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Happy New Year from The Walking Mishap

1 Jan

Happy New Year!

 

Well, kids… Happy 2011!

I don’t know about any of you, but I welcome this year with open arms. After a particularly challenging 2010, I have much to be thankful for:  my health, my family, my friends (who are the family I have chosen for myself), my job, etc. 2010 was a true test of my grit and I can honestly say, without certain individuals (whom I should hope know who they are), I wouldn’t have come out on the other side as unscathed as I did. These people kept me laughing when I didn’t want to, focused when I thought it was impossible, and let me lean on them without question when things got rough. I cannot express my gratitude and love for you guys enough – you saved me this past year.

 

New Year, New Rules

You guessed it. This here’s a New Year’s Resolutions post. A little cliché… get over it. A new year is a great time for a fresh start, to make improvements we’ve all been meaning to make, and to take a look at the big picture. Instead of going with the typical “I want to lose weight” or “I’m going to start working out” BS we know won’t stick (there’s a reason the gym is always packed in January, then empty by March), I’m going in a bit of a different direction this year.

  • Laugh More and Let It Ride – My life is full of laughter, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. However, I do have my moments when I take myself and life and the little things way too seriously. This year (and every year after), I will consider the gravity of a situation or issue before furrowing my brow or getting huffy (yes, the Walking Mishap gets huffy sometimes) or completely stressing myself out. I will be more flexible if things don’t work out in my favor, because in the end, it really will work itself out.  Life’s too short to be spent worrying – 2010 taught me that lesson well.
  • Talk Less and Listen More - I talk a lot. Often times, in talking so much, I don’t hear other people. I get excited in conversation and feel the need to just say what’s on my mind right away. From now on, I resolve to make a conscious effort listening, and stop letting myself jump in with every thought that pops into my head. I’m amazed people put up with my ass sometimes, I really am.
  • Live Like Every Day is My Last – Stop rolling your eyes at me. We’ve all said this, but very few of us have done it. I’m especially guilty of wasting my few days off by not really doing much with them – sleeping later than I should, and generally being lazy. I’m not 86′ing lazy days altogether, just taking the initiative to use my time wisely. I’ve got a bucket list you’ve all seen, and it’s time to get back to work. The items on that list aren’t going to complete themselves.
  • Be Healthy – Mentally and physically. This one works in conjunction with laughing more and letting it ride- less stress will inevitably lead to healthier living.
  • Give Everything I Do My All – Back to giving it 110% all the time. 2010 was tough for me, because my attention was pulled in 4000 directions, and often times I let it stand in my way. It interfered with my professional life, my academic progress, and my personal life, and that is simply unacceptable.
  • Keep It Moving – From now on, I will focus on moving forward, rather than dwelling in the past. No need for elaboration on this.

That’s all I’ve got. I wish you all a happy, healthy 2011.

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas (a little too early every year)

19 Dec

'Tis the Season...

This post probably should have been written, ohhhhh I don’t know, over a month ago, but forgive me. I work retail. You know, where Christmas starts before Thanksgiving, and continues on through the new year. With the exception of one year, I have worked retail through every holiday season since 1999, in one aspect or another. Through high school, it was at a local pharmacy. After graduation and through college and beyond, it’s been in either a mall or a standalone store, in the same industry (though for various companies). This generally means long hours beginning right after Halloween, and rolling right on through til the new year. This is the profession I  have chosen, and it pays me well, so please don’t mistake this rant for lack of appreciation toward having a job that keeps a roof over my head and food on my table. Most of the time, I enjoy what I do, and I really like my coworkers. What I don’t like, however, is how early the Holiday Season gets jammed down our throats every year. Working retail during this time also means having no real concept of time, other than “What time does my shift start?”, “When is my lunch break?”, and “Is it time to go home yet?”.

Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those people who wants the world over (non-believers included) to “Put the Christ back in Christmas.” The back of my car will never look like this:

Bruce (yes, my car's name is Bruce) wouldn't allow such a thing.

I’m probably one of the least religious people you’ll ever meet. The main reason I go to church on Christmas and Easter? To not disappoint my grandparents who have done so much for me over the years. I guess you could call me an agnostic. Do I think that many years ago a virgin birth took place in a manger, attracting attention from the four corners of the world? I’m not sure. It’s a lot for me to grasp. I do, however believe that Christmas is a time to spend with friends and family, to slow down a bit, and to be appreciative of what we all have. I also believe that it’s a time to find a way to help those less fortunate… maybe by volunteering, or donating canned goods, or just doing something selfless for another person.

I’m not going to get all “Save the World” on you here, nor will I be self-righteous about this. All I’m asking is to maybe take a step back for a minute, and NOT jam holiday music and decorations down my throat as soon as Halloween is over. I mean, doesn’t Thanksgiving deserve the spotlight for a few moments before we get all “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”?? The turkeys who so dutifully give their lives to allow me to overeat without needing an excuse should have their time to shine. While my Thanksgiving this year was pretty routine (dinner with one side of the family, not really seeing the other side, receiving the obligatory “you don’t call or visit enough” guilt trip from a grandparent or two, then retreating to my own home where I can have a glass of wine and settle in with a close friend to decompress and just relax before working my ass off for Black Friday), I must say, as I grow older, the more I enjoy it. It’s a time to spend with people you care about (even if you don’t always like them), share in eating a delicious meal, and not worry about who bought who what.

Turkeys Need Love Too

At my place of employment, the Holiday Season started on November 7th. That’s right, folks. Christmas music and sparkly holiday decorations went up, and we went into Christmas mode. The number of customers we’ve had would never give it away, of course, but apparently, we weren’t the only ones. The malls and other retailers in this area either beat us to the punch or were right in line. Were our customers happy about it? No. I cannot tell you how many “Can’t we just get through Thanksgiving?” gripes I heard up until Black Friday. My fellow retail cohorts (damn right we stick together) worked our asses off on Black Friday, pulling long hours with smiles on our faces while people bitched we didn’t have better sales and trampled each others at other retailers all across the country. That’s right, TRAMPLED each other  to get the best sale on Tickle Me Justin Bieber or whatever the fuck this year’s hot toy is. People DIED on Black Friday. Pretty sure many of them were screaming a battle cry of  “Keep Christ in Christmas!” while pulling hair and pushing and elbowing other shoppers to get to the front of the line at the local Wal-Mart.

Gotta Get the Bieber!!!

Christmas makes people cranky. I cannot tell you how many times my parents, my sister, and I have gotten in arguments while all trying to get ready for Christmas Eve dinner and church with my grandparents. Whether it be about one of us taking too long in the shower or someone hogging a mirror or people just being snippy, it’s usually a calamity. We have a silent car ride to my grandparents’ house, and then we get over it. Same goes for Christmas shoppers. Traffic becomes unbearable, store clerks become harried and overworked, and people get downright mean. While shopping the other night, I witnessed at least three arguments over the last items on a shelf. Isn’t this supposed to be a season of good will and happiness? Aren’t we all supposed to be a little kinder, a little gentler? To me, it seems we all get a little meaner, and all start to resemble one of my favorite Dr. Seuss characters, The Grinch (second only to the Cat in the Hat – and not the live-action versions, either. I’m talking the old school animated versions). That green bastard attempted to ruin Christmas not only for himself or one other person, but for the entirety of Whoville. You know, until those little Whos singing their little Who hearts out and recognizing the true spirit of the holiday melted his icy heart and turned him into a softy. That’s right. Post Who sing-along, the Grinch became kind of a pussy.

Don't Fuck With The Grinch

In summary, folks, all I’m asking for is a little consideration for one another and for those of us who bust our asses to make sure you’ve got plenty of material gifts to give to those friends and family you may or may not like. I’m not even asking for you to do it for me. Do it for Whoville.

Sleepy’s and Comcast Can Suck It (or, why I hate moving)

10 Dec

Here’s a shock to those who know me well: I recently moved. Again. In case my sarcasm doesn’t translate, no one is really shocked I moved again. For the past year, I’ve been living the cushy life, slipping my parents a mere $250 every month to cover rent, utilities, food, and laundry. They were gracious enough to let me move home to save some money (Thanks Mom and Dad! The rest of my shit will be out of your house soon!).

Having moved 7 times in the past 5 years (home to college, college to home, home to an apartment, apartment to new apartment, new apartment to a friend’s house, friend’s house to home, home to another apartment), you could say I’m a seasoned pro. By seasoned pro, I mean I have yet to learn the lesson that packing in advance is the best plan- rather than packing as I go and taking my sweet ass time, which pretty much drives my friends and family up a goddamn wall (Sorry Mom!).

Anyway, it wouldn’t be a Walking Mishap kind of move if there weren’t, well, mishaps. And guess what? I’m putting those responsible on blast.

The Great Mattress Debacle

When I moved out of the friend’s house and into my parents’, we tossed my old queen sized mattress. I went back to sleeping in the bed I used in high school – a twin. When it came time to move back out again, it became time to once again buy a big girl bed. My mom and I hopped in the car during the week I took off to get all of my move details squared away, and headed to Sleepy’s. Now, prior to mattress shopping, I had heard mixed reviews about this particular retail chain. Since a friend of mine had recently gotten a great mattress for a steal, I figured I’d be safe. WRONG.

DO NOT WASTE YOUR TIME, MONEY, OR ENERGY purchasing from Sleepy’s. Sure, my in-store experience was fantastic… the sales guy sold me a mattress that was “reduced in price” because it was “overstocked.” It was comfortable and well within my price range, so I went with it. This is where the trouble began.

I set up for next day delivery, having made sure I was off from work. I got over to my new abode with plenty of time to kill – who doesn’t love the four hour delivery window these places give you?! A friend of mine came over to eat pizza and watch some movies so I didn’t have to wait alone (what can I say, many delivery people can be a bit creepy). As time marched along, I grew anxious. Before we knew it, the pizza was gone, the movies were watched, and I still had no bed. We had just wasted four hours of our lives waiting for a delivery that never came. I called my sales rep, who looked my delivery up in the system to find that my mattress had been “damaged” and was pulled off the truck. Did those mattress bastards think to contact me? To let me know I could go on with my day, find more productive things to do? No. Not a single phone call. We set a new delivery window up for the next day, and I was naively hopeful they wouldn’t fuck it up this time.

Wouldn’t you know, the following day, my mattress showed up. Dirty. There were black marks on the sidewalls of the mattress. Not on the sleeping surface, but it was scuffed.  Upon speaking to my sales guy once again, he said to accept the delivery, and we would get the mattress swapped out (which means another four hour delivery period).

To make this painfully long debacle a little shorter for ya’all… what it came down to is this: the replacement mattress they sent me was NOT the same as what I ordered. It was about ten times firmer, and wasn’t comfortable. I called the sales guy who gave me some song and dance while the delivery guy called the warehouse. I refused delivery. Sleepy’s then informed me I had purchased a discontinued model, and that there were no more. You know, that OVERSTOCKED item? Yeah, not so much. Try no longer available. They refuse to give me back my delivery fee or take back the mattress they delivered. I have since written letters to upper management and have received no response. So, there it is. Don’t buy from Sleepy’s. They’ll bend you over and make you take it like an inmate.

There’s a Reason www.comcastmustdie.com Exists

Okay, so comcastmustdie.com may no longer be titled as such, but the fact that it has a web presence isn’t a compliment to the Cable/Internet/Phone provider. They suck.

Upon getting settled, I called up Comcast and set up my appointment to come have them get me all set up. We went through the motions over the phone, and setup my installation appointment. A little less than a week later, the tech showed up, and I had cable without a hitch. Or so I thought. After a few days of calling in to find out why my DVR wasn’t functioning, we found the culprit. I wasn’t set up with DVR, even though I specifically asked for it. The person I spoke with over the phone said she’d credit me for the cost of the box I was renting for a full month.

Let’s flash forward to two weeks later, after I had gone and exchanged the box myself to get my DVR. My bill arrived and SURPRISE! It was about $80 more than I expected. Why, you ask? Because Comcast failed to inform me there would be install fees. Had they told me up front, I’d have had no issue paying these fees. However, that wasn’t the case.

I called Comcast, and calmly (yes, calmly) explained the situation. The rep on the phone immediately came back with attitude.

Comcast Rep: “Miss, I highly doubt they didn’t tell you about the fee. Are you sure you were paying attention when they were explaining it?”

Me: “Yes, I’m sure. He told me about my services, and what my monthly fee would be, but did not mention anything about installation fees. Though, I’m not sure he was paying attention, seeing as he didn’t set me up with DVR as I requested twice while on that call.”

Comcast Rep: “Well I think he told you about the installation fees. I have to have a supervisor review the call and we’ll get back to you.”

Me: “When will that be?”

Comcast Rep: “When our supervisor gets around to it.”

Me: …..

Comcast Rep: “Thank you for calling in.”

Needless to say, I got off the phone far more heated than was probably necessary. Ten minutes later, I got a call back. Not from a supervisor, but from  the representative who sold me the services. It went a little something like this:

Me: “Hello.”

Comcast Rep: “Is this Danielle?”

Me: “Yes. Who’s calling please?”

Comcast Rep: “This is Marcus. I am the rep who set up your service. I am calling because I was emailed and told you told billing I never told you about the install fees.”

Me: “That’s correct.”

Comcast Rep: “Well, I’m calling to tell you I did tell you. And you shouldn’t have called in to try and get them credited because now my supervisor is angry with me. You should just pay the fees and get over it because I told you about them.”

Me: “Listen, Marcus. I’m not sure why you accessed my account, but I’m sure I was not told about the install fees. I was told a supervisor will be calling me back to discuss this in depth. Could you please tell me when that will be?”

Comcast Rep: “No. He shouldn’t even have to call you back because making him review the tape is wasting his time when I know I told you about those fees.”

Me: Click.

That’s right, I hung up on him. I figured it was better than being recorded by Comcast while going completely ape shit. I promptly called Comcast back and told them I didn’t appreciate their rep calling me to essentially give me a guilt trip. Looks like I should’ve gone with Fios.

Well, friends, that’s just a sampling of why I hate moving (you know, besides the whole packing up all my stuff then schlepping it here and there…). Who else has fun utility/delivery/moving stories?!

“I Think the Lady Next to Us Hates Me” (or, I am Flyers Fan, HEAR ME USE AWFUL LANGUAGE AND GET ROWDY)

2 May

In honor of my Broad Street Bullies moving along to round two of the playoffs after sufficiently knocking those Jersey bastards out of the running, I want to regale you all with the tale of how I single handedly made one woman loathe me more than you could imagine by simply being passionate about the sport and team I love most (and drinking more beer than most large men). Before I do so, I must pay homage to my boys in orange:

Let's Bring it Home, Boys.

The above is what I hope to see, is what I NEED to see sometime before I die. And I can only hope my dad and I are in the building when it happens. I’ve got goosebumps just thinking about it. I will openly cry tears of joy when (yes, WHEN) we win the Stanley Cup. Don’t judge me.

I’ve gotten distracted by dreams of a championship dancing before my eyes. The point of this post is to admit to my hand in living up to the stereotype of what a “Typical Philly Fan” is. I’d just like to state, that in a poll given by the NHL to its players, Flyers fans were voted “MOST INTIMIDATING IN THE NHL.” Yes, this is something we wear like a badge of honor. We are proud to be intimidating. Obnoxious and loud, with livers soaked in beer and bellies full of Chickie’s crab fries, we cheer our team on even in the darkest of times. We harass and rebuke anyone wearing anything other than the Orange & Black. We bleed orange and swear like sailors. We scream “SUCKS!” after the name of each and every single one of the opposing teams starters are announced. We insist all refs are blind and/or mentally challenged.  Anyone not expecting this, especially in the upper level of the Wachovia Center (perhaps with the exception of the family section – but even then, it’s dicey), deserves whatever comes to them in the course of taking in a game.

A few years back, a good friend of mine had a ticket package, with seats in the second level, center ice. I often accompanied to him to games. There was a couple who was at every game that I attended, as they presumably had a package as well. This couple was probably in their mid to late fifties. The husband was friendly enough, and seemed to genuinely enjoy the sport. I can get down with that. His wife, however, was a wretched shrew who must drown puppies and kick babies in her spare time. Not once did I see a single smile on her face over the course of, let’s say, seven games.  Not when the Flyers scored, not when we won, not when that chubby kid gets up and dances in the third period. From game one, I realized this woman was a shrew who could not be tamed. The sideways glance she gave me as I took my seat that first time felt as though she would have melted my head if she had the ability.

Over the course of every game I attended, the following would happen. We would arrive at the Wachovia Center early. We would go inside. We would head directly up the escalator, and we would buy two beers each to make it through the first half of the first period. We would then head to our seats, both clad in jerseys. We would get to our row, and greet the aforementioned couple. The wife would roll her eyes as she let us pass, and the husband would gives us a polite “hello.”  Wifey would sigh and groan with herculean effort to express her utter lack of approval of my existence. The opening shenanigans would begin, with me hooting and hollering as our starters were announced. I would join in the resounding chorus of “SUCKS’” that rang out while the opposing team was announced. With every “SUCKS” that left my mouth, the old battle-ax would look at me as though I had suggested she fellate a hot curling iron while allowing the entire opposing team to run train on her.  I’d behave myself during the National Anthem out of respect, with the merry fishwife scrutinizing me the entire length of the song, as though she expected me to start burning our flag. Once Lauren Hart finished belting our her tune, it was time to let the games begin.

Roughly through the middle of the first period, our beers would be empty, and I would need to hit the ladies’ room. I’d squeeze my way past the couple, apologetic as can be, and make my way down to the concourse where I would purchase more ice-cold beer, putting lids on both to avoid spillage on my way back up to our seats. I’d then wait patiently in the entrance way to our section for stoppage of play, then scurry back to my seat. I’d humbly squeeze past June & Ward. Heavy sighs replaced breathing fire by the dragon lady, as I’m sure she didn’t want to be fined for destruction of property.

During Flyers games, my enhanced vocabulary and refined sensibilities disappear. I become loud and rather brash. My favorite phrases include “COME ON!!!!” (in reference to just about anything – after seven or eight beers, anything else takes too much effort), “ASSSSSSSSSSHOOOOOOOOOOOOOLE” (yelled, in unision, with every other self-respecting fan in the joint), “HIT HIM! MAKE HIM BLEED!”, “SIDNEY CROSBY IS A PUSSY!” (only directly applicable when Pittsburgh is in the building, but always true), and “WHAT THE FUCK, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” – needless to say, any chance of being ladylike has gone out the window.

At the end of the first, my friend and I would both head back to the concourse to get more beer. The Wicked Witch of Section 217 would mumble some remark to her husband (my favorite being, “Oh look. She has more beer. Just what she needs.”) as we passed her on our way back to our seats, with a beer in each hand. Mind you, the old harpy never took issue with anyone else in our section- not even the fine gentleman who screamed “fuck the police” during a memorial for an officer who had been killed in the line of duty. She also did not bat an eye when a fistfight broke out in result of his outburst (let’s face it, he deserved to have his ass kicked). Nor did she shoot daggers at the group of college kids three rows behind us who were even more lewd than I. No no… it was just me she wanted to see tumble head first down the steps of our section, landing in a broken, bloody heap.

Generally, within the second period, there was one final beer run, as beer isn’t sold during the second intermission and beyond. I’d simply like to state, that the more beer I metabolize, the louder and more passionate I get about hockey. My inner filter disappears, and I become even more brazen than during the announcement of the other team. The third period would be similar to the first and second,this time sans beer runs and plus more profanity.

After one of the last games I attended with my friend, we were chuckling over how much this woman hated me. Turns out, during one of my beer runs, she had left her seat as well. Being men, my friend and the ogress’ husband had a nice little chat about us. From what I understand, it was something like this:

Friend: Sorry she’s always so loud…

Husband: Oh, it’s no problem. I think it’s funny.

Friend: Your wife doesn’t seem to think so.

Husband: She doesn’t think much is funny… she’s kind of a bitch.

Ladies and gentlemen, case closed.

Do I Have “Please Give Me Awful Service” Tattooed on My Forehead? (or, how is it possible for one person to get such awful service ALL THE TIME?)

20 Apr

As the title of this blog states, I am a WALKING MISHAP. If there is a debacle or fiasco that can occur while I am around, chances are, it will. The one thing I have always questioned, however, is WHY am I constantly the victim of god awful service in restaurants and other establishments?

Having worked in food service, I know the deal. I am an above average tipper, even if the food sucks, unless the service is so blatantly horrible I can’t justify it not being the server’s fault. I’m polite, and I avoid asking the server to make unnecessary trips to my table whenever possible. Hell, I even feel bad if my order comes out wrong – yes, receiving the wrong food is through no fault of my own, but I still hate complaining. This is probably going to be yet another serial group of posts for the future since I’ve got so many experiences to describe, but a recent event stands out in my mind, so away we go…

I’m going to preface this whole ordeal by saying I’m not a complete fat ass. I often eat like one, and my appetite is unparalleled by any female I know, but I do know what a vegetable looks like. The fact that I’ve already got a story posted here about Dairy Queen probably has you rolling your eyes in disbelief, but my entire diet does not, in fact, consist of Dilly Bars and Oreo Blizzards and Lemon Lime Arctic Rushes.

Last week, while working, everyone on shift decided it was beautiful out, and that Dairy Queen would help make up for the fact that we were all stuck inside. There were five of us, and it was slow,  so my assistant manager and I agreed to head up the street to pick up our frozen treats.

Upon arrival, we decided to hit the drive through. I place our order, which consisted of one chocolate dipped cone, one arctic rush, two banana splits, and a brownie explosion sundae. After I finish, the voice over the speaker ever so obnoxiously states:

“That’s, like, a REALLY big order. Do you, like, want that TO GO?”

No. I want you to dump it in a five gallon bucket, strap a bib on me, and let me go to town right here in the middle of your drive through, while holding up the other cars behind me. Chris and I exchange a look, and I sweetly replied, “Yes, please. That would be great.”  We were given our total, and told to pull up.

When we arrived at the window, the interaction shook down something like this:

DQ employed teenager hands Chris my slushy, which he hands to me.

Chris: Can I have a carrier, please?

DQ Chick: You need, like, a carrier? (rolls eyes)

Chris: It’s kind of a big order… we need a carrier to hold it all.

…she hands over a carrier with a huff.

(at this point I’m not sure if I should laugh or ask for a manager, so I choose to do neither)

Chris is handed the chocolate dipped cone –   no lid, no cup.

Chris: Can I get a lid for this, please?

DQ Chick: You need a lid?

Chris: Yes. I need a lid.

DQ Chick: The only way I can do that is if I dump  the cone into a cup, then put a lid on the cup. It’ll be all smashed. Are you sure you want that?

Chris looks at me, as though I’m the authority on whether or not we should be smashing the ice cream cone.

Me (taking in a deep breath): Just give me the cone. I’ll hold it.

Chris is handed a bag with the Banana Splits and Brownie Explosion in it. Looks inside, and finds no napkins and only one spoon.

Chris: Could I please have some napkins and two more spoons?

The sullen teenage boy at the window takes some napkins from under the counter, puts them on the counter, and rests his hand on them.

DQ Girl: I gave you three spoons. They probably fell to the bottom of the bag. Maybe you should look. (rolling her eyes again)

At this point, I’m trying to refrain from jumping across Chris and into the DQ drive through window to strangle this chick, or from chucking my order, item by item, back through the window. Chris checks the bag.

Chris: That was my mistake, you’re right. They fell. Can I please have some napkins, though?

DQ Boy (with his hand still on the napkins): Are you sure?

Sure of what?! That you twits clearly should NOT be employed anywhere that requires customer service? Yes, I’m positive, now give me my fucking napkins.

Chris: Yes, I’m sure.

We get our napkins and peel out, both of us shaking our heads and laughing, because there was nothing else we could do.

Believe it or not, things like this happen to me more often than not. A particular ex of mine and I used to have the worst service ever, and I used to like to blame it on him. Now that we don’t often dine together, it seems it’s me that has  ”Please give me the worst service you possibly can” tattooed across my forehead. Maybe it’s karma from being such a shithead teenager biting me on the ass… god knows I acted a fool in public enough it’s possible.

I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it, but if you dine with me, beware.

The Automobile Follies: The Very Beginning

20 Apr

Hopefully, you’ve all read the Dairy Queen Rock Debacle by now. I’m no stranger to bad luck when it comes to cars, and my landing at DQ rock is simply the icing on the cake. Perhaps I’ve posted out of order, as the stories that I’ll be posting here and there are mere plot points in the whole saga that is my driving record. However, I digress.

Pandora, the ’85 Lynx

Imagine my excitement, when at the age of 17, I was graciously gifted a car. The 1985 Mercury Lynx that my uncle handed over to me was a great little car to learn on… with the exception of the fact that it had a penchant for stalling when I was alone. I loved that car, for what she stood for. Pandora was my ticket to freedom… as long as I could keep her running.

With a brand new set of fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview and my leopard print steering wheel cover, I set out with all the enthusiasm of a new driver… until the night of my senior year Halloween dance. Dressed more trashy than any teen should ever be (I’m pretty sure I snuck the clothes out of the house in my bag, there’s NO way the parents would have gone for that – but it WAS Halloween, after all… every girl’s excuse to skank it up a bit), I drove to the dance without incident. It wasn’t until after the dance that the trouble began. I remember driving a friend of mine home. We made it to her house with minimal trouble – only had to restart the engine at a stoplight once.

Now, keep in mind, this was the early 2000s (weird, right?), and having a cell phone as a teen wasn’t as common place as it is today. My parents didn’t see the need for me to have one, so I was phoneless. I dropped my friend off, telling her I’d see her at school the following Monday. Between her house and mine, there is a HUGE hill (to the locals, it’s the one on Bishop Ave by Home Depot). This hill is one I recently avoided for four months after purchasing my new car, because it’s got a manual transmission… but more on that later.

Apparently, this hill was no match for my poor little Lynx. I chugged along, until halfway up, I stalled. Panicked, I started the car again, let my foot off the brake, and slammed on the gas. Nothing. Not a damn thing. In all my frantic cursing and freaking out, I may or may not have forgotten to put my foot back on the brake. Next thing I realized, I was rolling backwards. Luckily for me, there was no one on the road at that point. When I settled at the bottom of the hill, the tears hit. What else would you expect from a frantic 17-year-old girl?

With no phone and no way to reach home, I waited a few minutes after having calmed down. I was finally able to start the car, and find a way home that didn’t involve a beast of a hill. Upon my arrival, I was promptly grounded for missing curfew and not calling to let anyone know I was going to be late.

THAT, my friends, was right around the time Pandora and I stopped speaking…

Now, I know this tale of vehicular misfortune doesn’t seem like much, but I’m just setting the stage for absurd occurrences to come. If this shit didn’t happen to me, I wouldn’t believe half of what’s happened if someone else were to tell ME the story.

These are my hands, these are my faults, these are my plans, and these are my nasty little thoughts (I wrote them down for you to contemplate…)

15 Apr

In case y’all haven’t figured it out by  now, I’m often astounded by the absurdity I’m surrounded by on a fairly regular basis. I won’t pretend that every single second of every single day is full of “oomph” but it’s pretty damn close. I’ve been truly  blessed with friends and family who keep me on my toes, knock me down to size when my ego gets larger than life, who take my moods with a grain of salt, and who keep me laughing along the way.

Here are some random tidbits and mini-anecdotes that may help explain why, in my world, things are rarely ever calm.

  • I refuse to grow up. Not in the sense that I don’t accept my responsibilities as an adult- I AM a productive member of society… I just absolutely abhor the idea of settling into a mundane day to day existence that bores me to tears.
  • I’m on the wagon, but not in the sense that I’m a friend of Bill W. Due to a freak snow shoveling accident back in February, I’ve been in intensive physical therapy. To add to my recooperative efforts, I’ve been instructed to give up alcohol. Entirely. It’s been tough. However, most people’s ridiculous stories stemmed from beer and vodka soaked evenings. I’m quickly realizing I’ve got just as many sober tales as I do intoxicated.
  • When I do drink,  chaos usually follows. No matter where I am, or who I’m with, things get out of hand. Not “Hey, can you bail me out of jail?” out of hand, but “We totally had a three hour reign of terror in the mall after getting flagged and booted from Ruby Tuesday’s at 3pm on a Tuesday afternoon and have pictures with the Easter Bunny to prove it” out of hand. Especially if I’ve got my favorite partners in crime with me (T & D, I’m looking at you).
  • I get lost. A lot. Anyone who knows me has most likely gotten a frantic “I am completely lost and have no idea how to get where I’m going” phone call… at which point they promptly remind me I’ve got both a GPS unit and AT&T Navigator on my phone (note the shameless product plug).
  • As a whole, I loathe the female gender. Sure, I’ve got about half a handful of true female friends that are like sisters from another mister, but I prefer the company of those possessing “Y” chromosomes. This generally means I hang out with a bunch of rambunctious, wildly inappropriate dudes. Ask me how many times I’ve had to drive one of them to the ER, or how many times I’ve had to calm down a pissed off girlfriend, or how many of those knuckleheads I’ve bailed out of jail. Go ahead, I dare you.
  • I can’t go a day without tripping over my own two feet. Or walking into something. Or dropping everything I put my hands on. Or losing my keys. Or forgetting where I put my phone. Or otherwise somehow making a complete fool of myself. I’ve come to terms with it, and have learned the art of self-deprecating humor.
  • I get cranky when I’m not fed regularly. No joke. I’ve been nicknamed Meatloaf for a reason. Interfere with feeding time, and I might cut you.
  • I have a minor case of road rage. Some would disagree with the “minor” part of that statement, but I lose all patience when behind the wheel of my mini minivan. I won’t give examples of the words that have flown out of my mouth while driving, but it would disappoint my mother to know my vocabulary is that colorful. You’ll probably get more on this later, in a serial bunch of posts about my luck with vehicular events.
  • I don’t catch feelings easily. When I do, they generally get big and sloppy, real quick and in a hurry. If a dude is bitchin’ wicked awesome enough to hold my attention for more than 30 seconds, it tends to set off my “fight or flight” instincts. Yes, I’m a chick and feelings freak me out. A lot.  Probably part of the reason I don’t seek out the friendship of chicks often- WAY too many emotional broads out there. If I can avoid talking about my feelings and emotions, I do. When confronted with the need to do so, it’s blunt and to the point and usually sprung at the least appropriate moment possible.
  • I miss college. College is this weird time in a person’s life where you’re “an adult” but it’s still completely 110% okay to act like a shithead. In fact, people expect it of you. If I could relive college and get away with it, I would. I played the shithead card to the fullest, and it was a blast. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a shithead… I just don’t advertise it like I did in college.
  • If people knew what I was REALLY thinking half the time, I’d be going straight to hell. I’m probably headed there anyway, but roughly more than half of what comes out of my mouth is heavily censored. There are few people in this world who understand me and how truly twisted I can be. To those people: thank you for being an awful human being with me. Seriously. Without you to share the inner workings of my demented mind, I probably would have lost it a long time ago.
  • I rock out in my car and don’t give a shit who sees me. Most people have the decency to act sheepish when caught drumming on their steering wheel and singing off key at the top of their lungs by onlookers . Not this girl. I crank it up, and generally shoot for an encore.
  • I once drove around for an entire week with my passenger side door covered in vomit unbeknownst to me. True story. That one will probably be chronicled in a later post, but this was not one of my finer moments. That Subaru saw far more shit than it ever deserved.
  • In high school, my friends and I were known as the “bra bandits.” The summer between junior and senior years, I proved to be a “late bloomer” and outgrew every bra I owned. Rather than let them go to waste, my friends and I wrote “bra bandits” on them, and left them in people’s mailboxes, on their cars, and whereever else we saw fit. Looking back, it was idiotic, but still hilarious. Especially after a few years, I was ratted out by one of my friends to someone who was a frequent recipient of bra bandit attacks. Boy was HE pissed.

Aaaaaaaand, I’m spent.

Salmonella: Something I Wouldn’t Wish on My Worst Enemy

14 Apr

Most people wake up the day after St. Patrick’s Day with a wicked hangover. Not this chick. Nope. I woke up this year the day after St. Patrick’s Day with the most god-awful, sharp stomach pains I have ever felt. A quick trip to the hospital showed that it wasn’t the hangover from hell, nor was it appendicitis. They sent me on my way, with instructions to call later in the afternoon to get the results from my blood tests.

I dragged my ass home and back to bed for a little, with intermittent 20 second dashes to the bathroom, since vomiting was a glorious new symptom I was suffering. A few hours pass, and for fear of people assuming I was calling out with a hangover, I went to work. I showered, put on that uniform, and only had to pull over twice to puke on the way. Upon arrival, I let my managers know that I was convinced I was dying, and asked if I could go home early if need be. After taking a few customers, it became quite apparent I wasn’t going to make it. I called the hospital to get the results of my blood work, and as it turns out, I had salmonella poisoning. That’s right, something I had eaten was causing me some of the worst discomfort I have ever known.

I clocked out, and headed home, picking up ginger ale and crackers on the way. Curled up on the couch, and prayed to all things holy that it would just go away. No such luck. The next four days were spent miserably, missing work. Normally, with gorgeous weather, one would be happy to be out of the office. Not me. The only place I wanted to be was my store, because that would mean I didn’t feel like death warmed over. High fever, body aches, chills, sweats, and an assortment of other various symptoms I’ll spare you on made for an awful experience.

What made me this ill, you ask? What was the offending morsel that put me out of commission for so long? A goddamn turkey burger, eaten mid-drinking binge. Amongst the Guinness and the Bailey’s, the Carbombs and the Harp, a freaking piece of tainted poultry brought me literally to my knees, and had me praying to the porcelain gods for the better part of a week. I won’t call out the establishment that served me said turkey burger, just know I won’t be eating there again anytime soon.

I find it a little ridiculous that something so delicious could cause such pain:

Damn you, Turkey, Damn you.

Sure, I got over it, and lost roughly 23lbs n the process (most of which was rapidly gained back), but it still sucked. And as for me and turkey? Well, we’re still on a bit of a hiatus.

I Might Be a Skeptic, but I’m Officially Weirded Out.

13 Apr

Just because I’m a closet horoscope reader, doesn’t mean I’m a firm believer in astrology and all that comes with it. Sure, I may or may not have a strategically hidden tattoo of my zodiac sign tattooed on my body (Capricorn, in case you were wondering), but I chalk that up to being young and dumb and silently rebellious. Sure, my personality jives with almost every description of Capricorn I’ve ever read, but then, maybe I’m overly analytical. When it comes to psychics, I’m absolutely fascinated. I strongly believe that there are many out there who claim to have some sort of gift who are completely and utterly full of shit, but I also don’t doubt some people are just born with stronger intuition and insight than others. I personally find myself rather sensitive to the feelings and moods of others, but I certainly don’t consider myself psychic, or think I have any type of ability to see the future or read minds.

I’ve had my cards read before, and have often found most experiences with the process to be overly vague, full of generalities that could be related to just about anyone if they looked at their life closely enough. Tonight, however, my opinion may have been swayed more to the side of the believers. I went to get my cards read, skeptical about how accurate this woman would be. I was in for quite a surprise.

The woman who read my cards had a sharp wit, commenting that one of the larger parties in the restaurant were a bunch of assholes (which was made quite clear based on the way they were speaking to their waitress). She asked my sign, which is when she told me I’m a pain in the ass, as most Cappies are. Admittedly, I can certainly be a HUGE pain in the ass when I’m in a mood… this is a fact I’m acutely aware of.

Getting into the reading, it was quite clear this woman was no joke. The only two questions she asked me while I was shuffling and cutting the cards were: “What’s your sign?” and “When’s your birthday?”

She immediately began speaking about a situation I’m in but don’t feel is fodder for this arena, and nailed it. She was candid and accurate with everything she said, going so far to give me detail I didn’t think was possible for her to pick up on. I had to consciously close my mouth, as my jaw was suddenly on the floor. Stunned isn’t the word for what I am, even four hours after my reading.

Some other things she touched on:

  • She told me I experience bouts of insomnia, for no apparent reason – DEAD ON ACCURATE.
  • She asked me if I liked my job, and I answered, “most of the time.” She said that while I sometimes get frustrated at work, I truly enjoy the company I work for, and will not be leaving anytime soon – DEAD ON ACCURATE.
  • She asked if I was dating someone casually around this time last year, which I was. She asked if his first initial was “F”, which it was. She said I ended it because he got possessive and clingy, which he was and I did. She said I’m better off without him, because he’s nuts. -DEAD ON ACCURATE.
  • She told me she saw that I had lost a close female relative when I was younger. She told me that said female relative had a name beginning with “L”, and that she had never really left me – that she watches over me to this day. When I was in the 7th grade, my great-aunt Linda passed away suddenly. She had been the glue that kept my father’s side of the family together for years, and I was devastated over the loss. I dream about her at least a few times a year, and in every dream, she tells me she’s proud of the woman I’ve become. Maybe it’s my subconscious telling me I miss her, but maybe there’s more to it than I can comprehend. -DEAD ON ACCURATE.
  • She told me I go through long periods where I don’t get along with my father, and even times when we won’t speak to one another. She told me this is because I have my mother’s personality. -DEAD ON ACCURATE.
  • She mentioned that I have problems with my eyesight, and that I need reading glasses in addition to my contacts. I have recently noticed that I have been having more and more trouble reading small print. -DEAD ON ACCURATE.
  • She asked me if high blood pressure runs in my family. She also told me that I need to be careful, because high cholesterol runs rampant on my father’s side. I myself have high cholesterol, and so do my father and paternal aunt. -DEAD ON ACCURATE.
  • She specifically mentioned a shoulder injury. I’ve been in intensive PT since February for a torn labrum and rotator cuff. -DEAD ON ACCURATE.
  • She mentioned that I have a relative who is a Scorpio. I told her that would be my little brother, Phoenix. She then told me that he’s smart as a whip, and sometimes uses that to his advantage to get what he wants with teachers, his parents, and other adults. -DEAD ON ACCURATE.

She mentioned some other details that currently escape me, but I have to say… maybe I need to ease up on the skepticism a bit. I’m sure some of you are reading this, thinking I’m looking for correlation between my life and what she told me, stretching generalities to fit me, but she gave me DETAILS. Who knows, maybe it isn’t all a bunch of hocus pocus? All I can say is she pegged me, and she did it well. I’ve still got goosebumps thinking about it.

The Dairy Queen Rock Debacle (or, how I put my car on a rock without even trying…)

12 Apr

I’d like to put this out there. I had a rough start to my driving career, all those years ago. Within the first six months of having my license, I got into two accidents (both I like to think were not my fault, but let’s face it… they probably were). The Saturn I had paid $2500 for was in the shop two days after purchase because I rear-ended a jeep and crumpled my hood… From then on, Precious (yes, she had a name) was known as the $5000 “$2500″ car, since I had to pay the same amount to fix it as I did to purchase.

That all being said, I’ve had a pretty clean track record since those days… well, if you don’t count speeding tickets. I’ve got a lead foot, but then, who doesn’t? That clean track record came crashing down around me roughly a year ago, one fateful night in a Dairy Queen Parking lot. Long story short, what happened was as follows:

I finished work one Friday night, with the intention of picking Mary Beth (a friend of mine) up to go see her fiance and his band play at a bar in Manayunk. Being the responsible automobile owner that I am, I stopped at a BP to put air in my tires, as they were looking a little low. Rather than pulling out of the parking lot and driving around the block to get where I needed to be, I thought cutting through the DQ lot to get to the backroads would be a BRILLIANT plan. Right. Not so much.

What I failed to realize, was that the owners of the property the BP, DQ, and other various establishments sit upon had recently installed some of the most pointless decorative landscaping shit ever. Large rocks were strategically placed in these “installments.” This is where the fun begins.

Turning out of the BP and into the DQ, I hit the curb of one of these installments. Marilyn, my 1996 Subaru Legacy was having some transmission issues. When I put the car in reverse to back off the curb, it didn’t go directly into gear. What it did do, however, when I put my foot on the gas, was propel forward, and launch me onto this huge rock- you know, one of the decorative pieces of landscaping. Not realizing what happened, or why my car was now leaning heavily to the left, I pushed the gas even harder, only to find I was spinning wheels. At this point, the crowd at DQ had realized what was happening (mind you, in perfect weather, this place was PACKED). I get out of my car, and realize I’m stuck. My car looks like some sort of attraction you’d see at Universal Studios, or maybe a piece of abstract art. Words cannot do justice, so here’s the photo:

Yes, ladies and gents, this actually happened.

As you can see, there was NO way I was getting this car down by any effort of my own. At this point, I did what any 24 year old would. I called my dad. The conversation went something like this:

Me: “Hey Dad. Um, my car is kind of stuck, can you come help me?”

Dad: “What do you mean stuck?”

Me: “Well, it’s probably better if you just see it. I’m at the DQ in Springfield.”

Dad: “Jesus Christ. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

My next call was to Mary Beth. Keep in mind, she has known me since the ripe old age of three when we met in preschool. I’ve known her family just as long, and they have been regaled with tales of the sheer absurdity that is my life, so it came as no surprise when I told her she needed to get to DQ as soon as she could, because I had no words to describe what I had done to my car. Upon arrival, she simply laughed her ass off and took pictures… but then, what are friends for?

Looking back, I should have taken pictures of my dad’s face when he got to the scene. The first words out of his mouth were, “Even if I send her pictures, your mother isn’t going to believe this.” After much deliberation, we realized we needed a flatbed to get my car down. The company AAA sent must not screen their employees, because the driver that arrived had every suggestion in the book for getting my car down that would involve maximum damage. The crowd that had gathered immediately began shooting him down and interjecting their own ideas, including having some hulking man pick the car up by sheer strength and set it gently on the ground. Eventually, my dad sternly instructed the driver what needed to be done, and my car was back on four wheels where it belonged.

Mary Beth and I made it to the bar that night. When we got there, we apologized to our friends for our lateness, telling them there was an issue at DQ with my car. Ian, who was home from California, simply said he understood. My response of “Oh no, I’m not sure you do,” was met with the reply, “I was there and saw it. I have pictures, too.”

Yes folks. this is the shit that actually happens to me. To commemorate the experience, below is a pic of me with “my rock” roughly a year later… at least I have a sense of humor, right?

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