Posted by: meow mix | August 3, 2010

Airport Barz & Shooting Starz

Golden consolation prize!

So, and this should come to no surprise to any of you, I am alone in an airport bar at 7:50 on a Saturday morning. By bar, I mean glorified booze kiosk with two walls open to a tremendously large and gray terminal with virtually no defining characteristics except the theme “Other Peoples’ Children Are Fucking Babies About Everything.” This rowdy little juke joint has the motto “Food*Sports*Fun,” but I have a Sharpie and will be retagging it “Forget*Having*Fun” before I leave. Ok, as I leave. Ok, just on this blog. This farce of a bar’s favored genre of music is super lame classic rock, which is my very least favorite genre. “Bat Out Of Hell” by Meatloaf is the best thing that’s played on nearly-silent volume since I got here, and I bet you another screwdriver—vitamins!– that the Eagles come on before I leave. Ew sick, and yet, I’m kind of having a killer time. I am on an adventure!

I am on this adventure because—three guesses!—I 100% missed my flight to New York. I remain completely unbending in that this is in no way my fault, but American Air was kind of pretty sure that it was, and I do acknowledge that if I were a third party with access to my truancy/tardiness record, I would just laugh and point and then cast my vote for the airline. At any rate they changed my ticket to a standby for 9:15 for zero more dollars, and that’s cool, but this does feel like an exercise in futility because I know for a fact that there are four seats open and nine people in front of me.

All nine of them are in a group together, and they missed their flights too, except instead of going to Brooklyn to be amazing, they were going on a cruise. I’m hoping to find them in the waiting area—I’ll be looking for the middle-agers in tropical-print windsuits–and I’m really, really hoping to hear one of those uncomfortable discussions where you can see little alliances forming and if you pay attention you can tell who hates who and which couples are completely dysfunctional. Four seats, nine cruise-bound losers. Who will make it to Bermuda and who is destined for a divorce based on blowing the vacation fund on non-transferable tickets? I have an idea for a reality show.

Ok, so now it’s an hour later, and a lot of shit has gone down. Let’s just start with that the lady at the check-in counter took my bag and said, verbatim, “Don’t worry, your bag won’t get on the flight if you don’t.” Ha ha! She play too much. My bag will in fact be getting on the plane, but I officially won’t be. All flights for today are full as fuck with a dickload of stand-bys, so my options are hang out at Forget*Having*Fun alone all day hoping six cruisers have heart attacks, thereby leaving a seat open for me, or leave. So I decide to leave and the lady at the gate says to just let the people at baggage claim know about my bag and they’ll get it for me. She, also, play too much. The people at baggage claim basically did point and laugh at me and said, again verbatim, “You won’t be getting your bag back today.” Super glad I packed all my favorite clothes and belongings!

So now, five days later, I can say I’ve had the best staycation ever. I made an appointment to spend my vacay money on tattoos. I haven’t woken up once before morning was like three hours ago. Nick and I have started a homemade television show called “Our Fragile World” with segments like “Dick Moves” and “Pet Stories”, and we started shooting last night. Right now I’m in a hammock on a gorgeous day smoking cigs and reading Stephen King, and the birds are going fuckin ca-ray-zay!  So kind of the opposite of a nightmare, all things told, but hey Universe? You know how I ordered that gold jet pendant a few weeks ago because I thought it looked neat? Well, it sure is, but maybe you could not leave it in my mailbox to find when I get home from disaster airport visit? Classic Dick Move.

1 Comment

Posted in I need a life coach, b as in bonerz, fallen from grace, hurrah

Posted by: meow mix | July 23, 2010

B As In Bonerz

It's not all fuckery. We also spend kind of a lot of time getting beautiful. See?

At the current time, which is 10:43 am on a Friday, which is a generally sweet time anyway, my house is full of just me and my dog and Radiohead. Look, I know what you’re thinking, that that’s super cool and perfect, but lately my house has been so much dag fun that I feel a little ignored somehow. Like, five minutes ago I was in bed with my devastatingly handsome BF while laughing at my roomie’s pretend situation that she was describing while she brushed her teeth in the doorway, like all leaned against it and creating tears in my eyes with her words. What kind of world is it when your fucking supposed best friend has to/would rather go to work than to continue to chatter at you about going to a pool supply store and saying “I am very wealthy, and I have many pools to decorate. I would like all of your vinyl pool-liner samples, and I would appreciate it hugely if you could just hurry the fuck up, as I have several important business items to complete today.” Bear in mind that she’s in an angry cupcake t-shirt with the sleeves cut off with her toothbrush rammed into her mouth the whole time. That is the way to start a day, ladies and jerks. Ooooh sweet the Pixies just came on, bonus round. Anyway, the reason we want said samples is to make cutouts of dinosaurs thinking obscene things in thought bubbles to decorate our dance party with (!!! http://www.citrusface.com/ewsick.gif !!!) which pushes the whole thing from giggle-silly to throw-up hilarious. If you’re me, I mean.

There’s been a lot of this type of fuckery afoot lately. My house has changed kind of a lot this summer. It used to be a trash hole that I came home to to relax and sober up, whereas now I go to Reservoir to relax and sober up (ha! ha!) before I head back to the trash hole, aka Unit B As In Bonerz (motto: Weeeeeee’re…Pretty Amazing.). This is where me and Bobo and Bestie live full-time and where I have sedated and restrained/convinced above-referenced boyfriend to hang out with me at night. As a result, I am underemployed and overstimulated, but that’s kind of my bag. Instead of the late night heart-to-hearts that I understand is normal for roommates based on every movie ever, we cause each other actual physical harm from dancing on each others cars or writing down the fully retarded things that the other says and making a Photobooth video from it and then laughing until we have to put our oxygen masks back on. Would you guys be upset if this blog devolved from a place where I try to actually write things into a venue for me to post these videos? I think probably I’ll settle for a mix. Huh.

So back to getting hurt from laughing, yesterday at the lunch at the Weave I got a lentil lodged in between my throat and nose (for like 45 minutes, ew sick!) because of this 100% sober (seriously) idea we had. So what had happened was, I was still in bed with BF one morning while Bestie was getting ready for work when the Fedex guy came to the door. It turned out to be for me, and I thought it might be the gold pendants shaped like jets that I ordered for us the other day, so I ordered Mule to bring it to me in bed. When I realized that it was a document of some kind, I got a little terror stricken at what might be inside, because BF was right there and I care if he likes me or not and what if it was like a subpoena or a summons of some kind? Like, “Your divorce has been ungranted and your DNA test came back, you are genetically horrible!”. So while we were at lunch we started talking about all the worst things that he could have found out about me, and here’s what we came up with:

Dear Applicant:

We regret to inform you that after reviewing the results of your recent physical, we have deemed you an unsuitable candidate for a baby seal-clubbing expedition of this scope. The reasons for this are almost too many to detail–the doctor who inspected you broke his arm in three places while writing up your report–and we kind of can’t believe you even agreed to this medical examination in the first place. That said, here are the highlights of why we must regretfully decline your application: 1. AIDS.  2. Hepatitis A-Z.  3. Cleft Pallet.  4. Brain Cancer/Club Foot Combo.  5. Pregnant With Six Babies By Five Different Men And One Pony.  6. Tadpole Infestation In Your Butt (Your Butt, Especially, Is Really Unhealthy).  7. There Is A 100% Chance That You Will Pass On Your Irresponsibility To Your Children.  8. Parasitic Twin That Controls Your Brain Who Indicates That He Hates You, But Loves Ponies, Like Wants To Love Them (see item #5).

Please Never Contact Us Again,

The Foundation For Destroying The Environment That You Keep Sending Your Resume To

So that for sure would be the worst case scenario. Turns out it was just a new debit card from my bank because the last one experienced getting violated in the form of being used to buy what I’m sure were tickets for terrorists–from Air Arabia, with a layover in Mumbai, before hopping on the Air India flight for an unplanned landing at the nearest heavily populated hotbed of religious contention. I made up the terrorism and hijacking parts, but the rest I swear is 100% true. So new debit card, sweet.

But like wow, right? You can see why our motto is what it is. I’ll leave you with the knowledge that our dance party is tomorrow, Saturday the 24th of July, at Reservoir at ten, and it will be every bit as stupid as we are. Like, projection screen playing Wayne’s World stupid. And actually it would mean a lot to us if you came, and you will mean very little to us if you don’t. So, have a good day!

speaks for itself.

2 Comments

Posted in b as in bonerz, hurrah, rulez

Posted by: meow mix | June 21, 2010

Space/Time Continuum Vs. Me. Hint: I. Lose. Every. Time.

Outfit bff told me to wear; also, what I do with my time instead of becoming even a little prepared for anything.

Sooooo, let’s just talk for a quick minute about my getting-awake skillz, especially as they pertain to this weekend. I had a date last night–yeah, like an actual person date, so give your ideas about me needing to pick up gigolos on the corner of Church and Rosemary straight to the Trash Mule (although as I’m sure you suspected, I did have to ask him out [editor's note, way late in the game: really wish I had not done that] and at the time I looked like maybe I was dying of Appearance Cancer, so this guy deserves a medal of some persuasion just for saying yes)–aaaaand yeah, that’s too much punctuation for one sentence. My main point is, I truly do suck at getting not-asleep.

So the date was for 9 pm, and I am terrible at makeup and showering and whatever, so while it’s usually like ten or so minutes to get from zero to Go Time, I was like fuck that, Ima come correct and look moderately ok for this one–in fact, let’s call Jess and have her tell me what to wear. Big things is in the works. Well ok, so I day-drank for not a small portion of the day (hey, thanks, Randa! All your fault.), and both before and after that I needed sleep like oh my gawd so bad, so I went to bed and set my alarm for 7:30. Good planning, right? Not so much. I have had my iphone for, oh, a year or thereabouts? So, like, normals know at least the basics of working it by now? Mmm hmm yeah but not me. I set that fucker for Weekdays Only which as it turns out Saturday is not one of them. I’m sorry, is that not a day of the week now? Could you please define week for me again? Because I did not get that memo. Pure fuckery. Thank the fucking stars above that I have a bestie that intuitively knows when I need help (badly) just not to fail in even the most menial of tasks. So she magically calls me at

Oooo my gawd I just set some of my hair on fire by accident. Tragedy averted, small hair fires never (rarely?) killed anyone. My hair is basically used to this treatment. It is good to keep it on its toes.

Continuing: magically calls me at 8:24 and wakes me up. Let me just clarify that I needed to: shower; put on makeup that allows me to look 28 instead of 97; find where I hid all of my bras and shoes which invariably come off the second I get in my front door; flat iron my bangs so I don’t unintentionally rock the Punky Brewster Look; put all of my gold on; find my keys, wallet, cigarettes, and phone; and still have time to look completely casual when homeboy knocks on the door. You will probably not believe me when I tell you that I accomplished all of these things, yet I did, so bump all that noise you’re making through your nose, thanks. Maybe baby jesus is real? Unclear. But just for the record, during the date, I did manage to get stupid drunk, drop my keys on the bar floor, walk home with this guy, have no keys, and leave him with no choice but to drive me back to find them. And uh I work for said bar as well. So I have all that going for meh. Pret-ty sweet lil catch, I am.

So, I felt pretty confident that in the morning, when I had to meet my family for Father’s Day brunch at 11, I would have learned my lesson and wouldn’t pull another complete boner wherein I need to change the course of space and time just to get there (2 minute walk) on borderline time. Um not so much. Also, no present for the dad as of wake-up. He’s like nutty for this kindle phenomena for whatever reason that remains unclear to me, because I’m basically sure books still exist, but I still printed out a gift certificate for that (literally while brushing my teeth) which was hugely inadequate when compared to my competent person/sister’s present which was a FRAMED PICTURE OF HIM WITH HIS SOULMATE/GRANDSON ON THE BEACH LOOKING HAPPY. God. Damn. It. I just cannot compete with that kind of caring about things. And when he unfolded my “present”–who has time for envelopes?–he said–I swear–”I was hoping you would burn me a copy of She & Him, Volume II.” What the fuck, my dad wears black socks with sandals, how is it possible that he’s as cool as me?

So back to the crux of the issue, which I have done all that I can do to avoid: Magical psychic ESP-specialist bff calls to save me at what time? At 10:46. Like, I’m in dire need of whatever she can do for me and all, but I believe I need to enroll her in a class designed around honing one’s sixth sense so that she can call me with just a lil bit more time on the clock before I’m in huge trouble. Like, hey, J, could you maybe give me an hour or so instead of 14 minutes? What the fuck is wrong with you, anyways? It’s almost like you don’t know me at all. Bitch.

So got there late, duhz. But things could be a small amount of worse, right? Without Jess, I could have completely slept through the whole shebang, which would not have surprised my family even a little, which makes me bad. Or, I could not be able to invent dances, a field in which I fucking excel (see: The Golden Snake [Late Editor's Note: I have a friend who matters or whatever in the Music World who was backstage at Bonaroo and who TAUGHT THE GOLDEN SNAKE TO CONAN O'BRIEN WHO THEN DID SAID DANCE--I am such a big deal] The Glorified Robot, etc.). Or, I could exist as this mega-catholic guy a friend of mine dated in high school who had dead fetus pictures pasted to his wall, probably with chewed up body of christ wafers as the adherent. I can see putting a picture of a deceased baby on your lingerie drawer or whatever, just a little reminder of why not to get pregnant no matter the level of whoreishness you’re experiencing, but right on your wall instead of band posters and soft-core porn like a regular high schooler? It’s like, you’re a dude, dude, you can’t even get an abortion, so why put yourself through seeing that every morning when you ultimately wake up, unless you’re me and destined for a lifetime of never getting up almost ever if it matters that you get up? So bonus round, because, those are all for sure worse lives than this one that I have. Wait, right? Can’t be sure because I’m super late and have to go like right this second, no time for thinking. Latez.

3 Comments

Posted in I need a life coach, fallen from grace, scabby frightened kitten

Posted by: meow mix | June 3, 2010

All grown up now, are you? We’ll see.

What Would Trash Mule Do? Because she is my kind of girl, Trash Mule would ignore her burden.

Do you (streeeeetch with me here) remember back when it was borderline ok to text friends things like “Oh, boy, I haven’t slept in three days!” or “Whoopsies! I got stoned before work for the first time in a quick minute, wish me luck, currently defending my position here!” or “Do you think it’s dangerous to drink red wine that has two flies in it because I lost the cork, even if I fish them out with a chopstick first and it isn’t Africa over here right now?” Whatever happened to those friends? Is it just me, or have they become shockingly judgmental in terms of self-realization? Because I strongly discourage this kind of evolution. I’m against it. It can only lead to one thing. And friends, that thing is a powerfully painful lil toxin known as growth, and with the notable exception of midgets, nobody needs that germ.

This transition to adulthood will ultimately drive the car to one of a number of undesirable locations and slap that pup into park, including but not limited to:

-You have become an adult. Cool and all, but don’t expect me to give you a speech. What you are basically telling me with all your responsible, at-work-on-time, 2-drink-max-on-a-school-night, in-your-face bullshit is that I am worlds behind you and may as well give up nowish. You aren’t inspiring me, you are discouraging me from trying. You are causing me to feel defiance towards balance. Is this what you wanted? Because you got it, whore.

-You can finally see my true colors. These colors include rash and flighty, and though you may just be seeing that now, I have been aware for longer than you think. It’s like, so I’m afraid of answering my phone so we never talk. What of it? I am fun when we do catch up, and I care a lot about making you laugh, so what’s the problem? (Update: If you still have a problem I will buy you a beer, because it is crucial that you like me.) I am what I am (a traditional family excuse for not being good to each other). I may be silly, but the seedy underbelly of your TCB nature is showing from here, and it is fuschia. And I would just rather die than join you in that.

-You just got your first “real” job outside of college. Super. Super psyched for you. By which I mean to say: Doing tasks, no matter the level of skill involved, in exchange for some cash to come spend at the bar with me does not a professional make. You become a professional when you stop going to the bar if your rent is late. That is the rule. Now, I have friends who are completely competent at whatever they do, and don’t get so smug about it that they can’t play cards at the bar til one on a Tuesday. However there are others, whom I now clearly see for what they are, that consider landing a job a fitting way to end a years-long life method of avoiding what they really are (hot messes). I like the type that’s into what they do but not above acting like a twelve year old (like my chef friend who screeched her number at a bartender the other day said: “I can go back in a week. A week is the reset button.” Leaving shame at the door is an asset, friend-wise.) You, if you have been close to me, are not a victorious winner, nor a wretched loser. You’re just some person. Make room for that idea, because it wants to sit right next to you. You will probably never impress me.

-You will probably impress me by having a long-term relationship or having children. Like, how? Is this like the cursive-intensive week I missed in elementary school, thereby never knowing how to do it? Did strep throat stop me from having a productive adult life? When I see a friend who somehow has had the same bf/gf for three years or longer I decide not that I’ll find the right one someday, but that I’m destined to be a spinster. And kids? Are you fucking kidding me? Clearly I was out the day they taught us how to do that. I am not to blame. Contact me, I’ll get you my dad’s email, you should probably just cut a corner and complain to him.

-You aren’t currently listening to a Blondie cover by The Talking Heads. You and your education are to blame for this, Trebek. Beethoven called, he wants his lackeys back. Short of burning you a CD, I am out of options here. It is midnight and here I am, living the dream, while you are at your place actually dreaming things that you will invariably need to tell me about tomorrow. It’s about taking initiative. You have to really focus on being entirely useless when your alarm goes off, it doesn’t happen on its own. You’re up against Nature here, so bring your A game. Hey, also, could you not do that telling me your dreams thing, unless it’s super important? My dreams are intensive and I’m usually a half-vampire in them, and unless you dream in funny/pot, I don’t need anything else on my sleep plate. Talk to me when your dreams are about me.

So while I wish all of you the very best of all the things, I basically don’t want to talk to you anymore if you are all caught up on laundry or you smoke but not inside or whatever. Go tell your work friends at the martini bar. I’m just gonna go get my phone which I forgot to charge last night, slap some makeup on these goggle-like eye circles, trip over the recycling I’m hoping my bff/Trash Mule will carry to the dumpster for me, and go to the dive bar with some really good pool players.

3 Comments

Posted in fallen from grace, hurrah

Posted by: meow mix | May 25, 2010

Eggs: Delicious Chicken Periods

yeah, seriously, i'm 28. woops.

From time to time my mouth opens of its own accord and forms sounds that are destined to cause me huge amounts of distress. These incidents range from the odd bizarre comment during an otherwise average social interaction to the catastrophic business oops!, and their frequency is not decreasing as I age, which I was heavily banking on. Pretty soon I’m sure I’ll go too far and someone will legally need to become my primary caretaker. Here is a highlight reel:

1. The Nazi Comment. At one point I was–I swear to god this is true–a realtor. First I need you to know that realtor is actually an acronym for something I forget but the gist of which is ethics and meaning business and networking and hiding your tattoos. This was back when I had not yet accepted that I am built largely of atoms and inappropriateness and defiance, and that makes me fun, but just a horrible candidate for being a real estate professional, or pretty much even a real person. Sidenote: the ID number they issue you when you become a realtor is called a NRDS number. A nerds number. So I was selling this house, and the people buying it were German, like not of German lineage but genuine Germans with instant judgements and accents you only ever hear from villains, mainly but not limited to in an early nineties Will Smith movie (fave genre). I was and remain terrified of them. So we were all at closing and there they were, just sitting across the table like a pair of cinematic terrorists, and there I am, with cigarette burns and a red wine stain on my shirt, gettin judged on. And then they asked if the homeowner’s association of the neighborhood was going to let them put in a pool, and my mouth opened and started moving and time stopped and here’s what I said: “Probably, it’s not like they’re Nazis or anything.” BLADOW. So, did you know that in Germany they let you have freedom of speech but not if it’s to do with Hitler? Because, now I do. They are deadly serious and very, very sensitive about that particular reich. They have not forgotten. Complete. Silence. I am a nightmare.

2. Delicious Chicken Periods. So I have this amazing friend, and I am not nearly good enough to be her friend. I just want to preface all further statements with that. She has an amazing family (involving the highest paid model in the WORLD in 1940 as a grandmother, a famous bandleader for a grandfather, etc.) and she herself is the kind person you kind of want to take over the body of and exist as from now on, as soon as you meet her. So, there was a fancy dinner party for her birthday. This was during realtor-era Me, when I didn’t know that everything leaving my mouth needed to be edited and carefully perused for potential future danger, and also when I had not eaten meat for like 6 years, but was completely on board with eggs. So I’m sitting at the table and somebody very fancy asked me what my rationality was for eating eggs when i wouldn’t eat meat. Wine was involved so I was like hhmmm, why exactly again? Not entirely sure, but how about we go with “Well because eggs are basically chicken menstruation and not actually embryos, so they have that going for them. They are just delicious chicken periods.” Nice one, Camzerz! Please, please remember this, self: Important people don’t think you’re funny at all. Once again, total silence followed by the echo of said friend’s head smashing into the table as she internally danced to the soundtrack of regret that she invited me in the first place. I cannot blame her, though I maintain that she knew what she had coming.

3. Glad About Not Seeing Anyone I Hate. This one is a lesser exemplar of my awkward nature, but still a super reason not to invite me anywhere almost for any reason. If you are from Chapel Hill, you are for sure all too intimately acquainted with the fever dream known as Thanksgiving. It is the horrible time of year that everyone you have ever known for your entire life has chosen to come back home and re-present themselves to local bars. So there was this one kid who I was vaguely high-school friends with through a magical, magical person that I wish lived inside of my skin instead of in Florida, that’s how neat he is. Anywayz, this guy was recently voted most magical musical act ever in the greater Boston area, or something to that effect. He is nice and talented and neat in general and as such, really deserved to just escape me as opposed to remembering me as someone cool who liked pot and should be said hello to. So he’s like, “Oh, hi! What’s new?” and I am like “Oh, hey! Not much, hope you’re doing well! I am just glad that I haven’t seen anyone that I completely hate yet tonight.” Um, what? Okay, I guess? Why? Why would you say that? So many options! I could have been a not abysmal interactor and said something like “Things are good! And you?” or “Wow! Great to see you! How is wherever you live and how/what are the things that you do?” But no, I needed to–in the first sentence to someone I haven’t seen in 5 years–talk about hate. I basically take the filter-free route, which is silly for someone who thinks so fucking much. Luckily it is easy to make me laugh which is my sole saving grace.

I think by now I’ve kind of realized that I am just sort fated to be a hot mess when I have any sense of Being Paid Attention To. It’s like the combination of stage fright and the burning desire for more attention blend and curdle into the wording equivalent of that bomb disguised as gum from Mission Impossible. I hope my future mother in law will not be fancy, because I will definitely be commenting on her boobs or horrible art or “fun”damentally (see?) problematic approach to childrearing–”So, were you just pretending to not notice the incest or are you just that into his uncle?” Or I’ll try to bond over the amazing outsider art I did via the Graffiti app on my understanding friend’s facebook page the other day, or something equally regrettable. But what else is there to do, really? I’m just this way, it is a chronic condition. And parents, if you’ve somehow found access to this blog, I am kind of sorry about it but mainly sorry that I never cared about potential or whatever and I know that saddened you. You did the best you could with what you were handed and that happened to be a fistful of unmanageable. Bless ya.

In other newz, we had a fun night in raleigh last night at the au revoir din-din for Steven–I willz miss you! Here are pictures from the stunning bff/kff, http://katekatelovesyou.com/, and a soundtrack by the ever-lovin’ team sweet, http://www.goteamsweet.com/ (the one called “yelle” plz.)

2 Comments

Posted in fallen from grace, jonestown fruit punch

Posted by: meow mix | May 20, 2010

Living in a fiscal choose-your-own-adventure

This is why, right? They thought they were being liberal but really they were training me about what to do on a Thursday. ps i STILL dress this way.

So it’s the crack of noon on a Thursday, and by all rights I should be entering invoices and making journal entries; you know, in exchange for money. Why then am I laying face-down half on my bed and half on a sort of nearby ottoman googling “galaxy t shirts?” I mean, I really want one, so there’s that. I’m thinking I’ll cut the collar off. And there may be half a Klonopin involved. And Rowan is really having an amazing dream, he’s like playing the drums in it or something, so of course I need to get a video of that. And there’s a playlist I constructed just for this, made out of Page France and Peter & The Wolf and Sun Kil Moon, and it is not stirring the embers of motivation within me. Also a certain lovely friend of mine just sent me an email about melodicas, why she climbed out of a window last night when the door was a completely viable option, Twilight’s Edward Cullen, and getting “flown to money in rocket ships made out of candy necklaces and 50 dollah billz,” so I am getting my daily exercise via cackling sharply and causing my dog to wake up and throw shade at me. And really, there’s nothing that pressing to do right now. Kind of.

But you know the old saying “All things in moderation?” Lying in wait for me at the crux of this matter, like a half-starved vampire in Forks, Oregon, is the nakie fact that I just never bought into that. It just doesn’t click. What makes much more better sense to me is doing exactly what I want until there are real consequences to face. I’ve always been this way, can’t help it, and don’t wanna if I can avoid it. In sixth grade I just stopped doing homework and started doing what I wanted, and it stayed that way until my parents got called in and told that I was failing science, math, and social studies. An A in Language Arts though! They didn’t see the bright side like I did. Naysayers.

So when I left my job of five years on January 1, and after about 6 weeks of “mental health time” (read: Tekken, Fable 2, one LA Times Sunday crossword puzzle book, rampant episodes of shows about haunted houses, and day drinking) the new heights of slackdom I had achieved started making me itchy. So my genius idea was to start a business where I would keep books for various local establishments. It wasn’t and remains not an entirely terrible plan, there’s just some prollems when it comes to self-motivation. I mean, I get all my shit done, but the actual hours that I spend working are revealingly scant. Starting businesses is for self-starters, for people who have what it takes to say “What else is there to be done?” and not “How much do I have to do today? Because I have a 5 episode backlog of Jeopardy on DVR and I’d really like to knock that out.” Don’t get me wrong, I take care of my clients, two-week human and dog sick leave notwithstanding, and I really do make sure never to leave them in the lurch (also my favorite nickname for tall people).

But then there are days like today, where there isn’t really anything to do that can’t wait for tomorrow. That’s my pattern, take a “mental health day,” then follow it up with a mad scramble to get three clients’ shit done in one day. My bank account gets morose when I do this because then I only get paid for one day instead of three–and that’s just math facts. So then I have to spend a few days really grinding when I have bills coming due, thought I never learn my lesson and start taking the slow and steady approach. Instead I take two days off to unwind.

I get in my own way even when I have the best of intentions, like I need a business card so I went to this website where they have templates and you just kind of fill in the blanks. And I was instantaneously distracted and started making business cards that were hilarious but completely inappropriate, which was of course why I needed to do it. I glossed right over the reasonable ones and went straight for the templates that blew my mind just by existing. My brain was all, “What if you just handed someone this card featuring two Asian people in power suits intently businessing in a conference room but you kept a completely straight face?” Ultimately I settled on having two cards made, one I could actually use to try to get more business and one I could give out to friends. But there again, I only ever finished the funny one, took a picture of it on my screen, and dropped the subject. But it’s really pretty amazing, so I think that’s good enough for today.

A hard day's work.

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Posted in I need a life coach, lurklurklurklurk

Posted by: meow mix | May 18, 2010

run run run ruuuuun, run run run awaaaaay

Have you ever known a completely crazy person, like not a harmless crazy or a life-of-the-party crazy or even crackhead crazy, but like a the-eyes-of-Satan type crazy? Because um it turns out that I have, and he has been fever-dreaming me out since jump street. Here’s how I know him: A few old friends decided to adopt him as their “social experiment”–dead serious–a few years ago, and somehow they themselves were insane enough (I love y’all anyway) to keep on keeping on with it even after he put a padlock on the INSIDE of the apartment he shared with a girl and trapped her there. And like every girl he has ever walked past could just smell the cray-cray harmfulness all over him, but I guess my male (sort of) scientist friends were immune to that scent–smells like Axe body spray and malice. And even though I thought he was so creeptown I felt like shedding my skin, I ended up sleeping under the same roof as him at least 8 or 9 times. He was just there. You just locked the bedroom door with the dog inside and called it a night.

And last week, folks, homeboy tried to steal a human teenager whilst she was jogging in broad daylight right in downtown Chapel Kill Hill. He doused this poor girl in pepper spray before he started dragging her to his car. We’ll get into what was horrifically inside of his car in a minute, but let’s focus on why he was not able to accomplish said goal for one sec: who presumably has two thumbs and gets down with his bad self?

Superfly and Shaft melded into one bad mother...shutcho mouf

THIS GUY. That’s right, this guy and his brother just happened to be driving by, and despite my kind of many-leveled objection to the way he told the story of why he stopped his truck to help (along the lines of “Something in the way he was dragging her off screaming just told me something was wrong,” um, boy, how could you be sure?), he is nonetheless my hero de jour, for certain. He was both pepper-sprayed and hit and dragged by the perp’s car and yet either he or his brother memorized the license plate which led to an arrest which led to homeslice being linked to a large amount of other cases. Magical.

So let’s get to the real nuttiness here. Inside the car (or the “care” as one local news site hilariously reported it) was: 1.Pepper Spray, as previously noted. 2. A LOADED SHOTGUN (!!!). 3.  A Baseball Bat. 4. A. Pocket. Full. Of. Condoms.

This guy did not have good intentions. I don’t even want to delve in, and I’m callous as shit. Suffice it to say that evidently the victim in a totally different person-stealing attempt was still in ICU when this little scenario went down. As one of my friends put it, “I’m just waiting for the bodies to start turning up. Goddamnit Camille why are you laughing?” For the record I was laughing because I was distraught and alarmed. I have alienated a number of people close to me with that one.

Do you think he’s gonna find this post somehow and kill me? I’m not a scientist, but I think they probably have the internet in jail. What are the rules as far as being criminally insane go, these days? What kind of time does one do for that? I probably love you if you’re reading this, so know that. And I want to be cremated.

2 Comments

Posted in scabby frightened kitten, ugh

Posted by: meow mix | May 14, 2010

Q: I thought you were scared of kittens? A: You can say that again. Q2: Wait, what?

That's right, you better hang in there kitten, because those are dinosaur-shark hybrids and they are in training to learn to jump higher.

So, let’s clear up why kittens on rollerskates first. These last couple months have been whacked, y’all. From one BUSTED motherfucking grill to a new business, from new besties to new jaw fractures, it’s been one big jangle-tangle. And as soon as I get one side untied the other is in knots again! Life is a rascal and a whore. As soon as I remember why I walked into a room (99% chance of it being cigarettes or wine, so I scan for those first) I either smash a limb into something unforgiving or develop a rare and–seriously–potentially fatal bacterial infection commonly found in third-world unwed teen mothers with scurvy and a terrifying incarcerated boyfriend to boot.

Now, before you go blaming my hardships on my apparently racist and certainly cavalier worldview (the cavalier part is true), I’d like to say a few words in my defense. Firstly, stop judging me. Secondly, I am a decent person who tries her very best at a medium level and on an inconsistent basis to hide her empty booze bottles when her parents visit, to recycle even when it isn’t convenient, to not laugh when my friends fall down. My level of success is usually somewhere around 71%, and I grade myself on a ten-point scale, so that’s a solid C and that’s perfectly adequate. My motto is “Set a goal that you can definitely accomplish without trying hard, then do the bare minimum to get there! Now go get ‘em, tiger!” I have a friend who once described my general efforts as “extra medium.” The key here, when you have the world’s worst work ethic and zero ambition, is to talk really nicely to yourself so you don’t start wondering why you’re 28, single, and only really work like 20 hours a week, and still have crazy anxiety. You can’t say “Where am I going? What am I going to do?” You have to look on the bright side and be like “Where am I going? Oh, to the bar. What am I going to do? Oh, get a drink.”  You have to forgive yourself, you know?

My point though is that while I don’t go super far out of my way to do great things, I definitely don’t do evil either. Like, I’m crazy polite, I am a superb tipper, I never make fun of people if there is even a chance that they could overhear me, and if I can’t bring myself to listen to someone’s dullard story, I at least protect them by being excellent at pretending to listen. It’s just nod and smile, nod and agree, say “ugh” and make a face. Done. Next. Manners are very important to me, it’s go please-and-thank-you or go home. I treat my dog like solid gold–I just spent $3200 on emergency surgeries for him! So WFT life, it’d be super if you could release me from this tractor beam of destruction and just let me chill out for a minute.

So that’s why kittens on rollerskates. I was trying to think of a way to describe how disjointed and stop-start this lil era has been, and it was just the first image that came to mind. Now I don’t even like cats and am genuinely afraid of kittens, so I definitely do not mean for you to get an image in your head of a graceful lithe little baby cat whizzing around a rink. No, I mean like a nasty flaky-skinned terrifying kitten, like if it was a person it would hang out at Club Nova a lot. And it has no idea how to rollerskate, you just strapped him into your skates from gym class circa 1992, set that bad boy at the top of a steep incline, and just gave him a lil nudge to set things into motion. I’ll leave you with that image, cuz you can always just drink it out of your head but imagine if you felt like that kitten in real life. Drinking won’t help you then can only do so much; after all,  it is a hobby, not a fucking wizard.

2 Comments

Posted in fallen from grace, jonestown fruit punch

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