Archive | August, 2011

Only in Reno…

31 Aug

Can you witness a methed-out tweaker, at 7 in the morning, wearing a bright orange fur coat, no shoes, running for his dear life from…nothing while he passes an elderly lady meandering down the sidewalk who doesn’t even bat an eye at the whirlwind of crazy that passed her. That, is Reno folks.


Who Would Have Thunk…

26 Aug

Maybe I should just start riding a bike? I could look like this Darin Barry

Dammit…I never in a million years would have ever thought I’d be saying this, but…there is a benefit to podunk towns like Elko. Before you get all in a tizzy, let me explain…

Ok, it’s about that time for my yearly trip to the gym. I have peeled myself out of my couch indentation and my gym clothes are hugging every roll. I drag myself, my ipod, bottle of water, magazine (for the elliptical-that shit is boring) to the car and before I lose all motivation to even start the car, I recall that stupid skinny girl in front of me at the grocery store. Her yoga pants hugged every cellulite-free curve and she was buying celery and Skinny Girl Margarita mix. Me? I was buying a fucking cupcake and Immodium and my black sweats nicely hid my cheese. This recollection gives me all the gumption I need to start driving in the direction of the gym.

Now, let’s stop here, because this is where the podunk Elko reference plays it’s oh-so important role. In Elko, I could make it to the gym in 5 minutes flat from any location. The skinny-girl-buying-celery burst of motivation was not lost in traffic or distracted by two different Chili’s happy hours along the way. Do you see where I am going with this? In Reno, it takes me 30 minutes, on a good day, to get to the gym from my house. After 10 minutes of traffic, I have lost all sight of my goal and pretty much the skinny girl at the store can kiss my dimpled ass (besides not ALL men like fit girls…). I am ashamed to admit that on more than one occasion, I never made it to gym. The fact that I ended up having tart frozen yogurt (with just a few cookie dough pieces) with a friend does not make it any better, either. It’s the shits to live so far from the gym…

So, friends, I have experienced my first moment of regret for leaving a small town. I am pretty sure being 5 minutes away from Gold’s was the ONLY good thing about that place, but still, I always made it to the gym…

I Love the Smell of Independence in the Morning…

17 Aug

Yes, folks, I am an honest-to-goodness single, self-sufficient, independent woman. It feels good; it feels damn good. I have successfully procured one of those super important things called, “a job” and I am steadily getting settled into my own apartment. It really is quite surreal…just a few short months ago I was dependent on another and shared all of what I owned. Now? I am paying my bills, decorating how I like, and leaving my panties on the bathroom floor without any complaints from the peanut gallery. OK, I have to be honest, I decorated how I wanted and left my panties on the floor before, but now I don’t have to feel guilty because it isn’t about anyone else but me.

It felt so good to unpack my dusty boxes to re-discover all of the wonderful things I own, that I have collected over the years. All of these things are mine, no one else’s. As I hung up pictures, added final touches to a side table, rearranged furniture and made things, “just right” I felt a thrill go up my spine that tickled my brain. Tickled, yes, that is exactly how I felt. I felt electrified with such a strong shot of excitement that I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t just the lead in a really good dream; that this was really my life. It’s really quite unbelievable, but it is real. This is my life.

I have come to discover that, quite obviously, there are many, many benefits to living alone (more specifically, NOT living with a man). I feel a list is in order…

My bed is never “lovingly” warmed by paint-peeling ass vapor

When I clean, it (SHOCKER) stays clean

If I want to devote one entire closet to my purse collection, I absolutely can

My Netflix queue never includes “Bloody Brides and Sticky Hookers” or “Machine Guns and Smelly Balls” or whatever ridiculous movies men like…

There are never beard shavings all over my just cleaned counter and sink (the 100 stray head hairs on the floor don’t count…)

I never have to trip over boots or huge-sized shoes of any sort that are kindly left right inside the front door

I never again have to be woken up, thinking I am being ambushed by guerrilla snipers, or smack dab in the middle of a war zone (I hate video games, unless we’re talking Mario Kart…)

I never have to use a pencil, or whatever long, pointy apparatus is available, to peel crap-stained underwear off the floor

A six pack of Black Butte stays a six pack, unless I drink one

The floor around the toilet is no longer a danger zone

I can put framed pictures of my adored cousin, friends and family on every flat surface available, with no complaints

No one can give me crap for how much TP I use (I like to be clean, leave me alone…)

I can play country, Mumford & Sons and Britney bitch without feeling guilty I am causing anyone a “brain aneurysm”

I can walk around (or dance) naked, take hour-long bubble baths and drink a bottle of champagne all to myself

I can do whatever my little heart fancies

I can feel on top of the world, because I am

“Do the Chickens Have Large Talons?”

11 Aug

Today I saw an honest to goodness badger-human driving a car next to me, in the other lane. She looked like a regular female human, all but for her hands, which had the longest, scariest claws I have ever seen. I am pretty sure she needs them to dig tunnels for the other members of her badger-human family. That, or she needs them to scare off other badger-human females from her badger-human man. This has to be the only explanation for nails that grotesquely and ridiculously long. I thought this horrific fad died out along with teased bangs and Salt N’ Pepa. I cannot begin to fathom why anyone in the year 2011 would ever think it was cool to have 5 inch long nails. Inexcusable…

Things you cannot do with large talons:

Button your own pants

text or operate, whatsoever, a cellphone…of any kind (even those computers from the 90’s)

apply eyeliner


wipe your ass

open your car door

hold an eating utensil

Pretty much nothing, you can’t do shit with claws.

Badger-ladies, I would like to cordially invite you into the eleventh year of 2000, we are far long gone out of the 90’s… As such, it is no longer cool to own daggers on your nails that inhibit you from doing anything other than look like a fool.

Thank you and I say ‘good day’





4 Aug

The level of incompetence I have witnessed in this one single day is enough for me to give up on humanity altogether. I have to rant, so rant I am…

When getting on the freeway, typically one should start going faster than snails pace, to get up to the flow of traffic. It should come at no surprise if no one wants to let you in when you are going 25 MPH and they have to slam on their breaks to allow you to “yield”.

Speaking of the freeway it is always a good idea to actually look to see if the lane is empty before getting over.

And while we are on the subject…pick a lane. There is no excuse for changing your mind 5 times before finally deciding on which interchange to take. In this day and age, with GPS on every phone, there is no excuse to not know where you are going. Don’t argue with me, (I don’t care that you are from Minnesota…) no excuses!

Oh, and if you are over 75, can’t see over the steering wheel and your vision is obstructed by those ridiculous Terminator sunglasses, it is time to pull over and take the Shady Oaks bus. Really.

When you decide on a protocol that is essentially moronic in nature, it tends to piss off the people who have half a brain. These same people, with their at-least-half-a-brain, typically have something to say about the ignorant method you have chosen. Not accepting calls is no excuse, answer the phone and explain yourself…you at least look a little more decent that way…

If you make a mistake, fix it. When you work in the service industry, you serve people, you work for them. If you make a pretty serious mistake that will impact the future of another person, do not just say, “Ooops” and promise you will fix it and then forget because it’s your lunchtime and you have a hot date with a double cheeseburger and a 32 ounce milkshake. Your laziness and your lack of attention to detail does not amuse me. Thanks.

Please do not make me drive all over town to find your hole-in-the-wall establishment to then take down my email and say you will email my materials to me. Really? Was that not allowed to be said over the telephone when I called you 30 minutes prior? I swear, people get a kick out of making the lives of others miserable. Thanks a lot. You owe me 10 bucks in gas.

People have really annoyed me today. I really wish nothing more than to lock myself away in a little, dark room where there is no chance for me to be appalled at the stupid, thoughtless actions of others. I need a people break…

Dating In Your Late 20’s

2 Aug

Is fucking weird…

The last time I dated around (NOT the same thing as sleeping around, just thought I would clarify that…) was when I was 21 years old. Back in the day, men would either ask me if I was old enough to meet them at the bar or if I was down to “go back to their parent’s”. Now, men ask me if I have kids and if I am down to “go back to their place” (at least its “their” place these days…). The quality of men has not really changed, just their preferences regarding me. Apparently a 28-year-old woman without kids is like finding a damn diamond in the rough; I am definitely a commodity in my dating pool. As such, I have met many men over the last couple of months who either want to marry me on the spot or they want to immediately go cuddle with their “prize”. I am not into cuddling with you if, a. I have literally just met you 15 minutes ago or b. there is an uncanny resemblance between you and the Craigslist Killer. So, no, I will not cuddle with you. As for the marriage proposal, that just fucking figures…

After all of the dating I have done, I have decided there are two major types of men available to me at this age, details below…

The 35-year-old-blue-collar-horndog-serial-monogamist:

Yes, quite the mouthful… figuratively, not literally. These types of men have had myriad failed relationships that typically end with them being dumped because their women are sick of their wandering eyes and their inability to bring home the really good (maple) bacon. When meeting these men they are between booty call ladies and want one of two things, either they want to introduce you to their bed or they want to propose marriage to you so that they can secure guaranteed sex and someone to help them pay their bills. Ladies, unless you want to settle for an overweight, Walmart floor manager who thinks he is a stud because he drives a cherry red 2003 Sorento , keep on walking.

and the other type…

The 28-year-old-college-educated-goal-oriented-psycho-loner:

So, you think you hit the jackpot when you hear he went to college and actually made it past the first semester, to graduate with an honest-to-goodness degree. You think its smooth sailing after this, but oh no. No, just because someone is dedicated enough to finish college does not make them normal or sane in any way. These kind of men have been so wrapped up into college and their studies, they have completely lost any understanding of social interaction or relationships. They think they can say whatever is on their mind, regardless if it is something undeniably racist or something that could make even Howard Stern blush. They also want to cuddle. What the hell is with the cuddling? You don’t even know what my last name is but you want to cuddle with me because, “I will feel all nice and warm”?? If you hear this girls, run. Anyone who says this to a person they really don’t know ┬ájust wants to chop you up and put you in their freezer (after they have enjoyed your warmth). I think I will pass.

Pretty much I have nothing left to say on the subject, except that there is a reason these men are the ones “leftover”.