only like fifteen times in my entire life." 

"I'm going to ask you again. Have you ever in your life smoked marijuana?" 

"No Sir. Never smoked anything, Sir." 

"Are you sure? Not even once or twice when you were intoxicated with your friends?"

"No Sir. Nothing." 

"Next question. Do you have any outstanding traffic violations or have you ever received any traffic tickets, including such minor offenses as parking tickets?"

"Oh, God yes. I think I've received three speeding tickets, two moving violations, and like thirty parking tickets. I really don't know though, because I've been pulled over so many times, it's possible I have received more than five actual tickets."

"Do you have any outstanding tickets? Anything that has yet to be taken care of?" 

"No. The most recent thing was I had a warrant out for my arrest in March because I didn't know I had to pay $10 for a side mirror fix-it ticket. But I had already sold my car. It's a long story." 

"But nothing you have yet to take care of?" 

"No Sir." 

"So. Do you have any outstanding traffic violations or have you ever received any traffic tickets, including such minor offenses as parking tickets?"

"No?"

"Good. Next question..." 

Thus, when Doc questioned me, I had prepared denial answers to all. Nobody in my family was in jail or lived outside of the USA, I had never drank in excess, never smoked anything in my life, never felt sad, never received bad grades in school, never been in trouble with the law/ law enforcement officials in any capacity, and absolutely never had received any sort of ticket as concerns my car. I do not own a car. I do have one tattoo. 

Doc's next question: "Where do you get your eyelashes from?"

"Umm, my mom." 

"Oh, so she helps you apply them?"

"Noo. My eyelashes are real. I was talking about genetics. DNA. I get them from my mom. My dad's eyelashes aren't that long." 

"Very nice." 

"Um. What?"

June 2nd 4:51pm - Military Merriment Round 1

Visiting a military processing center for testing is about as enjoyable as teaching twenty-eight kindergartners in a recovery district in New Orleans.

I stood/sat in lines for fifty minutes for an eye exam, seventy-eight minutes for a hearing test, sixty-one minutes for a doctor's debrief, and forty-five minutes to extract a blood sample. Apparently my veins are as easy to find as my toddler self. When I was one and a half, my mom walked into the living room to find my dad asleep on the couch, and no Kara, his ward. After searching the house like monkeys foraging for bananas, they ascertained I must have wandered outside, so they contacted the police. Someone located me hours later, asleep under a pile of toys in the corner of the living room.

Those military center blood-drawing needle-wielding fiends needle-raped me twice with needles the size of horse tranquilizers before locating a vein on the third attempt. Even then, the needle pricked the edge of my vein without fully affixing. The nurse, aka Hellion, shouldered it into my upper forearm with the tenderness of Lucifer. She ground it into my vulnerable skin and bayonetted it around the inside of my arm to persuade the blood to withdraw more briskly.

The other incumbents varied from the ages of seventeen to twenty-five. While awaiting the depth-perception test, I met a seventeen-year-old, graduating in four days from high school. I asked him his name, and he replied, "I will be a Navy SEAL." 

"Ok..." was my penetrating response. "But what's your name?"

"I am a Navy SEAL."

What felt like nineteen hours later, a Petty Officer drove myself (as the only female, I procured shotgun rights) and four males in the back-seat of a Toyota Corolla to the hotel. He missed the correct freeway turnoff and we crusaded in circles. Within five minutes, future SEAL sniveled, "My legs are dying. One's asleep. I don't think the other is going to be able to move for a few days. I won't be able to take the physical tomorrow. My knees are going to shatter."

"Ok Navy SEAL, I'm sure we'll be there soon," I answered, looking sideways at the driver.

"No, I'm serious. My goddamn knees are breaking."

One of the other back-seat passengers wisely noted, "You want to be a Navy SEAL and you can't even take a little discomfort in the back-seat of a car for five minutes?"

SEAL growled like my dog does upon sensing a raccoon. "I choose to be a SEAL and whatever pain that comes with. I do not choose to break bones in a car because we're lost."

My teeth painfully masticated together as I forced my face to not replicate the hilarity my brain was undergoing. Petty Officer did laugh. SEAL glared with the abhorrence I exude when someone steals my food or alcohol.

"SEAL seems happy," I later mentioned to the Petty Officer.

"I think he has some mental issues," he replied. "Maybe I should suggest he go into the Army instead of the Navy."

"Maybe you should suggest he get cleared by a psychologist first. You know, just to make sure he doesn't go around eating baby fingers or something." 

"Or to ensure he doesn't obtain a gun. I feel like he'd be dangerous with a gun," the Petty Officer continued.

SEAL later informed me that his high school graduation present from his parents was a tattoo. The tattoo was to cover his entire arm (sleeve-status). It was to be a lizard wrapped around a heart. It was complete with a sword piercing the heart and on the heart, the tattooed face of Kiss frontman Gene Simmons. 

When I asked him the significance of the tattoo, he responded, "Cause it's fucking cool," accompanied by a scowl that would make my cat Punk's hair stand on end. Punk just might fall over after being blitzed by such a glower. SEAL was apparently under the impression that he was cool.

May 28th 5:05pm - Nuclear Physicist?

I'm excavating the possibility of joining the military with the doting dedication my cat demonstrates to me when he awakens me at four-thirty in the morning by sitting on my head. I habitually slumber with my mouth open. Waking with cat hair in my mouth is not my idea of an enamored amiable arousal. I prefer massages.
My devotion to researching the military process parallels that of Lindsay Lohan towards her college education. However, I am looking in to it. I entered the San Francisco recruiting office to inquire for information: opportunities, benefits, and the like.
I peeked one foot inside the Navy recruiting office with the hesitation I feel towards any sort of mathematical equation.
"Hey, welcome! Let me know if you have any questions!" a wandering-eyed Asian projected in my direction as if through a megaphone.
"Oh, I was just wondering if I could talk to someone about potentially joining..." I hesitantly replied as I stepped my other foot inside and the door shut behind me like a judge slamming his gavel on the podium in verdict.
The four Navy recruiters present propped towards me, eyes duplicating my own when observing a plateful of food shortly to be devoured. They asked a series of questions concerning my drug habits, dependants, tattoos, and my height/weight stats. They presented no questions apropos of alcohol.
It was my turn to interrogate. "What kinds of opportunities do you have for a college grad who doesn't want to sit in a cubicle any more?" I asked.
Their eyes illuminated like they were viewing the pope.
"Oh, you're going to have to take an online practice test first," they told me.
The online practice test was on the lone computer in a closet. Twenty-five minutes later I yawned and exited the closet's isolation, waving towards the computer and trying to regain consciousness. Tests, car rides, meetings, classes, essays, conversations... all tenderly trip me in to a coma. Senior year in high school I won Most Likely to Fall Asleep in Class. The following year, my brother continued the family claim to the title with the dignity of a diplomat. The year my little sister graduated, they discontinued the category. We like to believe she would have won.

Regardless of my semi-conscious self and my math skills as proficient as a sheep's, I scored a ninety-four of one hundred.
"Have you considered becoming a nuclear physicist?" was the first question from those sunny recruiter's eyes.
"What? Me?" I asked, rotating in my seat, trying to locate the impending nuclear physicist with what I considered a job as desireable as eating baboon liver. Upon ascertaining he was speaking to me, I informed him of my inept abilities.
"I don't do math. I don't know how to do simple multiplication and division. I barely know how to add."
"But your score was so high! With a score like that, you could do anything you wanted in the Navy! Our nuclear physicist program is incredible..."
After my continued assurance that I don't do math or science, Recruiter addressed other options, like cryptology. I familiarized him with my foreign language incompetence.
"What do you want to do in the Navy?" he asked me.
"Something that doesn't deal with any sort of math, science, or foreign languages. I don't know how to do those," I replied and enlightened him that I didn't want to sit in a desk and wanted something physical.
"Well, if you were a male, I'd suggest Navy SEALS," Recruiter said. "But as you're not... I think my best suggestion would be nuclear physicist."

May 24th 7:11pm - Cell Phones and Generational Gappage

In speaking with one of my parent's friends the other day, I conceived just how disadvantaged their generation is. They were raised in a time when microwaves and color television were the equivalent of iPods, and computers and the Internet were no closer to being accessible to the public than Hannibal Lector. It was a good time, when parents allowed their children to romp outside, three pairs of shoes sufficed for all (one sandal, one Converse, and one dress shoe), nobody knew the dangers of lead-based paint, and the concepts of AIDS and STDs hadn't caught on yet. However, today their technological knowledge rivals that of Fred Flintstone, and while my generation generally adapts to new technology, embracing its offerings, our parents and grandparents futilely struggle, as one would should they attempt to cut a steak with a butter knife. Below find the conversation I had with a fifty-year-old of two high-school teenage daughters and one elementary school nine-year-old:

50: "So I went to my phone company last week. I walked in, said I didn't want anything but a phone that could make calls and text. Apparently those don't exist anymore." 

Me: "Ya, the most basic includes camera and video-camera capabilities, Bluetooth, speakerphone, voice dialing, music, some variation of a media center, and generally a navigator and a slew of other functions you can access for as little as ninety-nine cents, but generally averaging three dollars and ninety-nine cents." 

50: "You sound like a foreign or alien correspondent coming to confuse my brain waves. The only reason I even know how to text is because apparently that's all my children respond to. They won't answer my calls, but three point two nanoseconds after I send them a text message, they'll respond." 

Me: "That's just because it's so much easier. They might be in the middle of a movie, or a game, or conversation. Texting is really convenient." 

50: "It's more likely that they're shooting up some form of illegal substance and just don't want to talk to their ravaged recreant father." 

Me: "I'm sure the worst they're doing is having sex and smoking weed." 

50: "The problem is, it takes me seventeen minutes to type a message. My fingers are too large for the microscopic buttons. Then there's this thing where it changes my words. I try to write, 'Where are you?' and what sends is 'Ygfh bsd wnv?' Even though I can tell by their perfectly composed text messages that they're drunk, they have the nerve to ask me if I'm drunk. This is after I've called both of them twelve times and had to finally resort to text messaging my own daughters. I'm lucky if they respond at all. And I pay for those phones! For Christmas last year my eight-year-old daughter only requested an iPhone. As if I'm giving that child a phone before she's twenty-five!" 

Me: "Ya, my parents held out until I was sixteen before giving me a phone. Which essentially meant that I was stranded every other day after school because I had no phone to call one of my parents to remind them of their daughter's existence and that I needed a ride. I had to walk home most of the time. I almost got hit by cars three times. My mom forgot to pick me up one time when it was rumored a child molester/prowler was in the area. I made her feel guilty for that one for weeks. And she still forgot to pick me up from school!" 

50: "Tough lives we both lead, huh?" 

May 9th 3:27pm - Conversation Cataclysm

I pseudo-job-search like Lindsay Lohan. I don't exert much effort.
I decreed I don't want an eight-hour-a-day office position. My body desires more activity abundance than staring at a cubicle wall for eight hours as lethargic as a koala on opiates. This requirement eradicates every position I know how to procure like the Black Plague. Unemployment demands I apply to ten openings every two weeks. I apply to office posts with the detailed, "Attached please find my resume. Thank you."
My phone rang with a number I postulated was my friend's boyfriend. I answered with, "Yo yo yo. What's up?" to a perplexed voice identifying herself as someone with some company and asking to speak to Kara.
"Uh, sure, hold on a moment, please," I bleated, removed the phone from my head, and held, one hand over the phone's face.
"Who is it?" a friend inquired.
I familiarized her with the situation over the next three minutes before realizing Woman was still waiting.
"Here, let me talk," my friend demanded.
I hesitated, surmised why not, and handed it to her.
"Hello, this is Kara," Friend said.
"Ya, I apologize for not getting to the phone earlier. My mentally disabled brother answered."
My swat at the side of her head didn't dissuade her from continuing.
"Ya, he's younger. Younger retarded brother. So what's up?"
"Oh, sweet. Ya, not really looking for a job right now. I just applied because the government makes me."
"Uh huh... my resume was impressive? I must have lied on a lot of that stuff then."
"Na, I don't have any references. I'm telling you, even if you offered me the job, I wouldn't take it. I'm happy not working right now. I collect unemployment and travel."
"Ya, sorry, but good luck with everything."
Click.
"You jackass! What if they call Unemployment and tell them?" I asked, smacking at her head again.
"Well, you'll just have to actually look for a job."

April 30th 10:24pm - Turtle Copulation and Indecorous Discussion

My last night in South America I resided in a mansion revamped in to a hostel called Hostel Espana in Lima, Peru. It resembled an amalgamation between a Spanish mission and Hearst Castle. A marble bust of Michelangelo's David's head - the size of a triceratops - was displayed beside a baroque painting of Jesus carrying the cross, blood enveloping his body like Mexicans eclipse California. Display cases augmented the atmosphere. One enclosed three skulls. Marble statues, Grecian columns, and religious paraphernalia adorned the three winding staircases to the sprawling roof terrace. I emerged on to the roof veranda to encounter potted flowers, growing vines, and three tortoises, each the size of a small child. Two of the turtles were trying to mount the third, one from each side. I imagine a similar scene would ensue if I unleashed Michael Jackson and clone in a five-year-old boy's bedroom. My eyes followed in fascination as the female continually ambled away. She slowly, steadily shambled away. Her leather legs extended from her shell reminiscent of the pace of my eighty-five-year-old grandpa with his walker and step-shuffles. Both tortoises trailed her, back and forth, back and forth across the patio. I observed the pursuit for twenty-five minutes. I had only witnessed determination of this dimension one time a few months before when a guy I met at a bar proclaimed I should leave with him. I was nine shots in and deemed it prudent to issue him a swift kick to the balls. He limped from the bar only to return two minutes later and resume talking to me.

I was settled on a bench with a branch tickling my ear and an older Aussie next to me. 

Me (in reference to the turtles): "That's nice. They must love each other." 

Forty-Year-Old Aussie: "Ah, those two have been trying to mount that female for days now. I figure it, she's got a slick shell and that's why they can't properly mount her. They just need some leverage." 

Following this hypothesis he scooped up one of the males as deftly as Michael Flatley's legs in Lord of the Dance and placed him on top of the female. 

Aussie: "I just want to see turtle sex." 

Me (laughing): "I've never thought about turtle sex before." 

Inspecting the turtles and their shell encumbrances, turtle copulation seemed as difficult as night-vision for the blind. 

Aussie: "I really want to see turtle sex. My eighteen-year-old girlfriend would be a lot easier to get to do things... I've been thinking about extracting her teeth." 

Me (horror): "Um. What??" 

April 25th 3:52pm - Intoxicated Acquisition

Email to my friend:

"I got stuck in San Pedro, Chile with a crazy fifty-something Chilean, who, the first day I knew him, informed me he had been cheating on his wife for years, had five legitimate sons and one illegitimate son. My response: Dad?? The second day he showed me his penis. This was disturbing. The allaying aspect of his penis performance was that I was with four other travelers between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-nine. I was trapped in San Pedro because the bus to Argentina only leaves three times a week, and it just happened that I was caught there for four days when I originally wanted to stay two.

The result of this was that I traveled to Salta, Argentina, and then to Iguazu - gorgeous waterfalls - and met three Aussies. We began drinking at 3pm. By 9pm we were in an Internet cafe. One of them convinced me it was, in fact, a wise decision to purchase a plane ticket from Buenos Aires to Lima. I drunkenly agreed with this surmise. Even though the one-way ticket was two hundred dollars more than my entire round-trip flight from San Francisco to Lima, and even with the flight I could only be in Buenos Aires two days, the excessive South American beer consumption informed me this was rational. So I bought the ticket... on one of the Aussie's cards. As I have limited cash and no ATM card, one of them put a $637 expense on his. So the same day I met the Aussies, I owed one of them $637 because I drunkenly bought a flight. The next day (today), I can't help but think that my intoxicated brain is under the impression that I'm Santa Clause. Miss you!"

Friend's reply: 

"What? Are you drunk?" 

April 14th 11:56pm - Bank/Me Conversation

The conversation with my bank concerning my desperate diñero-desire was gratifying.
If the definition of gratifying constituted my seven-year-old elation when my best friend pushed me down a hill while I was wearing my new Roller Blades for the first time.

Bank: ¨Good morning, this is Lisa. How may I help you?¨

Me: ¨Hi Bank. I have a problem. I´m in Peru and my purse got stolen Saturday night on an overnight bus that was hell. I´ve never smelled such smells. Anyway, in my purse was all my money and my ATM card. That ATM card was the only access to money I had. So now I have no money. And I need money.¨

Bank: ¨You had all your money together?¨

Me: ¨Yes, I know. I´m an idiot. You´d think I hadn´t traveled before, right? Well, I have. My passport wasn´t in there, so that´s good. But my sunglasses were. And my friend´s camera. But, ya, money. I need money.¨

Bank: ¨And the bus smelled bad?¨

Me: ¨Yep. Vomit and explosive diarrhea.¨

Bank: ¨That´s disgusting.¨

Me: ¨I know, right? So gross. Okay, wait, this is costing me a dollar a minute. So. Money. How do I get my money?¨

Bank: ¨All I can do is cancel your card.¨

Me: ¨Well, that´s nice. I´m thinking more along the lines of wiring me my money, though.¨

Bank: ¨We can´t do that.¨

Me: ¨What? Why not? It´s my money! I have no money, I need money, and you have it.¨

Bank: ¨Actually, because you´re in another country, we can´t verify your identification.¨

Me: ¨What? You know me though! Please put Mabel on the phone.¨

Mabel: ¨Hi Kara. I hear you´re in Peru and in trouble.¨

Me: ¨Yes, trouble. I need money.¨

Mabel: ¨Ya, your mom was in here the other day telling me how worried she is about you. You´re traveling alone?¨

Me: ¨Well, I was with a friend. Then he left. So I was traveling alone for a few weeks, but right now I´m traveling with another friend, so that´s good. His nickname is Rojo Gringo.¨

Mabel: ¨Oh, good! I´m glad you´re with someone. Your mom won´t have to worry so much.¨

Me: ¨Right. Well, the thing is, this phone call is costing me a fortune. And I have no money to pay for it. So can you wire me some of my money please? So I can pay to talk to you?¨

Mabel: ¨Actually, I can´t. I´m sorry. We aren´t authorized to wire money unless the person who has the account goes in to a bank branch in person.¨

Me: ¨That makes no sense. Why would I need to have money wired to me if I was in a bank branch?¨

Mabel: ¨For example, if you wanted to wire money to your sister if she was overseas and in a similar situation.¨

Me: ¨Ok, whatever. So, fine, can my mom go in, withdraw money from my account, and then wire it to me?¨

Mabel: ¨Is your mom on your account?¨

Me: ¨What? No. You know she´s not. She has her own account.¨

Mabel: ¨Then she can´t take money out of your account because we don´t have your authorization.¨

Me: ¨Well, I´m giving you my authorization right now. What do you need? My fingerprint? I´ll fax that to you right now with a statement giving my mom permission to withdraw money from my account.¨

Mabel: ¨Actually, Kara, because you´re not here in person, we can´t verify it´s you.¨

Me: ¨Ask me anything. You want to know what kind of car my mom drives? My social security number? Should I call me mom and have her bring you in a sandwich for lunch? Or a steak? Would that verify who I am?¨

Mabel: ¨I´m very sorry. but unless you´re actually here in person we can´t authorize any kind of transaction.¨

Me: ¨But I´m not there. I´m in Peru. And I need money. My money. How do I do that?¨

Mabel: ¨The best we can do is cancel your card and send you a new one. The new card will take 8-10 business days to arrive and will be sent to the address you have listed with your bank account.¨

Me: ¨Ok. Number 1. I´M IN PERU. Without money. I don´t even have money to pay for this phone call. Number 2. If I was to get my card sent anywhere it would have to be sent to me here. In Peru. Today, preferally.¨

Mabel: ¨We actually go through another company for the cards. It will take 8-10 business days to be sent to your address in California. Let me see if I can get it sent to South America instead.¨

Me: ¨What? No. I need money today. Not eight to ten days from now. I don´t even know where I´ll be in three days. I might be back in Bolivia. Say hi to those border guards I paid off last time I was there. I don´t know.¨

Mabel: ¨You paid off border guards?¨

Me: ¨Ya. Long story. Anyway, this phone call is currently at $15. Which I don´t have. Because you won´t let me access my own money. What can I do about that?¨

Mabel: ¨I can cancel your card and send you a new one. Without you here that´s the best I can do.¨

Me: ¨Goddamnit. Can I speak to your manager? ¨

Mabel: ¨I am the manager.¨

Me: ¨Right. I knew that. Goddamnit.¨

Click.



Me: ¨Mom! The bank is a bastard. You´re going to have to get one of my checks and forge it. Make it out to yourself for $2,000. Cash it and then wire me the money.¨

March 5th 11:29pm - The Word Fuck...

I'm entirely intrigued by the concept of the word fuck. 

Last night a friend and I played pool, he utterly missed a shot (the miss was comparably embarrassing to a six-year-old girl pummeling a thirteen-year-old male), and, upon missing, he screeched, much like said six-year-old female, "Fuck my life!" 

This brain-raped me. 

The word Fuck is so fucking functional!

Fuck's, in my estimation, traditional usage lies with the sexual signification. i.e. "I fucked her last night... I think," or, "She fucks like a seventy-year-old, she's so fucking experienced."

However, the word has so many other slews of uses. Fuck can be applied for almost every emotion (see below):

"Fuck him. Fucker stole my crayon." - Anger

"Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, that four-year-old's wielding a plastic spoon with a smile." - Anxiety

"I fucking love you! I really do. I fucking love you." - Appreciation

"I wouldn't fucking touch her if i was a blind man with a ninety-foot stick." - Aversion

"What the fuck just happened to my car and why does it appear to have been run over by a Chihuahua driving a semi-truck?" - Confusion

"Would you fucking look at that girl in the pig costume?" - Desire

"Fuck, that feels fucking good!" - Joy

"Fuuuuuck, my brain hurts from watching American Idol for ninety-two hours." - Pain

"I can't believe my fucking friend is in the hospital because he stubbed his fucking toe." - Sadness

"That MotherFucking Fucker just did what to my sister? And where the fuck is my pet snake Moo?" - Surprise

Fuck is so versatile! The word that means making love doubles as a the most profane word in our language. Alter "sex" in every above sentence. Result: ridiculousness.

March 4th 11:58pm - Foreign Language Disability

Last week I returned from Mardi-Gras-assailed New Orleans, and that night investigated the Internet for acceptable Australia flights. What materialized: atrocious Australia prices and an impending trip to South America (a reasonable third of the price – I depart in two weeks). Last night, a friend inquired how fluent my Spanish skills are.

My response, “Pretty proficient... after one college semester I claimed a foreign language disability...”

His, “What?”

My college major required three semesters of a foreign language. After consulting the celestial Kara’s Logic, this was regarded unreasonable. Nursing majors, inevitably to encounter armies of monolinguals with nonexistent English expertise, had no foreign language requirement. My major, however, English, demanded three semesters. My confusion commenced with the fact that I was majoring in ENGLISH, not Octa-lingualism. One would imagine English majors to be exceptional in the Mother Tongue without the hazards of learning another language (disregard the fact that I don’t know grammar – honestly, what’s an adverb?). Thus, I resolved not to strain my delicate brain by studying Spanish. The computer confirmed the unrivaled technique to obliterate a foreign language requirement: learning disability. I cantered into the Disabilities Center and met with a Disabilities Expert. My claim: Foreign Language Disability. After minimal hesitation during which Expert cited my surprisingly soaring G.P.A. and my B grade in First Semester Spanish, I cajoled him into considering me a victim of Foreign Language Disability, an affliction previously unheard of by myself. My explanation of my B in the preceding semester: I had lied and cheated through the semester, and at this Jesuit university, I didn’t want to continue sinning and compromising my morals. Thus I wangled a waiver for foreign languages. I’m convinced my Spanish skills are competent for my six-week South American adventure. I know this: Diez cervezas por favor!

February 28th 11:23pm - Unemployed

As my company laid off me and multiple others in my Development Team a month and a half ago, to collect the exquisite and heavenly unemployment, The Government insists I apply for five jobs a week in attempts to obtain a position. Unemployment is like an ejaculation of elation in check form. I positively don't desire any real job for the next couple of months, thus I apply to positions with this response rubric:

Job Posting:

Title: Administrative Rockstar

Do you like good food, working with smart people and participating with world class organizations? Do you like to accomplish tasks at a high level and make the world a happier tastier place? Do have great attention to detail, a fantastic memory and the ability to get along with most people? If so, Dave's Gourmet has a career for you. 

Etc. Etc.

Reply:

To Mr. Dave Gourmet,

Attached please find my resume. I am an Admin SUPERSTAR. 

My Super-Hero Admin qualities: 

* Ability to commence and complete ten thousand seven hundred and fifty-eight tasks within 6  seconds

* The faculty to form a feast from anything, including paper and other like office supplies

* The memory capacity of God

* Ghandi's social skills

Thank you for your consideration in this position! I look forward to hearing from you soon... unless, of course, the God of All Administrative Assistants applies, in which case if I were you I'd most likely bestow the position on him/her... presumably Her.

Sincerely,

Admin Superstar

February 23rd 5:54pm - Airline Affair

I expended last night on an airplane. The masses swarming around the waiting area to board the plane contained multitudes of handsome young men, and visions of flirtatious, fine conversation regaled my brain. Once I finally seized my seat, I sorrowfully realized King and Kong flanked me. Lack of legroom compelled me to consign my backpack to above, while my oversized purse and I pinched between limitless limbs. Displeased by my non-idyllic circumstances, Kong instantly assaulted me with questions and life inquiries. He pestered me with countless queries: where are you from, do you like it there, what do you do, how long have you been unemployed, what was your family life like growing up, as the oldest did you beat up your siblings, where did you go to college, etc. etc. Kong boasted Erckle glasses, shocks of white side-hair, and a coffee toupee. As life-customary, I was exhausted, and my head hastily bent back, eyes simultaneously shut, and mouth elegantly expanded into oblivion before the plane progressed movement. My coma-condition resembled sedation. I was drug-delighted. Until Kong continually poked and prodded me out of my reverie. Eyes revolving, head rotating, I mumbled, "What what what?" Kong explained he couldn't sleep, and I should concentrate on the imminent safety proceedings. The remainder of the five-hour flight formed me feigning Snow-White-trance, and Kong attempting to awake me by various methods of jabbing, screeching, and pulling. His parting words of wisdom as I blearily exited the plane at four in the morning: he had the sleeping capacity of a giraffe.

February 17th 11:53pm - My Car Repels My Efforts to Sell

Excluding a sporadic, successive clicking noise, a collapsed CD player, a crippled cigarette lighter, several scratches on the rear of the car, and an abundance of accessory ailments, my Jetta was perfect. And I was selling her.

I did what any proper person would do: I paid an excessive amount to attain a spare key, I replaced the CD player, and arranged an appointment with an auto repair shop to mend the cigarette lighter and excessive clicking the next day.

Then, I jubilantly displayed the car to three parties.

One: a thirty-something man with tattoos snaking around his arms and neck with lengthy black hair that claimed he coveted the car as a commuter vehicle. He ultimately offered me fifteen hundred dollars less than I listed it for.

Two: an early-twenty-something goofy-smile girl who arrived with her brooding boyfriend. I estimate she had forcibly dragged him to view/test-drive thirty-six cars. At least. Her first question: “No heated seats?” Her boyfriend’s last comment, “Jesus, Dorothy, you’re going to kill us. Slow the fuck down.” This was precisely before she sped over a speed bump and the car crashed into the pavement emitting a perceptible protest manifested in multiple moans, one being the car’s.

Three: a sincere Scotsman. His midget-height, massive smile, ample-accent fifty-something self immediately engrossed me. The car’s clicking clamor, normally erratic, never ceased. Scotsman’s decree: I fix the click, he’d purchase the car. My response: I have an appointment tomorrow morning.

That night I drove to my friend’s house for dinner. On my return drive I noticed the Check Engine light illuminated for the first time during ownership of the car. The following morning, upon presenting the Jetta at the shop for the clicking and lighter, they informed me the car needed a new catalytic converter. As I’m a girl and have no concept what that means, I simply know it’s bad. I advised the mechanics to accomplish whatever was necessary. Upon my reappearance hours later, the owner of the shop enlightened me that my airbag light was on. I have never seen this light in my life. I was not aware of its existence. Yet, in twelve hours prior to selling it, the check engine and airbag lights illuminated, neither of which I have seen in my three and a half years of Jetta possession. My car is protesting the sale!

February 16th 11:26pm -Goodwill

In preparation for Mardi Gras in New Orleans, I visited Goodwill to purchase the usual peculiar collections of clothing that at one time in ancient history were actually considered fashion but now construct costumes. Apparently Mardi Gras comprises a series of depraved parades, all of which necessitate costumes.

I was meeting a friend at the store. Instantly upon entering Goodwill a very rotund antique man whose body (and head) resembled enlarged grapes sparkled a smile at me. My immediate reaction, and I hope I'm not alone in this, was to smile back. His toupee roosting on his otherwise bald head jiggled with joviality, his beaver eyebrows jigged, and his grape-belly bounced. His chubby pallid paws motioned from his lips to me. I elevated my own eyebrows, rotated, and treaded in the opposite direction. I text messaged my friend: "Get your ass over here. Crazy round man just propelled air kisses in my direction." She wrote back, "I'm looking for parking. Stop exaggerating." I fled to the opposite side of the store and was browsing through a hideous collection of neon shirts and sweat-suits when another man, this one with white hair jungles breeding from his ears, eyebrows, nose, chin, and all other sustainable surfaces approached me, announcing I looked like Brooke Shields. But better. I appraised myself and adjudicated between my puke-green army jacket, ill-fitting jeans, and oversized black tee-shirt, these maniacal old men were delusional. I texted my friend again, "Seriously. Get here now. Please. Another crazy just told me I look like Brooke Shields." Her response, "Shut the fuck up. You're exaggerating. I'll be there in a second." 

She sauntered through the door minutes later to witness my flaming face and Toupee-Grape-Man kissing my hand and grasping it before releasing his vice. 

February 13th 10:37pm - Desperately Disoriented in L.A.

Driving to Vegas a few weeks ago, my friends and I unintentionally discovered once the empty gas light loomed, my Jetta could continue for seventy miles on continually flat road. Evidently gas stations feel it sufficient to supply gas incredibly infrequently while driving to Vegas.
This influencing my usual logic, when the gaslight materialized in driving from Long Beach to Los Angeles, I reasoned I could get to USC and back without any difficulties. My belated arrival in visiting my brother solidified my resolution of gas-delay.
One-thirty in the morning located my brother informing me I was welcome to sleep at his house of eight males, but there were no blankets, no heat, and no insulation. I ruled to return to Long Beach that night.
It wasn’t until I was lost in a shifty section of L.A. (a wrong turn from USC) that I recalled the gas deficiency. As the area was wrought with hoodlums, hooligans, and hobos, doubtless all equipped with semi-automatic weaponry and foot-long knives, I opted to remain in the car in attempts to recover the correct direction. Fifteen still-astray minutes later, the Jetta dashed down a boundless bridge, rapidly jolted forward, and stopped. Complete. Absolute halt.
I plundered my purse, pinpointed my AAA card, and phoned. The clock now read two-fifteen. The operator informed me of the hour and a half wait. After describing myself as a solitary young female in dire L.A., Operator consigned me as an Emergency pick-up. This kindly cut the wait to forty-five minutes. Her inspiring closing words: “When your life is threatened, call 9-1-1 immediately.” Wonderful. Forty-five minutes.
Twenty minutes elapsed with no hoodlums, hooligans, or hobos accosting the bridge. However, 2:35am: a cop car came. He pulled behind and notified me I was parked illegally and he was going to bestow me with a ticket. I notified him the car died, I was waiting for AAA, and, believe me, would move if feasible. I cast the car in neutral and he, alone, pushed the car three blocks off the bridge and around the corner so I wouldn’t obstruct the street. He didn’t issue me a ticket.
2:58am: AAA called. I wasn’t in the location I had said. They had sent the would-be savior to another location. Forty-five minute wait from now. My solitary young female status acquired a twenty-five minute wait.
3:23am: AAA arrived.
3:38am: Full tank of gas and I, with directions, drove towards the freeway.
4:06am: Long Beach.

In retrospect, I’m abundantly appreciative the cop didn’t run my plates. He would have seen my warrant for arrest (though I didn’t know about it at the time) and presumably promptly escorted me to jail.

February 6th 4:15pm - Potential Shirts

I have resolved I'm going to sell shirts through this site. Shirts adorned with writing.
The following are the ones I contemplated before settling on four:

* I reply with, "That's what she said," whenever possible.

* I drink. What's your hobby?

* My liver hates me. My life thinks I'm fantastic.

* I love being unemployed, I have so much more time to think.

* When I met them they were quasi-attractive.
Then I got drunk, they were models, and I was God.

* You can never get enough motorboats.

* Good news, bad news.
Good news: you look hot.
Bad news: I'm drunk.

* I love my Blackberry. I write memos every time I have thoughts.

* All women are crazy.


* My favorite part about dancing is making girls uncomfortable with my raging boner.

* It wasn't me.

January 20th 6:09pm - Bums and Hobos?

* At a red light today I observed a man street-side clutching an artistically adorned sign proclaiming, “Need money for food.” Flowers radiated from the letters, colors entwining. The thirty-something man sported a department-store sweater similar to one I recently witnessed at Macys, well-fitting jeans, and dusky tennis shoes. Curious, I revolved the window down and inquired, “Where do you live?”
He replied, specifying a superior neighborhood location.
Me: “So you’re not a bum.”
Poser: “Na, just unemployed.”

* My mom’s office resides next to a Trader Joe’s in Santa Rosa, constantly inundated with a bum at the parking lot entrance. A few months ago my mom and a few co-workers stood in their office’s entryway, watching as a quality Station Wagon halted and a younger man emerged from the driver’s seat. He ambled to the rear of the automobile, plunked a wheelchair from the trunk, and brandished it, loops over his head. He settled it on the ground, sauntered to the passenger side, and kissed his significant other good-bye. She materialized, loped around the car to the driver’s seat, and drove away. He gazed about, resolved nobody’s focus on himself, and slumped into the chair, slothfully wheeling, deflated facial expression. He positioned at the parking lot entrance with a sign declaring, “I’m handicapped, please help.”

January 18th 4:36pm - Towed

Following the Long-Island-infested-Golden-Chopsticks-depravity, and charging to my Jetta at 7am to find it towed at 6am, I revisited my friend’s house, apology in hand. She mercifully roused herself enough to drive me to the tow truck yard across San Francisco. She deposited me at the tow yard, I paid $425 for my car’s release, and trailed an escort to the site my car would be driven to. Fifteen impatient minutes later, an attendant informed me my car was un-drivable and I needed to consult Claims.
When I finally beheld the car, the bumper was completely disconnected from the Jetta and rested on the pavement. The VW insignia usually on the car’s front lay on the windshield. The genius “experienced” tow truck driver attached the connectors to the bumper instead of the car’s body. When I asked how long the driver had been working to equate experienced, I was told six days.
Good news: the towing company paid for the fix, a rental car for the duration, and I added an already-cracked windshield into the equation.