All Hail The Lord (Cthulu)

Alex’s best friend was luckily stationed with us here in Louisiana.  Last year, he had to get shoulder surgery because the military messed up his shoulder so bad that he could no longer lift his arms higher than… Well, his shoulder.

Since there are no military hospitals near us, they sent him to a catholic hospital.  When he told us this, we couldn’t help but laugh, because this particular friend is a very avid atheist.  He doesn’t throw it in our faces ever and is incredibly respectful to those who are religious, but it’s not his bag.  Which makes religious debates with him incredibly interesting and not blood thirsty.

He’s also quite a troll.  He loves to just stir the pot on stupid stuff to make others look stupid, which has two side effects: It’s incredibly hilarious to watch him talk to people, or situations get awkward.

Such a troll.

Such a troll.

 

When he was admitted to the catholic hospital, he was given a series of questions to answer, and he told us all about it.  The military first said that he was faking the pain in his shoulder, but they later found that he had huge air bubbles in his shoulder, showing that he was not faking it. The doctors were even surprised at how much pain he must have been in.

Anyways, getting off topic.

When he went in for the surgery, the doctors started asking about references and people to call in case things went south.  The last question the doctor asked caused his troll tendencies to expel in the strongest manner possible.

Doctor: So, what religion are you?

Friend: Cthulu is my lord and savior.  All hail Cthuhlu.

All shall bow down.

All shall bow down.

The doctor, without skipping a beat, begins to write and speaks outloud as he’s writing.

Doctor: Athiest.

Right as they were starting to put him under, the doctor and assistants, nurses I guess, all joined hands around him and said a prayer.

Here’s how it went down, according to the Troll.

Doctors: Heavenly father—

Troll: CTHULHU!

Doctors: We ask that you guide us safely through this surgery to ensure that this young man comes out stronger.  We ask this in your name—

Troll: ALL HAIL CTHULHU!

Doctors: Amen.

He said that shortly after they put him under and he woke up with his shoulder in great shape.  He can even move his arms above his head again.  Which is a relief.

He said he had Cthulhu to thank.

Do you know anyone who is a troll?  Ever have an experience that made others incredibly dumbfounded and weirded out by the stupid shit you say?  Tell me in the comments!

The Journey for Pants

Any woman reader will understand this story in all of its entirety.

I’ve mentioned before how Lane Bryant is incapable of figuring out how women’s pants should fit.  Seriously, what the hell?

I went to five stores to find navy blue dress pants for a job that I’m starting this week.  I have to have navy blue pants and a light blue button down shirt.  That’s right, I got a job where I have to wear nice clothing.  I’m going to be fancy.

So I go to the first Lane Bryant, and the sales associates were avoiding me.  They’re starting to bring back wide leg, which is fantastic, because they fit me like flares.  Because, you know, I have huge legs.  And calves.  And feet.

I finally track down a sales associate and she shows me this white button down shirt, which makes me nervous because I love to wear my food.  They have no light blue shirts, and they were out of blue pants.  The boardwalk store had blue pants though.  One pair, in my size.  Success!

So I drive the twenty minutes to the board walk.  I ask the sales lady at the front of the store where they put the pants on hold and she said “over there” and walked away.  I walk to the counter and ask and they said, “They’re right there!” while not pointing to any direction.  I get really mad, then I see a huge tag that has my name and I grab the pants.

I see the pants and cringe.  They’re petite.  Apparently I sound petit, even though I’m 5’8”.  This makes me nervous.  I try the pants on and I can button them, but my ass is too big for the zipper. Oh, and they stop an inch above my ankle.  And for some ungodly reason, Lane Bryant makes pants with fabric so thin that you can see the cellulite on my ass through the pants.

Nope, not happening.

So I took them off and put them back on the hanger.  When I came out of the dressing room, the lady at the counter asks me if those pants are all I’m getting.  I told her I’m not getting the pants.

“But those are the only blue pants we have,” she argued with me.

“Yeah, and they don’t fit.  You can see the cellulite on my ass through this thin fabric.”

“You’re too young to have cellulite.”

Oh, how I wish age played a role in cellulite.  I told her no because they were too short and they were too small for my thunder thighs, and she was still trying to talk me into the pants.  I asked her if torrid had blue pants, and she said she didn’t shop there.

Whatever chick, you totally shop there.

So I walked down to Torrid and the lady there was so excited.  “Yes we do!  We just got our pixie cut pants in!”

Not even cute on skinny girls

Not even cute on skinny girls

Now, I was unsure was pixie cut was.  But let me tell you what they are.

They are stretchy jeans that are the size of an arm sleeve that stop an inch above your ankles.  I saw these jeans and the waist was in my size, but the legs were for someone who skipped leg day at the gym.  These pants were for people who had no fat in their legs, or never used their legs because these pants were made for someone who had a 45 inch waist and legs that were six inches around.

Only picture I could find, so sue me.  You get the point.  Hell, you're probably not even reading this.  I could say anything, such as stupid bumfuckery.

Only picture I could find, so sue me. You get the point. Hell, you’re probably not even reading this. I could say anything, such as stupid bumfuckery.

Seriously fashion industry, what the fuck?

I couldn’t even get my hand into the bottom of these jeans, how the hell was I going to get my giant feet through them?

I told her no and she tried to argue with me that they were the style.

Lady, have you not seen what I look like?  I rarely comb my hair, much less dress according to fashion sense.

Every Morning

Every. Single. Morning.

I went to dress barn and no navy pants.  I’m about to screech.

I go to Catherine’s plus sizes, a place that I always associate with my mom’s grandma clothes (sorry mom), and the sales lady was a tiny little black woman who had a thick southern accent.  She was so sweet, found me the shirt I needed (and no need to iron), found me pants that fit, and when I tried them on, asked me to show her.   I asked her for the mom opinion, since I didn’t have my mom to help, and she gave the same responses my mom would have given.  I think.

So… Five stores, two hours later.  I found one pair of pants that fit kind of meh.  I found two shirts.  And I swear on my life, I am never shopping at Lane Bryant in the south ever again.

 

Have you ever gone clothes shopping and had absolutely no luck of any kind?  Do you ever feel like no matter where you go, you can never find clothing that fits?  Do you hate Lane Bryant?  Let me know in the comments!

Snakes In The Grass

On the one year anniversary of moving to Louisiana, we decided to celebrate by getting the hell out of Louisiana.

By driving with our two dogs.

Up to Minnesota for three weeks.

Now, you may think this is drastic, but I had a family reunion and my mother in law was getting her PhD in Minnesota, the same week of my family reunion, so it lined up pretty perfectly.  We brought the dogs because we knew they wanted a break from the opossums, scorpions, snakes, and 100+ degree weather.  I’ve been concentrating on school as of late, and we both just needed a long vacation.

In case you don’t know, driving from Shreveport to Minneapolis takes approximate 16 hours if you don’t stop.  If you have two dogs that are whining in your ear and eating your seats, it takes closer to 20 hours.

And we left around 5 pm, hoping to miss rush hour in Kansas City, Des Moines, and Minneapolis.  To me, this was a flawless plan.  Alex was off work that day, we tried to clean up the house while the dogs were at day care (Yes, I put my dogs in doggie day care, so sue me), and we packed the car.  The deal was that if the house was spotless, we could leave.

However, since Alex wanted to leave just as much as me, and I’m really annoying when I beg, Alex forgave me for leaving the house in total disarray and we picked up the dogs at 5 and began driving north.

About two hours north of Shreveport, in southern Arkansas, we stopped at a church to water the dogs and feed them, as well as stretch our legs and drink some much needed coffee.  We found a field of high grass and let the dogs loose, thinking that this was a great idea.  There was a house nearby, a house that I was convinced was condemned.  Honestly, it was falling apart.  And I mean no harm to the people who lived in it.

 

Pretty sure the house looked a little worse than this

Pretty sure the house looked a little worse than this

A few minutes after letting the dogs run around, an elderly woman came out to greet us with her little dachshund.  The dachshund barked at Luna, who gave him the stink eye and put her paw on his head, to which she chased him and pretty much ran him over.

The woman was so kind.  She saw our license plates and asked us if we had driven all the way from Alaska.  We told her our story, and she thanked Alex for his service.

“You know, there’s a field on the other side of the house that’s my property.  It’s mowed so there aren’t any opossums, water moccasins, scorpions, or poisonous spiders.  I’d hate to see your dogs die because of a preventable critter.  You can use the field for as long as you like.”

I thought this was very generous of her, and Alex agreed.  We took the dogs to the field, and they ran to their hearts content, while Luna especially found it fun to lay down in a pool of mud.

After a few minutes, the woman came out and offered to let us sit down in her house to relax, offering us some sweet tea.  Considering I was easily three times this woman’s weight, and Alex is just a huge man, we both agreed that we were fine and that we were going to get going soon.

As we were packing up the dogs food and water bowl, she walked over to us and handed us a wal-mart bag.

 

SO MANY PECANS!

SO MANY PECANS!

“I have 12 pecan trees and I have more pecans than I know what to do with.  They make excellent pie, or great to snack on as you’re driving.  Would you like more?”

This bag was so full.  It was easily five or six pounds of pecans.  Freshly fallen from her trees.

We thanked her, she thanked us for stopping by and told us that if we drive through again, just knock on her door and she’ll give us a bite to eat and some sweet tea.

This was the first time in the year we had lived in the south that we had experienced southern hospitality.

I almost wish I lived in Arkansas.

What is your best example of hospitality from a total stranger?  Have you ever been somewhere where you were just flat out confused at how nice people were?  Let me know 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 🙂

 

This is a comment box.  Comment as in feedback.  I want to know what you think of my blog, good or bad, so I can improve it.  I want LOTS of feedback.

Anyone Craving Tacos?

So recently I’ve been on this super healthy diet which has caused me to lose 20 pounds in 7 weeks and go down a pant size, a shirt size, and my belly skin to be super elastic and cottage cheesy.  It’s kind of weird and awesome all at once.  I have the absolute sexiest muffin top around.

Add about 100 pounds and more cellulite and SEXY MAMA IS HERE TO PARTY!

Add about 100 pounds and more cellulite and SEXY MAMA IS HERE TO PARTY!

But a few weeks ago, I was just craving hard shell tacos.

I know, weird craving right?

No, I’m not pregnant.  I just wanted Tacos more than anything else in the universe.

But I had to keep it healthy.  Corn tortillas are healthier than flour tortillas, especially since I was trying to be low carb and low gluten for my diet.  So I made this slow cooker pork taco meat with lots of black beans, and I was trying to find a way to bake these corn tortillas.  Since I was struggling so horrifically, I decided to go everywhere in Shreveport to find a taco shell baker.

I thought that this would be super easy to find, considering Shreveport has just about every type of store imaginable.  I tried World Market, Target, Wal Mart, even a few local businesses, but to no avail.  I was getting frustrated.  Finally, I asked some random people where they thought I could find a magical device that could bake corn tortillas into perfect taco shells.

The guy at World Market told me there were four Mexican groceries in Shreveport.  So I went on a search for one of these magical Mexican groceries.

TWO HOURS LATER I finally found one.  Less than two miles from my house.  I was in the entirely wrong part of town.  Apparently I live right next to little Mexico.  I never even noticed.  Seriously.

I was nervous walking in there, so I stood outside and saw that it was a hole in the wall Mexican store.  The sign said “Fresh Tacos” and a bunch of stuff in Spanish that I couldn’t understand.

I walked in and everyone in the store was middle aged and Mexican.  From what I heard, they also didn’t speak English.  I heard no English spoken.  All five people in the store stared at me like I was a leprechaun or something.

What... The... Fuck...

What… The… Fuck…

So I start to peruse around the store, finding tortilla presses, tortilla salad bowl makers, tortillas, a bunch of different spicy candies… You know, lots of stuff that I would have no idea how to use.  The people in the store watched me very carefully.

Finally, after a few minutes, I walk up to the counter and the man behind the counter, who is very obviously from the homeland, says in a perfect, southern accent, “Hello Ma’am, how can I help you?”

I stared at him in total disbelief for a few seconds.  I almost got pissed from how surprised I was.  “Uh, yeah, I need a tortilla baker or warmer.”

Then he started speaking Spanish to me.  “Ah, si, ma’am we have tortilla warmer.  We have tortilla maker.  You no know how make tortilla though.  Here, this one is sombrero tortilla warmer.”  To which he handed me this weird Sombrero warmer.

I don’t remember exactly everything he said because every other word was Spanish, but I remember chasing him across the store trying to keep up with his frantic running.  I had to give him credit, he was trying to be very helpful. I ended up buying 100 corn tortillas for four dollars, because I felt bad not buying anything.  Then it wasn’t enough for my debit card so I bought a bottle of carbonated water to make it five.

Got home, used my muffin tin and made super weird shaped tortillas.

[              I then called my friend Val, who was raised by parents who were Mexican and she was raised with English as a second language.  I told her next time I’m calling her to translate for me, and she said no.

So that’s how I ended up with far too many tortillas and making tacos every night for a week.

And I’m still eating those damn tortillas.

Tacos, anyone?

 

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!

How a Law Student Broke My Car

WARNING!  It’s a long post.

 

So a few weeks ago, one of my best friends from High School, who is now in her final year of Law School, decided that she needed to escape snowy Minnesota for her Spring Break and visit me here in Louisiana. She, of course, asked me if she could visit and if she did visit, if she would have a couch to crash on. Naturally, since I’m ridiculously Minnesotan, I went and bought a bed for her to sleep on, cleaned my house like crazy, and made sure that our first batch of beer would be ready for her visit.

Because she’s a law student, and a Law Student without booze is no Law Student at all.

Law School Lightweight

Law School Lightweight

So I had to drive about three and a half hours to Dallas to pick her up, because flying to Dallas is less than half of flying to Shreveport, and then we went back to Shreveport to drink and do other fun and wonderful things. Like drink. She helped me with my stocking job, we discovered Chili’s had a buy one get one free for Margaritas after five, so we had a lot of Margaritas one night…

Then we went to a Winery to sample some wines and bought a bunch of wine. Which was also delicious.

And I learned how to make a Pomegranate Martini.

Even with the Flamed Orange Peel.  What now, bitches?

Even with the Flamed Orange Peel. What now, bitches?

Between the drinking, gambling, board games and watching Veronica Mars, I have to say that her visit was much needed on both ends. Alex got to get to know another one of my very close friends, we had way more fun than should be allowed two girls in their twenties, and she discovered how much of a nervous fucking wreck I am half the time.

It was awesome.

So at the end of the seven day trip, I drove her back to Dallas, she gave me a hug, and we parted ways. And it was awesome.

So as I’m driving out of Dallas, I disillusion myself into thinking that I know my way around Dallas. Keep going east and I’ll find Shreveport. Those are basically the directions.

So I call my mom and talk to her as I’m driving out of Dallas. And miss the exit I needed to take to get to Shreveport.

So when I’m about a half hour south of Dallas, I realize that I went the wrong way. Great.

I hung up with my mom and found directions. Google Maps, you seriously need to work on your shit. I understand Texas is rural, but you got me even more lost. I almost had to use Apple Maps.

As I was driving towards Shreveport, I figured that everything was going well. It was insanely hot and sunny out, my car is usually dependable so I totally and completely ignore the check engine light, as well as the temp of the engine.

When I get to the town of Canton, Texas, I pull into Taco Bell to cheat on my diet and get a couple of burritos. Because I was starving from driving for seven hours with no food.

As I grab the bag from the lady in the drive through, my hood starts to smoke. A lot.

Panicking, I pull into the parking lot and turn off my car, only looking at the engine to realize that it’s far more overheating than it should. I take a drink of my coke and step outside… Only to realize that it’s really, really hot out. And that the engine coolant in my car was almost boiling and shooting out everywhere.

And nobody stopped to help me.

Come on Texas, you all pride yourselves on southern hospitality and when you see a woman with Alaska plates looking at her engine and pacing and very obviously distressed, you don’t just eat your tacos and stare awkwardly. (Hint hint, creepy old dude in the Dodge Durango).

I look at the horizon and realize that the sun is setting alarmingly fast. I finally do what I’ve been dreading.

I call Alex.

Alex is usually ridiculously warm and loving in situations of pure horror on my end, which is why I hate calling him. He’s the perfect, idyllic husband in instances of the car breaking down, the house breaking, the toilet flooding, you name it. He always comes to my rescue, he hugs me and tells me it’s going to be okay, and he calls a mechanic because he’s even more clueless than I am when the car breaks down. And I almost hate it because one of these days, I’m positive he’s going to do what my parents do when I break something: WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO NOW?! YOU ARE GROUNDED FOREVER AND YOU ARE NEVER DRIVING AGAIN FOR AS LONG AS YOU LIVE, WHICH WON’T BE LONG BECAUSE WE’RE GOING TO GUT YOU LIKE A FISH!*

So he calls our insurance, who tell us that they’re sending a tow truck to tow the truck to a little repair shop.

I wait twenty minutes and talk to my friend Marissa, who informs me that because I have a uterus, I have no rights. Because, you know, Texas.

The tow arrives, and the guy sees the plug dangling from the front of my car. It’s for an engine block heater to keep the engine block from freezing solid in ridiculously cold weather. Like in Alaska.

“Is your car a diesel?” he asks me, totally and completely confused by the plug. I explain it to him and he just looks more confused.

“So, Alaska, they must get really cold, like forty degrees.”

I give him a blank stare and agree with him, just wanting my car to get fixed.

He takes me to the mechanic and I forget that it is a Sunday and NOTHING is open on a Sunday in the south.

Naturally.

I was planning on just sitting in my car, charging my phone via my car, and he informs me that he can’t just “leave me” in my car while my husband is making the hour and a half drive to rescue me (to which Alex hadn’t even left yet).

“People get kidnapped and murdered all the time. And a woman should never be left alone in a rural area.” The man’s wife was with him and she told me that they would drop me off at a café or something nearby where Alex could pick me up.

They dropped me off at Denny’s, where I drank my weight in coffee, charging my phone with a charger the manager let me use, and called my mom to tell her that I was stranded in the middle of nowhere in Texas. By myself.

She basically called me a dodo and talked to me for a while. I called my Grandma and told her about my troubles and told me that she’s so glad she’s not me. She’s british and she can’t understand southern accents, nor can anyone ever understand her. She would have been screwed.

After about an hour in Denny’s, Alex walked in and ordered enough food to feed an army (Or air force, ba-dum-ksh). I ordered food, feeling frustrated. I decided that when I got home, I was drinking my weight in beer. After I finished my homework.

I also told my friend that it was her fault my car broke down. She felt bad, and I get to rub it in her face for the rest of her life.

I found out later that my radiator basically exploded.** And since I had a foreign car in “God’s country,” it cost me $500 to fix. Apparently it was also President Obama’s fault too, because, you know, everything bad that happens is because of Obamacare.

*So I keep misrepresenting my parents. Both my mother and my father are very high strung and nervous wrecks when it comes to random situations.  And they tend to think the worst, which I can totally understand since I do too, but it has caused me to be terrified of telling Alex anything bad that happens.  Like when I flooded our toilet in Alaska by pouring hot wax into the toilet.

**The radiator broke, causing engine coolant to go EVERYWHERE and it looked like it had exploded.  I think it just decided to say FUCK YOU.

Ever have your car break down, leaving you stranded somewhere where you’d rather never visit again for the rest of your life? Is your car an evil little bastard like mine? Tell me 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!

NO FAT CHICKS! (On Craigslist anyway…)

One evening, Alex and I were having a very normal strange discussion.

Alex: How do I know you’re not working and actually finding men to meet? (He says this very sarcastically, as if I’d talk to new people)

Me: Because men don’t like fat chicks here.  It’s not Alaska where fat chicks are the only chicks. *

Alex:  The obesity rate is higher here.

Me: But there are actually women here.  There weren’t women in Alaska.

Alex: This is true, but I bet if you went on Craigslist casual encounters, it would be all “Seeking BBW’s” and you’d have them lining up.

Me: CHALLENGE MOTHER FUCKING ACCEPTED!

 

So, as any normal person would do, I decide to check out the casual encounters page, thinking “Oh he has to be so wrong.”

Where dreams are turned into horror stories

Where dreams are turned into horror stories

 

Dude… I hate when he’s wrong about stuff like this.

I was actually kind of pissed.  After going through over 40 ads and several inappropriate pictures, All but a few of them were “NO FAT CHICKS!”

Excuse me, I’m not fat, I’m just swollen from this GOD FORSAKEN HEAT!

Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go and gorge myself on cheesecake.

 

*Note: There are actually several insanely hot girls in Alaska.  Most of which are married or taken, all of which have a gun that they shoot very well.  I’ve never met an Alaskan girl who didn’t have a gun, seriously. And the Men to women ratio in Alaska was around 6:1, it was awesome.