Monday, June 28, 2004

Return of the Pretty Lady

I have been redeemed in the eyes of the neighborhood children, and all it took was letting my hair down, literally.

Ever since I grew my hair long while working in an environment that put me at a high risk for head lice, I've worn my long hair up. I now have a few additional reasons for doing this.

1) Despite what the folks at the Vidal Sassoon Advanced Hair Academy say about my hair being "strong," it is only stubborn. It generally refuses all styling, or at least the amount I can must in the morning. Loose buns prove much easier.

2) My hair is relatively thin. Thick luscious hair I will never know. It is part of the reason my hairstylist is always telling me to switch my part.

3) My hair is also very fine. On the few occasions on which I do style it, it very quickly falls flat. Plus a light breeze, let alone all the tossing and turning that I do in a night, leave it a tangled mess.

Plus, thanks to a recent sunburn on my part line, I've got a nasty peeling problem that looks like the worst case of dandruff known to mankind. My boyfriend likes to tease me about it in public.

Tonight, I let my hair down to let it finish drying before I went to bed. I went to check on a load of laundry in the dryer, and as I stepped out, I heard the words of an angelic pre-teen girl.

"You look pretty with your hair down. You should do it more often."

The first thought to cross my mind was, "Who was she talking to?"

The second was, "She's talking about me. I'm pretty."

Third thought, "Say something nice or you will soon be Rude Lady."

My witty reply, "Thanks."

I now confidently banish Mean, Old Lady and redub myself Pretty Lady.

Saturday, June 26, 2004

$5 and Service After the Sale

It was one of my top priorities to wash my vehicle today. For those not familiar with it, I drive an early 90's model Blazer, thanks to my mom and dad.

I had not washed the Blazer since coming to California in January. It was beginning to looking like a moving pile of dirt with rust spots..

This morning as I pulled into the Sam's Club parking lot, I was amused to discover there was a car wash fundraiser going on. The guys with signs took one look at me and started waving their signs wildly at me. I laughed. Then I parked and went into Sam's.

As I walked out, I decided that I might as well let them wash the Blazer since I was planning on doing it anyway. I drove up to the line and paid $5. This was going to be a bargain I realized.

A swarm of 10-16 year old boys swarmed over the Blazer, and oh the things they said.

Mean things.

Nasty things.

Hurtful things.

I know the Blazer is no longer in its prime, but I've seen far worse on the road. After their first attempt, the grown up with the hose started rinsing it down then called them back. Apparently their arms were not as powerful as those smart mouths.

A few precious boys could be, "Come on, guys, let's give this lady a clean car."

Even the kids drying it off made fun of it.

It hurt.

I drove off thinking the bulk of the kids were brats not deserving of my $5.

By the time I met my boyfriend for lunch I was proud of my Blozer. It's a working vehichle that still has miles left in it. Just because it looks a little junkie, doesn't mean it's not a good vehicle. Besides, now it glistens in the sunlight, even the long meandering crack in the windshield.

Friday, June 25, 2004

The Street Where I Live

Mom, don't read this entry.

When I drove home from work, there were 2 police cars, an ambulance, and a fire truck parked at the end of the block.

On our way to my boyfriend's truck to go to dinner, he pointed out a crack pipe in the street (wow, this neighborhood is proving educational.)

On our way home, a woman stood smoking, waiting to cross the street with her baby in a stroller. Hmmmm, second hand smoke.

Thursday, June 24, 2004

Mean Old Lady

Tuesday night I came home to the usual gaggle of kids in the front yard. These kids convince me on a daily basis that I do not have the patience.

Two kids played on my doorstep, moving aside as I juggled my keys, mail, and what was left of a box of Krispy Kreme donuts.

Child 1: "Hey lady! Who are those donuts for?"

Me: "Me."

Child 2: "Ah, she's just a mean, old lady."

As I told my boyfriend, "Let them get jobs and buy their own donuts."

I don't mind being called mean by these kids because I am, but for heaven's sake, I'm only 28. I am not old. Ronald Reagan was old, not me.

Mean, I wear that as a badge of honor. Any particularly good food stuff I come home with, I get asked for some. They congregate on my doorstep and outside the front window. The quality of my bathroom time has been diminshed by kids yelling outside my bathroom window, or breaking glass. While watching the last Matrix movie on dvd, we slightly opened the vertical blinds to let in some air. My boyfriend looked up to see at least 5 pairs of eyes watching through the window.

If I'm mean, it's because...

California is the most unbelievably litigious state in the union.

Maybe I watched too many Judge Judy episodes while unemployed, but people will sue over the dumbest things. Watch me get sued for breaking a kid's Atkins diet if I give him a Krispy Kreme. Or how about "letting" them watch the R-rated Matrix film? It doesn't matter that these kids have next to no supervision. Plus, I don't know these parents.

Go beg for donuts, bbq, xbox games, and movies from your parents.

If that's mean, then I'm proud to be mean.

Sunday, June 20, 2004

Pa's Day

When I was in high school I decided to call my dad, "Pa," because it sounded so deliciously hick. Thankfully, some things fall out of fashion.

Today it's big kudos to Dad. Since I most likely won't be able to catch him on the phone due to time differences and the trip to Mexico that I have planned for today.

For the regular readers of Misc Karen, you owe this man some thanks. Since I moved to California, he has been strongest voice telling me to pursue writing. He's so encouraging he tells co-workers about this blog and gives them the address. Farmers all across the Midwest can check in and wonder what the hell I was thinking, thanks to my dad. If he thinks he's met someone who can help me crack into the field, he tells them what I'm up to, gives them the address, and sees if he can get us in touch with each other.

He's the reason I hesitate to cuss in my blog (but sometimes a good swear is the only thing that will do.)

(Also, Mom, I know that you recognize and support my writing too.)

My dad's support on this is pretty amazing, considering that for my first 5 months out here I was unemployed. I would be telling him about entry ideas and he'd be suggesting putting together a writing portfolio in the quest for one of my dream jobs, newspaper columnist. (Thanks to Jen too who has been awfully encouraging in this area.)

When I moved in with my boyfriend, I expected my dad to disown me. His response? "You're an adult and I trust your judgment."

My jaw still drops at that answer.

As much as I know my mom brags about, I know my dad does too. I just don't get to talk to his co-workers to have the word get back to me. I still know he does it.

For these reasons and so many more, I hope my dad has great Father's Day (I'll be bringing you something wonderfully tacky from Mexico, Dad. Think along the lines of the squeaky penguin I gave you for Christmas '97.)

As for any other father, stepfathers, grandfathers, foster fathers, and pa's reading today, I hope your day rocks too.

Friday, June 18, 2004

A Cry for Attention

I have been downgraded from a mollusk in the ecosystem to an insect, which for those playing along means that I have one less page linking to me. (Imagine me frowning because I refuse to resort to emoticons.)

I was pondering how to my boost my readership. Better entries would be a good start, but I was looking for something more gimmicky that required less effort on my part. While reading what people will do to get a Gmail account, it occurred to me. I have a Gmail account. I have something people want.

Gmail invites.

For the unitiated and computer illiterate, Google is beta testing their new e-mail, Gmail. (Since I use Blogger for my weblog and Blogger is owned by Google, Google has been giving randlom Blogger users the opportunity to get in on the free Gmail accounts.)

Guess who hit the jackpot?

I have been enjoying the 1 GB of storage for some time now. Plus it was great to get the address that I wanted, on the first try. Those who have accounts are eventually given two invites for others to join. Suddenly I was part of the in crowd. Reports began to circulate of people doing all kinds of things to get an invite to get a Gmail account. I was nice and gave my invites to friends whose hotmail accounts would always fill up and bounce back my e-mails. These friends foolishly wasted the invites and didn't sign up.

Now I have to more, and I've been pondering how to best bestow them. Then it occurred to me.

The words "free Gmail account invites" are bound to bring up my blog on someone's search. I'm seriously considering giving an invite to a reader. Though I really like this suggestion.

So if you want a Gmail account, let me know. This is NOT on a first come first serve. Anyone who thinks they can bully me into an account cannot even begin to compare to my brother when I was growing up. As for rudeness, I used to work in retail. I'll give it roughly a week and make a decision.

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

A Heartfelt Plea

Earlier this week, it was reported that at a baseball game (Texas Rangers I believe) that a man plowed over a 4 year-old boy in order to get to a fly ball that had landed in the stands.

I have seen the footage and it was quite sad. The boy was with his parents, and from what it looked like in the footage that I saw, the ball literally landed before their feet. Man sitting a few rows up and off to the side, leaps to his feet, practically diving to the family's seats, rudely shoving mother and son aside to get to the ball, which looked to have rolled under the mother's seat. He jumps back to his feet, the ball in his upraised arm, shoving the kid aside on his way back to his own seat. The picture of a the perfect jackass.

The fans booed, I am pleased to say. They even started a chant encouraging him to give to ball to the boy. The jerk remained in his seat, enjoying his drink, which I can only hope was beer and that his behavior could be attributed to alcohol and not his personality.

The family faired well. Players from both teams presented the boy with signed memorabilia. It was one of those moments that kind of redeems professional athletes. The family even got tickets to another game.

The jerk has yet to be identified.

As I watched the footage, one thing stood out to me. The jerk was accompanied by a woman who looked pissed and/or embarrassed by his behavior. I highly suspect it was his date. If the pair are not yet an item, I am convinced by the look on her face that they never will be.

However.

If jerk man and his companion are actually an item, I have one thing to say, "Dump him. I beg of you, kick him to the curb. And when you do, don't be nice about it. Tell him it's because a jerk and that you have a stadium that can back you up on this one and even more tv viewers."

Jerk's companion, if you are his wife, I'm sorry. I hope he's not like that all of the time. If he is, please share his offenses with the rest of us. If that man is your spouse, make him miserable until he gets his act together. I know wives shouldn't have to be mothers, but sometimes corrective measures are in order and I suspect therapy won't help jerk man.

If he is your brother, than I'm sorry I suggested that you guys were an item. I've been asked if my brother is my husband, so I know how icky that is. If he's your brother, did he bully you a look when you were kids? How did you handle it? Maybe we should compare notes. If he is your brother, then I would recommend getting the whole family in on his punishment. Does he grill a lot, because if he does, the Kingsford might be out of the question for Christmas if he'd actually use it. Maybe you could force him to watch a screening of Garfield.

Monday, June 14, 2004

British No More

My skin has never been exceptionally kind to me. As a small child, I proved to be the true progeny of the Mole King and Queen. Chickenpox ruined my 5th grade Christmas. Then there were the acne years. In one of truly rare happy skin coincidences of my life, my skin finally cleared up around the time I met my boyfriend.

I am of peaches and cream complexion, hold the peaches. To say I am pale is an understatement. A college classmate assessed the situation correctly when he deemed me pale enough to be British.

Yesterday I did something foolish.

I spent 5 hours in/around a pool in Southern California. The closest I look to British is that of a tourist. Crustacean is the more appropriate classification. Waterproof, sweatproof 45 SPF my ass (which is one of the few parts of me that remains pale.)

Last night I tried sleeping on my stomach, but the tops of my thighs were burned. Same for my back. And my shoulders. The combined effect being that there is no longer a position that I can sleep in comfortably. I am a tosser and turner. And every time I tossed and turned, it was agony. There's nothing like waking constantly in pain. Though waking up with the stomach flu was worse.

The only part of my back left unsinged is where my hair hung down, yesterday being one of the few occasions that I actually let my hair hang down. I'm beginning to see the appeal of hair hanging to the butt. I'd considerate it if the tangly nature of my stong (aka, stubborn) hair didn't make it entirely laughable.

Well, I best go try to find a position in which to lie in pain until my alarm clock goes off.

Sunday, June 13, 2004

Things I've Learned This Weekend

1) As much as I loved the Garfield comic strip as a kid, some movies should never be made, and it doesn't matter how low your expectations are, they are sometimes too high.

2) Bath & Body Works has a really amazing sale going on right now.

3) Sometimes SPF 45 is not enough, even with repeated applications, especially when spending 5+ hours at the pool.

4) Bath & Body Works lotion, especially when it purchased for significantly less than usual, feels really good on bad sunburns.

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

You Never Write

But the spammers do.

That's correct, spammers are writing me. None of my regular readers has initiated correspondence with me at the spiffy new Gmail e-mail account in my sidebar. The only place I've got this address posted is here at Misc Karen. So while none of you take the time to write, the spammers have gleaned my e-mail address and spam is making its way the Gmail filters.

We have a situation.

Since I've started getting spam on my blog account, I have considered getting my revenge on some hapless spammer. If you've ever gotten an e-mail asking for your assistance, via the use of your bank account, to get money out of Nigeria for which you will given a portion of the bounty, you need to visit the gang at Scamorama. While I generally do not recommend opening spam let alone replying, I consider their shenanigans to be small victims, especially when they get money out of scam artists. Now that I've gotten my first Nigerian scam e-mail on this account, I think now might be the time to engage in my own Scamorama style correspondence.

This is where you come in.

Take a look at Scamorama site. Admire the pranksters handiwork. Then you can make it up to me. How?

Do what they did, and send me an e-mail (or post a comment.) Tell me what you think. Should I give it a try? Is it juvenile and overrated? Recommendations for the correspondence? I may have deleted that first e-mail, but there are certainly more to follow. Maybe you want me to scrap the idea and focus on other possible blog ideas such as the National Guard, snoring, or my very own Misc Karen mission statement.

One thing's for certain, anything is better than entries about coffee.

Monday, June 07, 2004

All Praise the Return of the Foofy La La

The foofy la la coffee supply has been replenished. I celebrated with a pot of chocolate raspberry. If foofy la la is the only coffee I can drink, then surely I'm not a grown up yet. Especially with the cream and sweetener.

Saturday, June 05, 2004

Idiot Girls Rule (or They Soon Will)

I just finished the book Autobiography of a Fat Bride by Laurie Notaro. Laurie Notaro is the answer to all the really bad chic "lit" out there. I know. I would in a bookstore for quite some time.

It was there that I discovered The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club. When I saw it, I knew I had to have it, and have it I did (and do.) Her books fall into the small category of books that I read passages from to whomever is around. My b/f has been subjected to several chapters and he doesn't get it though I did get him to laugh about "the chitlins experience" and he now references it when teasing me.

I could ramble on for pages, but I suggest that you check out the Idiot Girls for yourselves. Laurie's a trained professional who can explain it better than I.

As for all the gushing, hers are the kind of books that make me want to be a writer. If I should ever be published, I'd have to acknowledge her influence. She's funny without that sentimental, cutesy crap. Plus, I think she could do an amazing Ellen DeGeneres impersonation. Check the website out and buy some of the books. Not only will you enjoy them, but maybe my shameless plugging will get a mention on her site.

Tuesday, June 01, 2004

I Blame the Foofy La La

In the sixth grade, I was horrified to learn that one of my classmates had become an avid coffee drinker. At my last job, I would stare in amazement at co-workers who easily put down 2 pots a day.

My first day at my current job, one of my co-workers in the small office brewed a pot of chocolate raspberry flavored coffee. It smelled amazing, and with a little cream and sweetener, it made a very nice beverage. This "foofy la la" flavored coffee has proven my downfall, as I need at least one cup every morning when I go to work. I've even contemplated buying my own coffeemaker because I now crave it on the weekend.

The end has begun.