Strings In My Boobs: Tales of A Crazy Biatch

My friends in Alaska know who I’m talking about just by the title alone.  And I’m sure that they’re sitting at the edge of their seat, just dying to see how I tell the story of the crazy girl who I’m going to be calling Marjorie throughout this post.  Because it would be my luck that this crazy girl will go nuts when she sees that I’m writing a post about her.

I can only say this in one way.

Marjorie was crazy.

She seemed normal enough when she started working with us as a cashier.  I was a cook and I helped train her.  She had just gotten married to an Airman, this was her fourth marriage, third person she had been married to.  She was from a southern state that can grow peaches, and… Yeah, she was a character.  She had some wild stories, many of which happened her first month in Alaska, each story more crazy than the one before it.

Example #1: Boob strings

Have you ever heard of breast implants that are strings, and every six months you go to the doctor and they pull the strings, making your boobs perky like a 16 year olds?

No, I hadn’t heard of them either… Until I met Marjorie.

Marjorie suffered from the same thing that most women in their late twenties suffer from— saggy tits from not wearing the right kind of bras in their teen years.  It’s a thing, and hell, my boobs came in saggy, she just had slightly saggy boobs.

But the day after she told us about her boob strings, her tits were fabulous.  They were perkier than a 16 year olds tits.  They were in her face, and bouncy, and beautiful.

Tits like this, but with no bra, because boob strings are magical

Tits like this, but with no bra, because boob strings are magical

Almost as if she were wearing a Wonderbra.  We asked her this, and she said she wasn’t even wearing a bra, as she pushed her strap to the side to show us the lack of bra.  She told us that her first husband was afraid of her having saggy boobs, so he paid for her to have boob strings put in so every six months she can have the doctor pull the strings so her tits will be magically perky.

Because doesn’t everyone want the tits of a 16 year old?

Don’t worry, it gets even weirder.

Example #2: The Laundromat

A couple weeks after she started working with us, her eye was covered in black make up.  Well, she said it wasn’t make up, but it was too perfect of a black eye.

Trying to be concerned, my overly sarcastic, yet fabulously awesome newfie coworker feigned some fake concern and asked her, “Oh Marjorie, what happened to your eye?”

Just imagine more glitter and a little more circular

Just imagine more glitter and a little more circular

Marjorie then told us the heroic tale of how she went to the Laundromat and this guy, out of the blue, came up to her and punched her in the face, then ran off.  She called the police and everything but he was never caught because the cameras weren’t working during the two minutes of this guy punching her in the face, her crying out, and him running away.

Also, the Laundromat had  nobody there that afternoon.  Hmm…

Example #3: The imaginary child.

Now, how can someone pretend to have a child, and a four year old child to boot?  This just doesn’t happen. Right?

Wrong!  Marjorie definitely had a fake child.

She told us that she had a four year old child from her second of four marriages.  Now, there were a few (several) holes in her story about her child.

  1. She never told us her sons name.
  2. His age changed from four years old to five years old, then back to four.
  3. He was living with her only six months out of the year, then six months with his father
  4. Her apartment was far too nice for someone with children.

Now, before anyone gets mad at me for the last portion, allow me to explain.

When someone has kids in their house, you just know.  There are always a few telltale signs of children in a house.  For instance… pictures of said child.  Every house I’ve been to that has children, except for the Amish households I’ve been to, have pictures of their children on the walls.  Or on the fridge, or generally everywhere.  Also, nearly every parent has a picture of their child in their wallet because they’re proud of the piece of flesh they flung out of their fun parts.

Marjorie had no pictures of her child because “Oh, I just haven’t unpacked them,” when she told us moments before she was so happy to have finished ALL of her packing.

Also, four year olds love to draw pictures.  I’m pretty sure that every parent of a four year old has a picture on their fridge.  Marjorie didn’t though.

And a person who has a four year old does not usually have a perfectly clean house.  And considering how well she cleaned at work, there was no way that her house was as clean it was with a child present.

In addition to that… she didn’t have child proof furniture.  She had perfectly brand new leather furniture, which she said her four year old and her had been renting for a month, her TV stand was marble with sharp corners, no fingerprints.

THIS IS NOT A HOME WITH A CHILD IN IT!

THIS IS NOT A HOME WITH A CHILD IN IT!

Her house looked like a model show room and the furniture looked like nobody even sat in it.  If there had been a four year old, she wouldn’t have furniture that had sharp corners that would be eye level with the kiddie, the furniture would have scratches or had some sort of stains.  There were just so many things that seemed amiss in the entire situation.

There was just no way her son existed, there was no viable proof.  But I always had to give her credit, she stuck to those stories like they were life sustaining.

There are far more, crazier stories that I will divulge you in at a later date, but for now, you’ll just have to settle for boob strings and black eyes.

Ever met anyone with some crazy stories that you just knew were fake, but you listened anyway because the entertainment factor was just through the roof?  Tell me in the comments!

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That Was Beautiful… In a Serial Killer Kind of Way

Recently, during my most impossible bout of insomnia, I decided to do what I normally do in times of insomnia.

  1. Internet, usually Gaia online playing stupid games and trolling the forums
  2. Rereading blog entries from Cursitivity and Hacker. Ninja. Hooker. Spy. (they are my blog crushes, but don’t tell them)
  3. Doing things that gave me bad ideas from said blogs

Since Cursivity wasn’t really giving me any ideas to troll people or find any blogging gold at that exact moment (Sorry Maurna, maybe next time :P), HNHS did not disappoint.

I’ve read this same entry from Aussa on several occasions, mostly talking about the other folder on facebook.  This particular post, the fact that the guy said she was worth ten goats, just rustles my jimmies in the best way.

My jimmies are sufficiently rustled.

My jimmies are sufficiently rustled.

I went through this folder before and found messages from old friends from high school who had been trying to contact me for a while, and I felt awful because I couldn’t remember who these ladies were.  Then I remembered and I was extremely excited to be talking to these people for the first time in 6+ years.

But I decided to go back to around 2010, and I found this horrifically creepy message.

I should probably explain this back story.

Back when AIM was cool, I would meet random people in chat rooms.  Probably not the brightest idea, but I’ve met some really cool people this way.  Hell, I technically met my husband on Plenty of Fish, but that’s a story for another time.

Anyway, I was living in Alaska and this guy was talking about moving to Alaska, and via text box, I was convinced he was my long lost soul mate.

Then I skyped with him.

This is why Skype is amazing, it lets you hear their voice and get a better idea about the creepy factor.

This guy was living at home with his parents at age 23, he didn’t have a job because he lied for his friend and was clocking his friend in an hour before the guy would actually show up to work, blamed the company for requiring someone to be on time to work, wasn’t going to school at all, and was just… Oh, whiney?

The bottom line about this whole thing was that he wasn’t my prince charming.  In fact, the internet tricked me into deluding myself into thinking that this guy across the country might be perfect because I knew little to nothing about him.  Ah, the dangers of the internet.  So, after the fateful skype call, I blocked him.

I realized I was friends with him on Facebook, so I deleted him on there as well.  But I did not block.

I never heard from him again… or so I thought.

Fast forward to last week, after reading 50+ posts between HSNS and Cursivity, when I decide to go through my other folder again.

This guy, shortly after I deleted him, sent me this message.

This is the face off to my own thoughts of what I’ve lost.  Reflection of yearning that lead to my demise is now this dreaded feeling I despise.  Could I have made this mistake while I looked you in the eyes?  This is my current anchored haze, as my mind is set astray.  Sanity.

This pristine pain is a mask of lost love that I’ve sustained.  It’s a mark of courage for the minutes of discourage.  It’s this tender embrace, just like the feel of your hand gently gliding across my face to cause this mass appeal.

This possession of mine is hastily plundered by the greedy hands of time.  These memories confine my being to a lonely mind.  Grudged thoughts are branded to my heart; where pain has wasted not.  Between dusk and dawn I face off against my thoughts.  To the reflection off my demise brought on by this disguise.  Sanity was all part of my mask of lies.

This rush, this subtle pain is overwhelming as it floods my brain.  The clock keeps ticking but the world around me keeps in a stance as I wait, hoping for a bit of promise for you and me.

 

Beautifully written… but it came off as serial-killerish to me.  He had never even met me in person.  Ever.

Naturally, I do the first thing that comes to mind.

I totally and completely spam Aussa’s facebook page.  Because that’s the obvious thing to do, right?

I kind of do this more than I should, and I’m sure that in her private study, whenever I message her about horribly awkward situations and telling her my embarrassing moments that I can never post on my blog because my mom and grandma read this, I’m sure she’s thinking, “Jesus, is this girl ever going to stop being so annoying and weird?”  But she’s far too nice to say anything, so I just roll with it.

So when I spammed the hell out of Aussa’s facebook, we were in a debate as to who had the creepiest message—my serial killer message, or her ten goat message.

She and I did come to a consensus that the Facebook other folder is blogging gold though.

Which is why I love the blogging community.

So, internets, should I respond to the four year old email that is just creepy as all get out? What are your thoughts?  Let me know in the comments!

 

I also want to thank Aussa and Maurna for letting me mention their blogs in this post.  I’m not doing it for the publicity of being attached to their blogs… I swear…

Two Years A Dog: The Desert And The Moon

My last post was extremely heart wrenching.  It actually caused me to cry while writing it.

So, in order to keep my sanity and to make myself realize that I didn’t completely give up on Patch, I shall tell you all a very heartwarming, and somewhat funny story.

I first must admit that this story is about three months premature, however, I figure it’s appropriate.  This is the story of how I found the third love of my life.

As you can imagine, Alex is the first love of my life.  He is my husband, my best friend, my soul mate, and my partner in crime.  He supports me, he is my rock, and if I were Morticia Addams, he is my Gomez.

While we were dating, about four years ago

While we were dating, about four years ago

The second love of my life, obviously, is Luna.  I wrote a post about her in February about how I had had her for two years and how she’s just the perfect dog in every way because, well, she just is.  But she is kind of defective since she doesn’t bark and she hates peanut butter.

Luna is not amused by your shenanigans.... ever

Luna is not amused by your shenanigans…. ever

Also, she’s kind of cat like.

The third love of my life, the one this post is about, is my condensed shepherd, Sahara.

Here’s the picture of her that was on Petfinder.com.

Painfully cute, right?

Painfully cute, right?

Let me tell you a bit about Sahara’s background.

Back in October of 2012, Luna had made it abundantly clear that she needed a friend.  She had a friend across our apartment complex named Bailey, who was a husky/terrier mix.  A cute little thing, she looked like a mini husky, but was a little stockier and a lot slower than Luna, which was great because they would play for hours and get very, very tired.

But when our friends went on vacation or a few weeks, Bailey went to a boarder and Luna had no playmate for three weeks.

When I used to walk Luna in Moose Creek, I would never have her on a leash because it was fairly uninhibited.  There were people, yes, but most of the houses were on an acre of land, and sometimes we would walk on the abandoned railroad bed back in the woods.  We saw a lot of moose, but they left us alone if we left them alone.

However, this particularly chilly October day of 5 degrees with a foot of fresh snow, Luna, with her crazy sled dog paws, decided to take off half way through our walk.

I was not dressed to be hiking through knee high snow.  I didn’t even have socks on.

When I got home, I was hoping that Luna was at the apartment.  Alex just got home, and I tell him Luna ran away.

He gets out of the car and we start walking around the complex, calling out for Luna.  She has this nasty habit of never coming when called.

After about forty five minutes, I decide, for the heck of it, to go to our friends apartment.  The apartment was divvied up into sections, and each section had its own entrance.  For instance, I was in the B section, and our entrance was only for those living in the B apartments.  Our friends lived in the J apartments.

I walk over to the J section, open the door, and see Luna laying in front of the door, ears back, eyes dilated and just looking overall pathetic.  I couldn’t even get mad— she missed her best friend Bailey.

I put her leash on and walked her back to our apartment.  Since we had rescued from the no kill shelter in North Pole and didn’t want to risk running into the woman who disliked military, we decided to head to the Animal Control in Fairbanks.

We had been discussing getting another dog.  Luna was my dog.  She still is.  Luna isn’t overly affectionate with Alex, but she is with me.  She would always lay at my feet, when I go to bed before or after Alex, she always crawls into the bed with me.  When she wants to play, she always puts the rope in my lap first— it’s just how it is.  She’s a little more like that with Alex now, but that first year with her, she pretty much wanted nothing to do with Alex unless he was going outside.

This bothered Alex, because he had a dog that didn’t really attach to him.

We argued about what kind of dog, and he wanted to get a pug.  He thinks they’re hilarious, I think they’re annoying in large doses.  I told him we should get another German Shepherd mix, like Luna, and he said maybe.  He wanted to get a toy breed though, since toy breeds are just that much easier to take care of, but I told him we’re either getting a real dog or no dog at all.

I thought this was fair.  I just like bigger dogs.

We agreed to see what kind of dogs were at the pound, but not to adopt any dogs that day.

However, he grabbed his check book anyway, you know, just in case he changed his mind.  We brought Luna with so Luna could be the final decider.  We wouldn’t want a dog that Luna hates, since it would be her new best friend.

We get to the pound in Fairbanks and they’re actually a little short on dogs, having only 20 dogs total at the pound.

For us, not a big deal.  We walk through and find a lot of retired sled dogs, all in the ten year old range who are just lazy and happy to not have to run twenty plus miles a day.  While the dogs were nice, we knew that Luna, who wasn’t even three years old at the time, would drive these retired dogs insane.  It’s like putting a teenager with a ninety year old in the same house together.

There was a one year old female pug that was howling at Alex, to which he pointed at me and said, “HOW CAN YOU NOT WANT ONE?!”

Ridiculous for a pug, right?

Ridiculous for a pug, right?

I couldn’t understand his want to have such a noisy dog.  The dog next to the pug, a 140 pound black german shepherd, was barking at us quite a bit too.  He had just survived four bullets to the head and was hardly scathed.

Now THAT is a tough dog.

Unfortunately, he was very noisy and more than double Luna’s size, and we only had an 800 square foot apartment.  While he was a nice dog, you can’t have a dog that’s ridiculously loud in an apartment.

When we are nearly done looking at the dogs, convinced we’re not going to get a dog, we see this really heavy set looking german shepherd mutt.

She only stands to about my knee, she’s 50 pounds, and when we take a closer look at her, we realize she’s severely underweight.  The reason she looks so chubby is because her chest is the size of a barrel.  Never, in my life, had I seen a dog with a chest cavity so large on a dog so small.

She didn’t bark at all, she just had a big goofy smile on her face, her tail slowly wagging.

She was a dog’s dog.

Alex fell in love immediately.  I thought she was cute, but I reminded him that Luna was the final determiner.

We ask the woman working in the back to take her out, and we take her into a room where we can meet her.  She practically bites off our hands eating the treats.  She’s sniffing everything, but she’s got a very cute waddle like walk.  We notice that her stomach skin is really loose with stitches.

“Oh, she just got fixed.  She also recently had puppies, which is why her skin is so loose.”

We got to learn her back story.

She was found off 40 mile Chena Hot Springs Road, by herself.  For those of you unfamiliar with Fairbanks, Alaska, this is an area where there’s no towns and very few houses from 10 mile Chena Hot Spring road all the way to Chena Hot Springs, which is at mile 56.  She was 16 miles from the closest  house.

Apparently when she was called in, Animal control whistled to her and she came running to them, happy for attention.  She had udders, but no puppies in sight.  Alex and I speculate that she ate them since she eats everything.

This, obviously, tugged at our heartstrings a bit.  She was very affectionate with Alex.

The final test was to bring in Luna.

Alex went to get Luna from the car and brought her into the pound.  Luna, obviously, was a nervous wreck since she spent the better part of six months in a pound.  The new dog began to hump Luna the second she came in the room, to which Luna didn’t move.

We saw this as a good sign since Luna didn’t try to rip her throat out.

The Animal Control woman told us that they named her Sahara, since she has so much dark orange fur with a black saddle.  I figured this was perfect since I already had my Moon, I figured that I would now have my Desert.

We picked up food for her at Cold Spot Feeds, got her some rawhides, and brought her home.

We took her on a long walk outside, lasting close to an hour, and once we brought her inside she pooped on the carpet.  And peed in the bedroom.

She did this for two weeks.

No matter how much we walked her, she refused to go potty outside.  We would walk for close to two hours sometimes to get her to go potty outside, but as soon as we got inside, she’d make eye contact and poop on the carpet.

When we took her to get her stitches out, it took four people to hold her down to get them out since she had a lot of fight in her.  We then learned about Alpha training and started doing that every day.

I don't think she minds...

I don’t think she minds…

After a couple of weeks, she became a very complacent dog, never barking, no longer humping Luna into submission, and stopped having accidents pretty much completely.

Alex got his wish too.  He got a dog that was his.  Sahara likes me, don’t get me wrong.  But she never lets Alex out of her sight, and she’s kicked me off the bed on several occasions to be closer to Daddy.

So happy to be held by Alex

So happy to be held by Alex

She also had this habit of destroying my house.

UGH!

UGH!

Unfortunately, she is a lot older than we realized.  She’s got quite a bit of gray around her muzzle now, and each passing year she gets lazier and lazier.  Usually she gets her exercise by watching Luna run around the yard.  Sometimes she’ll jump out to try to catch her, but usually, she’ll just lay down next to us, her tail slowly wagging, enjoying the scenery before her.

She’s a really good sport.  We can dress her up, give her a bath, hold her like a baby, and she is usually just happy to have the attention.

Sahara, the happy reindeer!

Sahara, the happy reindeer!

To Sahara, the third, but always equal, love of my life.  May you live many more happy years.

Sorry this was so long, but I hope that this was heart warming, considering my last post was long and heart wrenching.  Not all pound dogs are lost causes!

What’s your story about your dog?  How did you come to get your pet?  Do you dress up your dogs to ridiculous proportions?  Tell me in the comments!

The Ruffest Day: Saying Goodbye

I’ve mentioned that I had a foster dog named Patch in a previous post.  I have been trying to find him a home for the better part of a month now, as well as rehabilitate him because he gets aggressive with food.

Other than the food aggression, he’s been a very loving, and caring dog.  He would sit on my lap, he would nudge me when doing homework to play.  He was always by my side.

Unfortunately, last night, when Alex was feeding him, he attacked Alex, ripping open his hand.

Ouch.

Ouch.

With the bite gushing blood, we decide that we need to go to the ER.  We put Patch in his crate, and rushed to the ER.  They wrapped up his hand, informed us that you can’t stitch dog bites (They can become pockets of puss) and we waited close to three hours to be seen.

During this three hours, we were socializing with other ER patrons, making jokes, and trying to keep the mood light.

After the first two hours of waiting, Alex told me to go home and wait for him to call me to pick him up so I could let the dogs out.

So I took Luna, Sahara and Patch outside to do their business.  Lo and behold, Patch is being overly affectionate.  He doesn’t leave my side outside, he nudges my hand to pet him, and even rests his head on my shoulder when I knelt down like he was hugging me.

It broke me a little bit, not going to lie.  I hugged him and cried and told him he was a good boy and that heaven was just a big farm with unlimited food and lots of squirrels to chase.  He wagged his tail when I told him this, and I choose to believe he understood what I was saying.

I went back to the hospital to see Alex still in the waiting room.  He was surprised to see me back at the hospital, but when I told him that whenever I look at Patch, I start crying, he understood.  So we continued to make jokes.

He gets called back, and they put him on a hospital bed in the hallway that’s far too small for him.

He's just too big for most beds

He’s just too big for most beds

We decided to avoid the topic of Alex’s hand gushing insane amounts of blood and talk about Alex’s need for Kanel Bullar, a Swedish cinnamon roll that I make whenever my Swedish sister in law visits us from Central Louisiana.  They’ve turned into one of Alex’s favorite foods and I rarely make them because they’re incredibly time consuming and we usually end up eating all two dozen of them in one sitting.

Comfort food of choice

Comfort food of choice

I teased Alex that if we ever divorced, he would have to convince his second wife to get the recipe from my cold, hateful fingers.

Alex responded with a snort, “Oh no, we’re ending on good terms so you’ll cook me Kanel Bullars for the rest of my life.  I’ll make you think the divorce was your idea so you’ll feel eternally guilty for it and make sure that you’re making up for it for the rest of your life via kanel bullar.”

I put my hands on my hips, “Oh, so you’ve thought about divorcing me?”

He laughs, “Every time you leave a mess in the kitchen.”

To which he kisses my hand and we laugh.  We always make jokes like this in times of turmoil.

Oh crap, this is every morning

Oh crap, this is every morning

Shortly after, the nurse informs us that he has contacted Animal Control and I had to talk to the woman about the entire situation.  I told her exactly what happened, we found out that we have to have him quarantined for ten days, then after that I can choose to surrender him, to which he will be humanely euthanized, or I can take him home and try to find him a home.

While I wish I could take him home, let him run in my yard, feed him lots of treats, and hold him close for the rest of his life, he’s not my dog.

He was never my dog.

He’s nothing more than a scraggly stray that I tried to help that I can’t afford to keep anymore.

And it’s killing me.

Alex had his wound cleaned and we were sent home.  We ate a bunch of cake to make ourselves feel better after being at the hospital for nearly five hours, while Patch lays curled up on the floor, next to my feet.

I slept separately from Alex that night because I wanted to cuddle Patch one last time, but Patch decided to sleep on the floor next to me, while I pet him while falling asleep.

I woke up to all three dogs standing over me, Luna licking my face and Alex crawling in next to me, giving me a hearty squeeze.

I made us a big breakfast, making a full package of bacon to divvy out to the dogs.

My stomach was uneasy, as we waited for Animal Control to come to our house.  About an hour before Animal Control showed up, Patch went to Alex and licked his face.  The first time he had licked either of us.  Even Alex was shocked at the display of affection.

When the woman from Animal Control showed up, Patch had his tail wagging and seemed excited.  He happily let her put the leash on him and ran out the door to the van.  He seemed almost happy to go.

I choked back a sob, and watched him leave.  He seemed happy to go.

Maybe he knows that it’s for the best as well.  I think that heaven will be a better place for him.

Luna has been sulking in her kennel ever since patch left.  I think she knows that he’s not coming back.

Poor Luna.  Her buddy is gone

Poor Luna. Her buddy is gone

For anyone in the Louisiana area, Patch is being quarantined for the next ten days at the Bossier City Animal Control.  If you think you could rehabilitate him and get hi the care he needs, I think you can adopt him with my permission.  If not, I completely understand.  There’s nothing more I can do for him.

Have you ever had to make a decision that broke your heart?  Have you ever been in a situation where it ended far differently than you anticipated?  Let me know in the comments.

The Most Awkward Interview

So I went to a job fair earlier this week in Shreveport.  I’m trying more and more to get myself out there so that I can have a shot at doing something with my nearly completed degree— but I’m finding it’s really difficult to do.  I’m getting to the point of applying for everything because I just need a job.

Which is something I don’t mind.  I like to stay busy, and I can only write so much.  Between writing a short book and half way through rewriting it, I need to get out of the house so I can write more for this blog and come up with more horribly awkward stories.

I was finally able to attend a panel interview for one of the casinos, and I was really excited because it has taken me forever and a day to finally get noticed by the casinos.  I was extremely excited.  Practically dancing.

So I show up to the interview, resumé and college transcripts in my hands, white knuckled with my hair straightened and my make up making me look like a mature adult.  I was so ready for this.

We all get in the order they want us to get in, and the Human Resources woman stands up in front of us.

“Good Afternoon, congrats on getting to the Panel Interview.  You’re going to give us a thirty second introduction, telling us why we should hire you, then do a celebrity impersonation.  We want to see how outgoing you are.  We are the best, so we only hire the best.  You have thirty minutes.”

I was the second person to go, and I was terrified.

Now, I should clarify.  I was on the speech team for four years, so the public speaking part wasn’t really a big deal.  But whenever I gave my eight minute long speeches, I would spend hours practicing each part, figuring out exactly how I was going to move my hand, how high or low my voice was, and so on.  Anyone who was on the speech team knows exactly what I’m talking about— even in improv there wasn’t a lot of improve—everything has some sort of preparation.

So I’m talking to the women around me, and I had no idea what to do.  Here’s the gist of the conversation.

Woman 1: Celebrity impersonation?  Could I do Dr. Phil maybe?

Me: YOU ARE NOT THE FATHER!  Wait, that’s Maury…

Woman 2: You could just be a crazy woman claiming that he’s the father (while pointing to the only man on the panel)

Woman 1: As hilarious as that would be, probably not the best idea.  Maybe I could do Miley Cyrus.

Me: What would you do?  Just go up there and twerk?

NAILED IT!

NAILED IT!

The three of us start laughing hysterically, giving us very strange looks from everyone in the room.  By the way, there was about 30 of us at the panel for an interview.

Woman 2: Do you think we could just go up there and sing a song of a favorite musician?

Me: I think I’m just going to do Robert DeNiro— You talkin’ to me?  Are you, talkin’ to me?  FOCKER!

More laughs.

Woman 1:  I’m not sure what I’m going to do.

We talked a bit more, doing more random impersonations.  Unfortunate for me, the song “Don’t Stop Believin” was stuck in my head.  It was seriously the only song I could even think of.

The first woman goes and is friendly and does a cute impersonation, but I tried to really set the mood.

When I walked up there, I felt my stomach churning.  They look at me and say, “Alright ma’am, why should we hire you?”

I go on a ramble about how I’m educated and well-traveled and I’ve worked in customer service and I’m a fast learner, then I finish my rant with saying, “And I’m not easily embarrassed, which I shall prove by singing you a Journey song.”

To which I sing, “DON’T STOP!  BELIEVIN! HOLD ON TO THAT FEELINNNNNNNNNNGGG!”

Like this, but ten times worse and more awkward

Like this, but ten times worse and more awkward

Then I froze, because the entire room went completely silent.  It was a huge room, and I had to sing at the top of my lungs just to be heard.  But I forgot how well my voice carries.  The maintenance guys 100 feet away stopped to hear me sing.

I felt my cheeks turn red, I’m glued to my spot, then I hear one clap and I quickly run back to my spot as applause bursts out.

A woman a few seats down tells me that I have quite a bit of soul for a white girl.  No idea if that’s a compliment or not.

The woman sitting next to me and does her bit, then says, “I’m going to do Miley Cyrus, wrecking ball.”  Then she began to twerk then yelled “I CAME IN LIKE A WRECKING BALL!” while twerking towards the front table.

I would like to point out, this woman was old enough to be my mother.  Laughs all around.

Everyone did something different, but each person was trying to outdo everyone else, so my little song didn’t do too well.  I did not make it to the next panel.

The reason why?

“You came off as very shy.  Try to loosen up next time.  Also, you should apply for jobs that don’t require experience.”

So I went home and did the dishes.  Alex nearly had a heart attack.

And that, my friends, is the most awkward, yet awesome, job interview that I’ve ever had.

Maybe  next time I’ll do the opening hysterical bit from The Producers.

I'M HYSTERICAL!

I’M HYSTERICAL!

 

Ever have a job interview that you were not prepared for?  Anything you think I could have improved on?  Ever been asked to do something for people that you had no idea how to go about it?  Let me know in the comments!

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog, as well as any requests, questions, comments or concerns.  If you have suggestions, please feel free to email me and tell me.  I try to check it once a day in the evening 🙂

How An Asian Food Market Broke My Car

I think there should be a completely new category for my blog in regards to how I seem to always break my damn car.

Since I’m kind of not working right now and waiting to hear back from the 30+ jobs I’ve applied for, I have figured out that the best way we can survive is by going to the Asian Market over the river to get some of our groceries so I can make delicious, cheap, ramen soup from scratch and miso soup.  Because soup is amazing.  And buying stuff from the Asian market is super duper cheap.  Also, making 8 gallons of miso soup and buying the ramen noodles from the Asian market would cost me about $0.40 per meal.  So why the hell not?

 

Cheap AND Delicious

Cheap AND Delicious

Alex was unaware that there was an Asian market in the area, and when I revealed to him that there were a couple and that their prices were way cheaper than base, he agrees to go with me.

Naturally, because we are young, we make several mistakes for our journey.

Mistake number one: We each forget our phones in the house.

Mistake number two: Alex has a gut feeling against taking our monstrous SUV out instead of our cute little Suzuki Forenza, thinking that maybe we should be taking the itty bitty baby car.  He ignores it.

Mistake number three: I ask the guy at the Asian market to use his phone to get directions to a discount grocery store on the ass end of Shreveport.

 

Murphey’s law states that when something can go wrong, it will always go wrong.  It also dictates that the universe hates me and loves to cause me misery.

Here’s what I’m thinking happened to our car.

The gods above saw that we lacked our phones and decided to punish us by breaking our car.

Alex’s gut feeling was telling him that we have been having some problems with the SUV overheating and that we should take it easy on driving it more than ten feet in the summer.

Or, the guy I asked to help us put an ancient Chinese curse on my car because I decided to go shopping for the rest of my stuff at another store.

Not so lucky in this case

Not so lucky in this case

I’m pretty sure it was a mix of all three instances.

I believe I’ve mentioned that Alex was a chef before he was in the military, and his specialty is Asian cuisine.  He loves everything Asian from home décor to all of the lovely different foods.  While nerdome is his first love, Asian culture is a close second.  I’m pretty sure I’m the third.

So we’re going around this store and I’m gazing at the whole guava I could buy for five dollars when Alex comes up to me holding all of these different spices that you can’t find anywhere but an Asian specialty store, his grin ear to ear, while he’s sounding like a school girl running through the store, trying to figure out everything he wants to buy.

We’re going to be eating a lot of chicken satay for the next few weeks.

We run around the store, trying to decide if we want to buy fifty pounds of rice for $30, as well as getting some new dishes that were made in Vietnam, when we decide to just stick with the basics— everything we need to make Ramen, Miso Soup, and any other random Asian spices that we’re lacking.

We fill the cart and only spend $50, then I was trying to figure out how to get back on the main highway and if that would be the fastest way to the discount grocery store.  I decide to ask the sales clerk where the store was.

Mistake numero dos.  We explained our numero uno problem of forgetting our phones and just wanting to get our grocery shopping done all that night, and he lets me use his phone to map it out.  He barely spoke English, and his (I’m assuming) supervisor was shaking his head in disbelief that two twenty something year olds were walking around town without a phone.

So we drive two miles down the road, in the opposite direction of our house, when Alex suddenly pulls over.  I give him a strange look and he tells me that the engine was overheating.

We lift the hood and Alex removes the coolant cap and it starts to explode everywhere.  Luckily, he didn’t break the radiator.

We have extra coolant in the back for instances such as this, put some more in, and continue down the road to the discount grocery.

Car starts to overheat after two more miles.  So we stop and pull into a park, where a group of moms are doing a work out class.

Now, I know their moms because I know what moms look like.  They have a very distinct look to them.  You know what I’m talking about.

But in my case, no strollers.  They just looked like moms.  In every sense of the word.

But in my case, no strollers. They just looked like moms. In every sense of the word.

There were several other people there staring at us in wonder and delight as we stared at the engine, wishing it would cool off, while we panic a little bit.  We put more coolant in, we waited around 20 minutes, and decided to take the back roads home.

One mile into the residential area of Highland and the car overheats again.  We were out of coolant at this point.  We weren’t too far from a mechanic, but the sign was in Spanish and the person we found there barely spoke English.  They had just closed.

I was beginning to pull my hair out.  I was also hating myself for not wearing socks while wearing a pair of danskos.

We walk over to a regular grocery store and buy more coolant and a gallon of water because it’s only in the 90s with full humidity this particular day, so our clothes are soaked through with sweat.  We walk back to the car, put more coolant in, thinking the half hour of resting would be enough.

We drive a mile and a half down the road and it overheats just as we’re pulling into another mechanics.  A firestone.

They were starting to close up for the night, but they said we could pull it in to their garage so that nobody would try to steal our nearly broken car.  That night, I find the warrantee stuff I bought when we got the car, and find out everything is covered.

FINALLY!  Some good luck!

We find out the water pump was broken, as well as the thermostat.

Fixed just in time for us to take two weeks to drive to Minnesota, during the one year anniversary of us living in Louisiana.

So that’s how a young couple screw up everything in order to get the ingredients to make cheapo ramen.

Have you ever had your vehicle broken down without any way to contact the outside world?  Does it seem like no matter what you do, you just seem to have increasingly bad luck?  Let me know in the comments!

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog, as well as any requests, questions, comments or concerns.  If you have suggestions, please feel free to email me and tell me.  I try to check it once a day in the evening 🙂

 

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You’re My Aphrodite

Alex and I have decided to save on our water bill by always showering together, so when it was once sexy to shower together, it has turned into more of “HAHA! BOOBS!” and we usually just poke each other’s belly fat while having philosophical conversations never lasting longer than five minutes.

Where Romance Goes To Die

Where Romance Goes To Die

The other day, I must have looked less ragged than normal and Alex smiles at me, kissing my forehead and whispers, “You’re my Aphrodite.”

I’m flattered, and trying to remember my Greek mythology, and trying to not get in trouble for not saying something romantic back, I quickly respond with, “You’re my Hephaestus.”

Dead Sexy for a Troll

Dead Sexy for a Troll

He pushed me away.  “Seriously?  You had a plethora of Greek gods to choose from, and you choose the stupidest god there is?  The one god that everyone on Olympus hates and is always treated horribly unfairly?  Also, the ugliest god on Olympus?  You think I’m ugly?!”

Of course this backfired on me horribly.  We are just no good at this romance crap 

“He was married to Aphrodite!” I protest.

“Yeah, and she cheated on him nonstop with every other fucking god on Olympus!”

“Fine, you’re my Apollo,” I state, thinking that makes it better.  Of course it doesn’t.

“Oh yes, because I’m such a tan, beautiful athlete with a wild temper.  Try again.”

I’m getting frustrated.  “Fine, you’re my Zeus.”

Alex laughs.  “Then you’re my whore of a wife Hera who also happens to be my sister.”

“It’s funny because your sister and I kind of look alike,” I retort, to which he begins to bang his head on the wall of the shower.

“Why do I even try to be romantic anymore?” he asks, then showing himself out of the shower.

And that, my friends, is how I have artfully killed the mood between Alex and I without even trying.

Have you ever had an instance where you’re trying to be sweet back to your significant other and it just totally backfires?  Have you ever called someone a sweet pet name and it was horribly insulting?  Let me know!

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog, as well as any requests, questions, comments or concerns.  If you have suggestions, please feel free to email me and tell me.  I try to check it once a day in the evening 🙂