Hey, It's Okay Tuesdays

It's Tuesday and damned if it's not okay!

I'm pretty sure Amber will back me up on this.


Hey, it's okay...


...if, when you go to go to your yearly lady appointment, you snort when the nurse practitioner says, "You may feel some slight discomfort."

...if, on the way to your yearly lady appointment, you slightly rear-end the car in front of you while trying to parallel park.

...to almost run over a student when backing up after rear-ending the car in front of you while trying to parallel park.

...to have the dreidel song stuck in your head, even though it is way too soon to be thinking about Hanukkah.  Especially if you're not even Jewish.

...if you pray to the gods of jelly (somebody please get that reference) that your car gets fixed and your financial aid comes through just in time for you to hop in the car and drive down to Florida to see Lisa, pop culture goddess and barista extraordinaire.

...to resent when the temperature pops back up to 67 degrees because you had already made your peace with cooler temperatures and damn it, you want to wear sweaters and scarves!

...to be truly disgusted with Kelloggs for creating the pumpkin pie flavored Pop-Tart and then only making it available at select stores across the US.  Pop-Tart bastards.

...to know that while you have plenty of work assigned by your GA boss that needs to be finished tonight, you're probably going to watch another season of Weeds first.

Time to make the doughnuts!

God's in his Heaven and all is right with the world.

How do I know?

Allow me, please.

-I only got a little lost on the way to my interview yesterday morning.

-While waiting in the lobby, a little boy (probably 4 years old) rubbed his eye and told me hates when he gets "f@#$ing crumbs stuck in there!"

-That same little boy pulled out a copy of Newsweek, pointed to a picture of the Times Square bomber and said, "He looks happy!"

-During my interview, I zoned out for a full 30 seconds just wondering what would happen if I farted. 

-I got the internship.

-I told the director of my volunteer organization that I "don't really get numbers."

-I accidentally bought a pie.

-During my drive home, I physically leaned out my car window and quite literally screamed at the jackass behind me who insisted on riding my bumper and then became visibly angry with me when I - get this - yielded to oncoming traffic before turning left at an intersection.

-While at dinner with friends, I went on a tangent and managed to interject that someone "smelled like dead chinchilla."


Thursday was neat.

Ode to The Man

My dad and I have a lot in common.

We share a dry, often dark, sense of humor.

Neither of us can see things that are right in front of our faces, whether it be the milk in the fridge or the thing we have set on fire in the kitchen.

Both of us use similar strings of profanity when driving, in physical pain or watching the Cubs.

It is entirely possible that in certain situations, we can be equally anal retentive and/or stubborn.  (Just so you know, my mom is nodding so emphatically right now that she has probably hurt herself.)

We both have a serious appreciation and affinity of breakfast foods.

And we also have a similar taste for offbeat gift-giving.

This is what he gave me for Christmas:

And this is what I gave him for his birthday:

Thank you for teaching me to like dark beer, strong coffee and dry red red wine.  Thank you for teaching me about timing belts, gun safety and baseball.  Thank you for killing bugs in the middle of the night, thank you for making me milkshakes and thank you for not hanging up on me when I insist on calling you from 800 miles away to yell at you about how I'm having a problem with my car.




I love you!  Happy Father's Day!

What's that smell? Vindication!

I have been driving for about nine years.

In that time, I have had relatively few incidents with cars.  I had a flat tire in high-school, one time I backed into a Red Lobster and I may or may not have driven past someone in traffic and accidentally taken off their sideview mirror.

In nine years, I'd say that's pretty damn good.

Since living in Boone, that has all gone to pot.

Six months ago, I had to buy a new car because the transmission fell out of the previous one.

One month ago, I drove from NC to Indiana with a nail in my tire.

Three days ago, I found yet another nail in my tire.

As you can imagine, I'm getting right cranky up in this cookie.

I took my car to my new favorite local mechanic to get the tire plugged.  When I picked it up the next day, I told him in passing conversation that this was the second time within a month that I'd had something stuck in my tire.

He told me that there had been several people in lately for the exact same thing.

"Why do you think that is?" I asked.

"Walmart," he said.

I blinked, certain I had misunderstood.

"How's that now?"

"Well, you know all the construction they're doing over there?  Parking lot's a mess.  Bolts, screws and nails all over the place."

Dear God.

Walmart really is ruining my life.

And now I have proof.

If I wanted to lick a hippie, I'd return Joan Baez's phone calls

Last Sunday, I got all up in nature.

I went down to a swimming hole with my friends Gilda* and Consuela*.  We built a fire, ate hamburgers and drank wine straight from the bottle like the classy broads we are.

And as wacky as that was for me, the real madness didn't start until later in the day.

After our romp in nature had concluded, we started hiking back to Consuela's car.  As we got closer, we saw a half-naked gentleman standing nearby.  When he saw us, he darted into the bushes.

As we reached the car, the half-naked gentleman reappeared from the brush.  While he was very good looking, he also smelled like decomposing wombat.

Half-naked gentleman: Are you guys with the group?  (I moved to stand upwind of him.)
Consuela: What group?
HNG: The raw foods group.
All three of us: -crickets-
HNG: My name is Hansel* and I'm the leader of a raw foods seminar.  We've been walking through the forest and eating all we can!
Me: Of course you are.
Consuela: Wait- like berries and shit or like squirrels?
HNG: (obviously annoyed) We eat plants.  You can eat so many things, you know!
All three of us: -crickets-

Hansel soon tired of us and returned to his group.  We got in the car and started back up the mountain, but this group of tree-lickers wouldn't get out of our way.

It had just started raining when a man from the group walked right up to the car and said, "Are you headed up the mountain?"

We weren't sure how to respond because we didn't know which answer would keep him from getting in the car with us.

"Well, we're headed back to her apartment," Consuela said, pointing to Gilda.

"Great, I need a lift."  He opened the car door and started to hop in.

"Oh, are you girls headed back up the mountain?"

We heard another voice and saw an older woman leaning heavily on a walking stick, making her way to the car.

 Oh, hell.

The first guy had already started to get in the car next to Gilda.  The woman was looking into the car hopefully.

The backseat was already full with Gilda, her dog and this rather forward man who proclaimed to have a broken toe.  The woman got in, complaining of a broken foot.

As the woman got in, a third person came up to the driver's side window and said, "Do you have room for one more?"

I was about to ask these people if they were mistaking this Mitsubishi for a clown car, but Gilda was quick to respond that there was no more room in the inn.

Looking back at our passengers, I glanced at Consuela and mumbled, "I'm going to look for something sharp..."

With all 6 of us strapped in and Consuela's gas light flashing at us, we started to make our way back up the mountain.

When we dropped off our stowaways, the man made a point of saying, "The next time you need a favor, it'll be there for you.  I promise."

You betcha.

We were grateful to have the vehicle back to ourselves and that no one tried to cleanse our auras by setting the car on fire while shoving fig leaves down our throats.

Before heading back to Gilda's apartment, we stopped off at the local abandoned transcendentalist temple and trespassed like professionals.

I couldn't make this up if I tried.

So, while this was one of the most interesting and bizarre experiences I've ever had, I'm pretty sure for a lot of people it would be classified as just another day in Boone.



*I have changed the names in this story purely for my own amusement.

Haters to the left

Dear Lexington, Kentucky,

I hate you.

I'm pretty sure I made that clear last Sunday when I spent an hour within your toxic city limits and cursed you within an inch of your existence.

Now, it's no secret that the state laying claim to you is not one of my favorites.  In fact, I blame Kentucky for many of the things I find to be wrong with this world (fat-free cheese, stryrofoam, Tom Cruise, etc.).

It all started when I first learned you were known as the Bluegrass state.  Having lived in a few different countries and never actually having seen blue grass, I was intrigued.

I remember when our family took a road trip that involved passing through your borders.  At one point, we had to stop and fill  up the ol' family truckster. 

I got out of the car, saw a small patch of grass and ran to it.  Oh, to see the magic and mystery of grass that is actually-

Now, wait a damn minute.

That's right.  Your grass is green, you big phony!

It was all downhill from there.

But Lexington, you earned a special place on my Shit List, right next to Kathy Griffin and the Dutch.

Last Sunday, as I made my way from Indiana back to North Carolina, I noticed my gas gauge getting low.  It wasn't extreme, but I thought it sensible to stop, fill up the tank and then fill up my own tank at the same time.

I turned on to Man O War Blvd (couldn't make that up if I tried) and started in the general direction of the BP station.  Unfortunately, I came to an immediate halt as there was heavy construction on this main drag of yours that narrowed two lanes down to one.

It took me HALF AN HOUR to drive 3 miles.

Afterward, as I attempted to get to your Chipotle, I was instead forced to take a series of roads that led me nowhere near a delicious, overstuffed burrito.  As a matter of fact, I ended up in a Harley shop's parking lot where a cranky gentleman on a cell phone honked at me.  And not in the nice way.

In the end, I got so angry that I ended up at McDonald's, where I inhaled my nuggets whilst talking to my dad on the phone and using phrases like "Godforsaken city" and "hateful state."

I'm pretty sure the woman in the booth behind me did not want to be my Facebook friend.

If not for some of the super cool bloggers I've met who hail from Kentucky (and whom I pray have not stopped following me because of this tirade that YOU caused), I would completely write off your entire state.

In the end, Lexington, I just wanted to tell you that from now on, I will be stopping in Berea or Corbin to wet my whistle and pee like there's no tomorrow.

And you, my friend, may suck it.

Kindly blow it out your ass,

Sara Spelled Without an H

An overdue rant

People drive like shit here.

I noticed this the first week I moved here last August.

Would you like a list?  I would LOVE to give you one.


I believe this is the only guidance the people of Boone receive when they get their driver's licenses:

1. Green means "go", yellow means "go" and red means "go ahead, but only if traffic is backed up.  So, you'll need to stop in the middle of the intersection and block oncoming cars from the other direction."
2. When the speed limit is posted as 35 mph, go 30 mph to be really sure you allow the person behind you appreciate the countryside.
3. If driving on a two-lane road, try not to truly commit to either lane.  Should you feel the need to go especially slow, definitely keep to the left so the person behind you can't pass.
4. Turn signals are confusing!  When coming to a 4-way stop, apply the following rules:
1. Do not come to a full stop, unless you see someone you know on the sidewalk.
2. Refrain from using turn signals, especially if actually turning.
3. If at all possible, change your mind in the middle of the intersection and try to take out any pedestrians who have been thrown off by your actions.
5. Whenever pulling out on to a busy road, make sure to do it right in front of another car that is moving quickly, and then be sure to slow down to the previously mentioned 5 under the limit.
6. Exit Only signs are funny, aren't they?  Completely disregard!
7. If all else fails, quickly get out your phone and start texting IMMEDIATELY.  Don't worry.  The people behind you will wait.
8. Should it begin raining, snowing, sleeting or snizzling, fight the urge to turn on your lights.  This kind of overuse will only burn out your bulbs sooner.  Besides, you can see, right?
9. At some point, your rearview mirrors will get knocked off.  Don't bother fixing or replacing them as it's really only important to know what's going on in front of you.
10. Should you err in your driving, avoid eye contact with the other drivers and feign ignorance.  This shouldn't be too difficult.

Now, I'm not saying I'm the best driver in the world because I think that attitude can get you into trouble, too.

What is so surprising to me, however, is that this is such a courteous and polite town.  Everyone holds doors, almost any female starting from age 2 is referred to as "ma'am, and many would return your lost wallet with an extra $20 in it because they "figured you probably had a hard day and would need it."

So, why does everyone drive like they're the only car on the road?

I don't have an answer.

I do know, however, that the next time a little old lady tries to bake me some cookies, I'm going to throw them back in her face and say, "I'd rather you take the bus!"

Ridin' dirty

Her name is Madame Trash Heap:

And so is hers:

I also like to refer to her as Mrs. Threadgood and Giant Piece of Shit, depending on her attitude at that particular moment.

While test-driving this fine piece of machinery, I remember thinking that it drove like a tank, it sounded like a crabby old lady and it looked like a giant glob of bean curd.

I loved it.

So, I bought it, slapped some new tires on it and put my fuzzy dice in place.  And as soon as I find one bad-ass enough (much to my dad's dismay), I will be classing this sucker up with a bumper sticker... or twelve.

Madame and I have already developed a very special relationship.  A bond, if you will.

I've learned that she does not appreciate going uphill or over 20 mph unless she has been warmed up for at least 8 minutes prior.

She prefers to be unlocked from the passenger door.

If the gas cap is not on tight, and I mean as tight as one could possibly tighten, a fun little light comes up on the dashboard, instructing me to have the engine serviced.  And it stays on.

I respectfully asked Madame to knock that crap off.

She politely invited me to stick it.

I think we're going to get along just fine.

P.S.  I'm currently entertaining suggestions to giver her a little more character on the outside, to match the bitchiness on the inside.  Oh, and the tackier, the better.  She'll like that.

Detours: Fun sidetrips along life's journey or a giant pain in the ass?

Two Saturdays ago, Lisa and I learned a very valuable lesson about technology.

She and I had tickets to see the touring cast of In The Heights in Chicago.  Despite the fact that we live all of 120 miles from this magical city, neither of us have a lot of experience driving to it.

So, we left Saturday afternoon, armed with Lisa's GPS, Heidi, and the directions I had printed out upon Lisa's request.

Well, it turns out Heidi wasn't feeling terribly accommodating that day.  For no reason at all, that Swiss slut would not even turn on.  So, while Lisa drove, I futzed around with Heidi.

In turn, we yelled supportive phrases and helpful suggestions to her so we might encourage her to do her job.

"Back-stabbing trailer trash!"
"Turn on, you miserable whore!"

Due to a major highway being closed and a massive detour that neither a working GPS or Mapquest directions could anticipate, we ended up in the blessed city of East Chicago, Indiana.  (It really is in Indiana.  I couldn't make this up if I tried.)

I don't know if you've ever found yourself in a small, dirty, industrial town in the middle of nowhere (that smells like a mixture of reheated country fried steak and ass), but that's what happened to us.

I was desperately trying to persuade Heidi to roust her Alpine ass and get us out of this urine-soaked hell hole.  When she finally graced us with her presence, it would be for 6 seconds and then she'd yawn and turn off.

Instead, we drove around aimlessly until we saw signs announcing the interstate.  ANY INTERSTATE.

I attempted to be helpful by announcing things like, "I swear to God we have been here before," to which Lisa would reply, "No, I think we're just on the other side of the power plant."

After successfully navigating our way to the Dan Ryan, we drove to Skokie.  Cause, you know, who doesn't want to visit mysterious and glamorous Skokie?

Alright, that was not done on purpose.  But luckily, I am a Cubs fan and know a few street names on the north side of Chicago.  Or at least I thought I did.

"Lawrence!"

"Do you know where we are?"

"No."


Five minutes later...


"Keystone!"

"Does that sound familiar?"

"Maybe..."


(To her credit, Lisa never once tried to kill me.)


Five minutes later...

"ADDISON!"

"You know that one?"

"YES!  IT'S WHERE THE CUBS PLAY!!!"

So, we followed street signs and made intuitive guesses about where we should go.  On the way, we saw something beautiful.

Sara: Look!  A Dunkin' Donuts and a Baskin Robbins in the same building!
Lisa: Let's live here.

After an amusing phone conversation with my dad and passing several Vietnamese delis, we made it to our destination with plenty of time.

The moral of this story?

Always have two or three back-ups for directions.  I don't care if it's an Atlas, a globe, a compass, the North Star or your knee that only aches when the wind comes in from the southeast.

Oh, and thank your lucky stars you don't live in East Chicago, Indiana.

Ain't too proud to beg

I'm coming back, I promise!

My dad and I are driving back to NC this weekend, so I will most likely be M.I.A.

However, school starts Monday, so I'll be back to blogging as a means of procrastination in no time!

To keep you interested, in the future I will tell you about:

1. Lisa and my wacky trip to Chicago
2. My new(ish) car
3. Itchy feet
4. Half-assed New Year's resolutions (that I have every intention of breaking)

I will visit blogs as soon as I get back into my regular schedule, so...






...PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!!!

They shoot Hondas, don't they?

Last Friday, I headed out to work.

I got in my car, warmed it up appropriately for 18 degree weather and started making my way to campus.

After sitting by the side of the road for an hour, getting towed to the local mechanic and sitting in an office long enough to thaw out my extremities, I learned that my transmission was shot.

Neat.

The next evening, I was in my room getting ready to talk to my lovely friend Sonya via Google video chat when my internet cut out....

...followed by the rest of the power in the house.

Awesome.


Today, I had a lovely discussion with a woman in the Financial Aid office who told me that the bill I'd received requesting $5,000 for next semester's tuition was just a formality and that everyone gets them regardless of the actual amount in a student's account.

Brilliant.

I got all As in my first semester of grad school EXCEPT for an A- in one class.  Now, I've never been a raging scholar or a self-professed academic, but come on!  I missed out on a 4.0 (for the first time in my life, thank you) because of one class where I probably got docked for not being fluffy and emotional enough.  Stupid therapy classes.

Rats, bats and spiders.

It comes down to this:

• I killed the car.
  
• Water is leaking into our fuse box, so electricity is inconsistent at best.
  
• This town is making my soul bleed.
• I'm mad about my 3.9 GPA.  Who am I?

I ate my feelings last Friday after the initial car trauma.  My intestines are still recovering thanks to a pitcher of margaritas and a large wheel of brie, so I don't think I can do that again just yet.

Unfortunately, that is largely how I deal with my emotions so I'm not really sure how to combat this giant bucket of yuck.

Thoughts?



*Be advised, I do not smoke, do drugs, "get back to nature", line dance, engage in large craft projects, compete in team sports or cook.

**Also, supportive phrases like, "Hang in there!" or "Walk it off!" are not helpful.

Video killed the radio star

Call me a raging nutbag, but I listen to the radio for the music.

Granted, I don't mind a little NPR now and again, but 9 times out of 10, I want some tunes!

This gets particularly obnoxious when I'm driving home from class at night.

I start surfing my station presets (because you only get so many options up here in the mountains that aren't country). I will find a song I deem worthy of 3 min. of my attention.

When the song ends and I'm preparing myself for the next, I am suddenly bombarded with Tina from Squaw Lake, Minnesota whining about how her ex-hairdresser's step-son's "roommate"'s second cousin twice removed just had serious bunion surgery and she would like to request Salt N Pepa's "Let's Talk About Sex" to show her support.

There's only one show on the radio that provides this kind of aural assault.

F**king Delilah.

Not only does she provide an open forum for every loon to come out of the woodwork to talk about his or her iguana's chronic heartburn, but she's sneaky about it.

Every now and again, someone requests a song I happen to enjoy. So, I'm sitting there, pouring my heart and soul into "In the Air Tonight" by Phil Collins (shut up, you know you love it) when I'm ripped from my appreciation of a strategically placed drum machine and personally violated with that syrupy, patronizing voice that makes me want to chuck on my parka.

The only way it could be worse is if at the same time, someone force-fed me Miracle Whip while holding my eyes open with toothpicks so I could read cartoon after cartoon of Family Circus.

Thank you, Tina. I hope your moment was worth the blood pooling in my ears.

Road trip edition

On Thursday, I drove from North Carolina to northern Ohio to visit my lovely friends, Cara and Mike.

I drove through 5 states in 7 hours.

Here's what I learned:

The mountains in NC are gorgeous in the Fall, but all that fog makes my ass twitch.



Tennessee looks a lot like NC and people seem to think headlights are superfluous when it is overcast and raining.

Radar detectors are illegal in Virginia. Bummer.




West Virginia is a lot bigger than it looks, and most was unnecessary.

Ohio doesn't look as much like Indiana as I'd hoped.

I actually made pretty excellent time getting to Ohio. It would've been outstanding, but Louise and I got into a fight around Canton and I had to pull over so we could throw down.

Tomorrow, I head back to the High Country of North Carolina. Even though I love my friends and the Midwest in general, I'm happy to get back to Boone and the 29 degree weather that surely awaits me.

29 degrees.



Ass.

Adventures in NC Residency

This morning, I journeyed to the Drivers License Office. Not the DMV. The Driver's License Office.

Now, for starters, doesn't that sound like such a non-threatening, simple kind of place? DMV inspires anxiety and hatred. DLO sounds like it serves biscuits and gravy if you promise to become an organ donor.

I digress.

I have been to the DMV in three different cities in Indiana, all with a population under 100,000. Yet, in all three of these places, it was a requirement to either make an appointment well in advance or to get there right when they opened to get a good place in line.

With all this in mind, I left for the DLO around 7:45am this morning.

(The DLO is about 2 miles from my house, but in my true fashion, I got lost, passed it twice and angered Louise* in the process, so I got there right at 8am.)

There was one other person there.

We both went inside and took a number, but as soon as I sat down, a gentleman came out and said, "Y'all can come on back!"

Sure. Why not.

I was directed toward a heavy set fellow with the face of a giant carp. I didn't catch his name, so I named him Buford.

Buford and I sized each other up quite quickly. He seemed to find my Midwestern accent and excellent dental hygiene off-putting while I found his tone to be patronizing and his uniform to be ill-fitting.

At one point, I couldn't find my damn insurance card. I prepared myself to be chastised and turned away until I had the appropriate documents, but Buford just said, "Well, we kin give 'em a call later on."

Um, okay.

A few minutes later, a man came in looking for directions and I swear the following conversation took place:

Man: 'Z is uh tide office?
DLO employee: What're you lookin' fer?
Man: Tide office. 'Z it still here 'er git move?
DLO employee: Tide or tag?
Man: Tide. It git move?
DLO employee: 'S downtown, 'cross from the courthouse.
Man: Thankyamuchobligedtoyaferthenn;nnirrzy'allflhrhhreckon;iuh.

You betcha.

At the end of my test, I read off all the traffic signs and missed one, to which Buford replied, "Good enough."

Long story short, I got my NC driver's license.

Also, some Southerners seem to see good posture as a sign of aggression. So, the next time you're at a WaHo or a Zaxby's, try to slouch.

*Louise, my Garmin, will also be referred to as "Weezy" and/or "Giant Slut".

Maps are for pansies!

I am the only person I know that still gets lost with a GPS.

A couple weeks ago, I thought it in my best interest to invest in a Garmin. (I get lost a lot.)

I don't have an internal compass or any innate sense of direction, and once I officially move to a new state, I can no longer call my dad with frantic questions and four letter words.

Today, as I traveled to my old nemesis, Indianapolis, I thought it a perfect time to test Lady Garmin and her know-how.

I don't know how many times I heard that computer-automated tramp say in her snotty, judgmental tone, "Recalculating directions".

In GPS-speak, that roughly translates to, "Try again, b*tch."

Finally, Louise and I (yes, I named that hussy Louise) came to an understanding.

She bossed me around, I ignored her out of spite, she gave me bogus directions until I apologized, I called her a slut and then I did what I was told.

Needless to say, I tacked on an extra 15 to 20 minutes on my journey.

I would refer to this as a moral victory.

Wait, isn't North like... up?

I like to drive. Unfortunately, I have no sense of direction. When I travel to other states/cities/neighborhoods/rooms in my house, I tend to get lost.

This is an example of a cell phone conversation I might have with my dad whilst driving in a circle (otherwise known as I-465 around Indianapolis):

Sara: Dad?
Dad: Yeah?
Sara: Where am I??
Dad: Uhhh, I don't know. What road are you on?
Sara: I-465?
Dad: Are you East or West bound?
Sara: You know I don't know those words!!
Dad: Well, honey, I don't really know how to help you.
Sara: But- but- but- there's a McDonald's and a K-Mart on the right. So, that's got to be close, right?
Dad: Close to what?
Sara: The Interstate!
Dad: I thought you were already on I-465...
Sara: I am!!
Dad: Then if you're on the interstate, why are you looking for the interstate?
Sara: Because I need to get home!
Dad: Look, honey, if you can't tell me where you are, then, well, I don't know where you are!
Sara: Okay, well, I think I just passed Lebanon... wait, there's a tree...
Dad: South or North bound?
Sara: We have talked about this! I don't know what those words mean!
Dad: (Near the end of his rope) Well, honey, then I can't help you.
Sara: Oh wait, I found it. Thanks, bye!