i've decided...

The last time I was leaving my yearly “womanly” doctor’s appointment and I thanked my doctor, I decided that by thanking her for her services, that kind act was, for all intents and purposes, the same thing as thanking a prostitute right before I paid her.  I mean, if you strip away all the doctor titles, what’s left is uncomfortably similar.

For some unknown reason, somewhere along the road I started using the phrase – I have the immune system of that of an AIDS patient.  Now, bypass the grossly inconsiderate and crude reference, I decided that using that phrase while you are in your doctor’s office because you are sick, is beyond inappropriate.  It seems to have resulted in an awkward moment of silence right after my doctor uncomfortably laughed, then asked – well have you ever been tested for AIDS?  Dude, yes… and no, I don’t have AIDS.  FINE.  I get it – inappropriate.

Recently, when I was switching my internet / TV services from Dish Network to AT&T Uverse, I was writing down all the shows I record regularly so I could transfer what I record over to my new service.  I decided when I got to #102, I watch FAR too much TV. 

When spotting a police officer on horseback, I’ve decided that NO COP has a sense of humor and slapping the arse of the horse saying giddy-up is not appropriate.  As I later found out, it’s actually never appropriate.  Something about hearing that proclamation while cuffed made this make a WHOLE lot more sense.  Hindsight. 

After doing about 6-months of 3+mile cardio work outs on an elliptical and then believing that because I could do 3+ miles on an elliptical, I should be able to easily run a mile, I decided that it is nothing like actually running a mile.  I also decided that the elliptical is a damn liar.

When you see a grown man dressed up as a pony with a sign hanging around his neck saying – pony ride $1 – and you think it’s a good idea to test that little sign out, I’ve decided one broken ring finger later, it was not worth the $1 it cost.  I also decided that it’s not healthy to feed into EVERY fetish that exists.  I also decided that you should probably be aware that such a thing falls into the fetish category.

When I was planning on going to Mexico and my parents disagreed with my destination choice, they wanted to pray over me and my anticipated travels, I decided that it’s not appropriate to tell your VERY Catholic father not to forget to pray that you are not traded into the Mexican sex-slave trade.  I also decided that no matter how old you get, you’re never too old to catch an unsuspecting back hand.  I also decided I am not as clear of the rules of the Christian ways, because it felt inappropriate to pray over someone that you just smacked the shit out of...

When eating at a restaurant that has a known track record of giving you stomach issues, I’ve decided that no matter how many times you believe you can beat the system, your system will always beats you.  I’ve also decided that you shouldn’t get restaurant choice bold while on a date.  I also decided that there’s a time and a place to play roulette and anywhere outside of a casino, is not the place.

If you have the pleasure of knowing someone that lives on an emotional rollercoaster (which I also lovingly refer to as a Prozac Rollercoaster), I’ve decided that the word rational doesn’t really exist.  I’ve decided that they are going to act a fool and it’s in your best interest to back up and let them take center stage.  I’ve also decided that if you try and share that space with them, you tend to look like the fool, making apologies for things they did like you did them yourself. 

When running a 5K and you are finding your own running pace, I’ve decided that saying the pace of the person in front of you matches your pace well, only to get along side her to realize she’s “about to have a baby right there” pregnant, you might need to actually attend those morning running classes you’ve been skipping out on. 

When taking your car into the shop because the automated speedometer isn’t reading properly, I’ve decided that before you go acting like you need some kind of car maintenance, you might want to check to see if you are looking at MPH v. KPH.  I also decided that if such an instance occurs and you are female, you deserve the “little lady” comment that you will likely get, much like I acceptingly experienced.

When in Mexico and you stupidly decide to go snorkeling, I’ve decided that it’s not in your best interest to sign a contract in regards to your safety that is written in another language.  I decided that the one I signed probably said, and I paraphrase – we’ll TRY and get you back to where we picked you up from / you SHOULD wear a life jacket, but we won’t force you to wear one / if you get tired and need to swim back to the boat, you’ll likely do it alone and we have high hopes that you don’t drown from fatigue.

When going to see a Cirque du Soleil show in Vegas, I’ve decided a few things should and shouldn’t happen.  I’ve decided there’s a reason they don’t serve alcohol during the show.  I’ve also decided that it’s really not a smart idea to tell that rule to eff off and drink to excess before you go into the show.  I’ve also decided that when they say no photography, they mean – no photography.  I also decided that when they confiscate your camera because you WERE taking pictures during the show, when you go to retrieve said camera at the end of the show, if you are still intoxicated, you should act as if you aren’t.  I’ve decided that accusing the Cirque people of breaking your camera and causing a huge scene lands you in cuffs.  Subsequently, I also decided if you are a cute enough girl, you can bribe the arresting officer with a date… a date on a day that you will not be in Vegas any longer.  I’ve decided that really, you should just go right ahead and do all of the above, because there is no real repercussion.  I’ve decided that I learned nothing from my Vegas experience.

You should make up and use words inappropriately.  I’ve decided that it’s humorous.  I also decided that it may not be funny to anyone but you.  Subsequently, I decided that that was more than enough of a valid justification to continue said behavior.  


While going through airport security leaving Las Vegas, I've decided that if you are randomly selected to be patted down by a female security officer, it's not appropriate for you to ask her if that experience is turning her on as much as it's turning you on.  I've also decided that asking that question at the exact moment they are between you and the holy land, might be the wrong time to crack this particular joke.  I've also decided that airport security workers have no sense of humor and can throw around their fake badges to land you in an all out strip search.  I then decided that it was no longer a turn on.  

sobering DUI...?

There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.  Last week, I was questioned by a police officer about my sobriety when I was perfectly sober.  I mean, it’s not my first encounter with the cops, but it was certainly new for me not be intoxicated trying to (what I consider in those moments) cleverly convince them that I am perfectly sober.  Of all the things that will appear on my record, a DUI and/or PI is not one of them.  So, I tend to believe I am pretty damn convincing.  That or I’m an irresistibly cute drunk.  For those of you who know me and/or have drank with me previously – I would like to kindly ask you to stop laughing at my admission of the possibility that I am cute whilst partaking in a beverage or 10. 

ANYHOW… this little extravaganza goes a little something like this.  I was leaving work late and heading over to Amy’s for some delicious dinner.  I mean, let’s face it… short of going home, this is the only way I get home cooked meals.  Traffic wasn’t as bad as I had originally expected and I made it from work to my neighborhood in like 12-minutes.  So I figured I had some time to stop by the corner store in the square and grab muh-self a Diet Dew (Mountain Dew for all of you who are not intoxicated by its fantastically tantalizing green goodness). 

On my way into the store, I notice that there are a lot of people outside just kind of hanging around – more-so than usual.  It wasn’t an alarming situation, really.  Just a bit out of the ordinary, which is why I think I even noticed it in the first place.  There were 2 guys standing next to a red (and I hesitate to use this hyphenated word followed by the 2 that directly follow it for fear of the oxymoronic undertone, but here goes…) supped-up Mini Coop.  Maybe since my alert was heightened due to the atmosphere at the time, but I didn’t think the car belonged to them, I more categorized it as they were admiring it.  Hold on, I mean “admiring” it.  Whatever.  I walk right past, grab my drank (spelled as such intentionally – there are certain Dew rules that must be adhered to – you don’t drink Dew, yah drank it), pay and head towards my car in 30-seconds flat.

As I am walking out, I notice a cop on foot walking in my general direction.  It doesn’t register as anything important, because there is a small Plano Police sub-station in the square, about 100 feet from the corner store.  He’s walking with a purpose and I assume it’s in regards to why all these people are standing around outside.  I get in my car and while I am putting on my seatbelt, there it was.  That “police tap” on my window.  Ohhh, how I am familiar with said tap.  You don’t generally forget the sound that has you run thru this little number in your head before turning to talk to him – oh shit, oh shit, be cool, you’re totally sober, you can do this, oh shit, I should put in a piece of gum, shit I have no gum, shit, well here goes…

I look up and color me less than shocked, the cop is motioning for me to roll down my window.  So I do.  And he says and I’m not kidding – Ma’am, I just received a report that you are severely intoxicated and planning on driving.

Me – Me?

Him – Yes, you.  A woman just pointed you out to me and said you were the one that was drunk in the convenient store.

Me – Me?  

Him – Yes, you.  Have you been drinking today?

Me – No sir, I literally just got off work and this has been my first stop.  I wish I could drink at work!  *giggle* (Yeah, turns out he lost his sense of humor on his 100 foot journey to the side of my car)

Him – This isn’t funny. 

Me – No sir, of course not.

Him – Let me see your driver’s license.

Me – Alright. *dig around, find it, then handed it to him* So someone just pointed me out and said – hey that’s her the drunk girl or what?

Him – That’s exactly what happened.

Me – That’s really perplexing (for some reason I felt like by using the work perplexing and not drunkenly mixing up the letters, would somehow prove my sobriety – it was a strategic move, which I later questioned why I had felt the need to prove I hadn’t been drinking when I actually hadn’t been drinking).  I haven’t had a single thing to drink today.

Him – What business has brought you over here?

Me – Business?  I was only stopping at the corner store to grab a drink and then head home.

Him – Did you purchase beer while you were in there?

Me – Beer?  No.  I just got a soda *I held it up to show him* and I would show you the receipt, except I didn’t get one from the guy.  I never do, tho I am starting to think I should in the future.

Him – So you’re saying you didn’t purchase any beer?

Me – No, I would be more than happy to walk right back in there and you can ask the guy behind the counter.  He knows me.  I come in here all the time.

Him – No, that won’t be necessary.  Did you have an altercation with anyone while you were inside?

Me – Altercation? (Seriously I was in dumbfounded repeat-mode) Uh, no.  I was the only person in there beside the guy who sold me my drink.  I was in there for all of 30-seconds. 

At this point, he’s studying my license intently and has moved around to the back of my car, looking at my license place.  He is bending my license as he walked to the front of my car to check to see that all my stickers were current.  Which BAM they were, but like barely.  He moved back to my driver’s-side window and I just couldn’t help myself, I offered…

Me – I would be more than happy to take a sobriety test.  (Which as SOON as that left my mouth, I thought what if this is the one time I actually fail it, when I am completely sober.  Or maybe he will ask me to do that stupid alphabet bit where you have to do it from C to W.  Which believe me is VERY difficult while drinking… but add in that I am a dyslexic and really my chances drop substantially even when I am perfectly sober.  I actually started to get noticeably nervous.)

Him – That won’t be necessary.  You are not exhibiting any signs of being intoxicated.

Me – That’s because I’m not.

He’s seriously eye-balling me at this point.  This was all new for me.  I was nervous as all get out that I would get my first DUI while completely sober.  Funny, when I was having similar conversations with a cop after I had actually been drinking, I never remember feeling nervous.  Alcohol gives you courage – makes your fearless, is what I decided in that moment.  Too bad I gave all that drinking to excess up a few years ago.  I really think that a beer right then might have calmed me down a bit. 

Like 10-minutes into this conversation some guy comes walking up – one of the guys who had been standing outside oddly.  He tells the cop – Oh no, that’s not the girl… had I known you were talking to her about that, I would have stopped you immediately.  I’m semi-hanging out of my car window and saying things (uncomfortably) like – I really thought I was starting to lose my mind… I was actually getting a little worried.  To which the cop turned around and told me to sit facing forward, don’t talk and don’t move until I tell you to.  WTF?  I’M SOBER. 

At the back of my car, people begin to collect to tell the cop about the real girl who had been drunk.  The one who was driving that Mini Coop.  The one who when I was being interrogated had drunkenly hopped in her car and drove off.  Turns out that the guys were standing near that car because she’d parked it horrifically and had actually had it turned in so far that she’d hit the car in the parking spot next to it.  It was thousands of dollars of damage, but there was some damage nonetheless. 

So I am sitting there and sitting there and sitting there.  Faced forward and not talking.  After about 5 minutes of that, I was like screw this… I’m not gonna stare in front of me when my only crime is my love of a Diet Dew.  So I turned and looked out my window and it was like all-out mayhem.  People are pointing in the direction she drove off and the cop is on his radio trying to locate her.  All the while, this is all happening directly behind my car and I was trapped.  It didn’t even occur to me to call Amy and tell her I was going to be late.  I hadn’t even registered how much time had passed.  I mostly sat there.  Really, really confused.  I wasn’t even mad.  Just totally confused.

A car pulled up behind mine and scattered the people a little.  I saw my window, until I realized that she had stopped to tell the cop that she had been following the Mini Coop and knew where it was.  They were talking for what seemed like an eternity, he radioed something in, they talked more and then he hopped in this chicks car and took off.  The people began to clear and I was able to back out and leave at that point. 

First thing that crossed my mind was – uh, officer… you never told me if I could move.  (Which made me hesitate to leave).  The 2^nd thing was if ever was going to nail another car that was parallel parked behind the corner mart’s parking spots, it would be today.  When the cop sees me, yanks me out of my car and says something like – AH HA!  I KNEW YOU WERE DRUNK. 

10 and 2, check rearview.

I headed home still trying to assess what the hell just happened.  It wasn’t until I got home, changed into some jammies and was walking down to Amy’s place, that I realized I was about 30-45-minutes later than I said I would be.  I walked into her apartment and said my pretty famous phrase of – you’ll never in a million years guess what happened to me just now.  She starts to guess a few things but then I cut her futile attempt off at the quick saying  – Stop guessing… you couldn’t guess this if I gave 20 hints and a premise.

Such is my life.  The one time I thought I was going to jail and I say “one” time I “thought” I was going to jail because any other time, I never “thought” I was going to jail, though it may have ultimately ended there – it was going to be for DUI or a PI when I was completely sober.  Why not?  It would have been just 1 more thing to add to the bottom of the unfortunate list that I have labeled – My Life. 

catching me on the wrong day = humor for me, annoyance for you...

You know, I should take more time to write on here about my ridiculous job and all the ridiculous people I run into on a daily basis.  Maybe I will commit more time to doing just that… but for now, I just thought I would share an email transaction that I had with a candidate last night.  I generally don’t reply like I did to this particular candidate, but catch me on the wrong day and I will be more candid than others!

Take a look into the window of yet another day in the IT Recruiting world…

MY INITIAL EMAIL TO THE POTENTIAL CANDIDATE…

** PLEASE ATTACH AN UPDATED COPY OF YOUR RESUME FOR MY REVIEW **

 

Hey there Mike!

  I came across your resume and I wanted to touch base with you to find out if you were currently on the market.  If you are, I have an open opportunity that might be of interest to you.  I would love the opportunity to speak with you in more detail about your background and the position. 

 

When are you available to speak with me? 

 

Below I have included a job description for your review.  Take a look at the details and let me know what your interest level is in moving forward in their selection process.

 

I look forward to hearing from you and I hope you are having a great day!

 

SQL Architect / SSAS

DETAILS

Location: Plano, TX

Position Type: 2-month Contract

Start Date: May 23, 2011

Hourly/Conversion: BOE!!

 

ABOUT THE PROJECT

GTN Technical Staffing has been retained by one of our most trusted clients to help align them with a Senior SSAS Architect / Cube Design for a 2 month contract in Plano, TX.  Our client is feeling a deep sense of urgency and will begin conducting technical phone screens ASAP.  The project is slated to start by May 23, 2011.  The ideal candidate would have worked on a SQL database at least 1000 GB and has hundreds of tables and up to 2 billion rows of SQL tables.  Ideal cube design experience would have at least 25 cube dimensions, and thousands of lines of MDX.

• Expert level experience in cube design.
• Cube performance tuning and production support experience required.
• Must have strong experience with MDX coding / tuning.
• SQL 2008 development and production support experience.
• Strong ETL Design experience.
• SQL query coding experience.
• Solid skills with ETL production support and SQL performance tuning.

HIS RESPONSE…

My minimum hourly rate requirement is $75 per hour on W2 only, non-negotiable.

Thanks,
Mike

SIDE NOTE: It should be known that any time this is the way a person chooses to send a first email response back like this, this guy is going to be an issue from the very get-go.  Now, the particular skill set that I was looking for is a bit hard to come by, so I was fully prepared to deal with a couple of dbags along the way.  This guy performed as expected.

MY RESPONSE…

Would you be open to a 2-month contract?

-Angela

HIS RESPONSE…

Sure I can do a 2 month contract... but it would depend on the project definition, scope and expectations.  For example, if they are trying to "shrink" a 6 month development project into 2 months... they are setting themselves up for disaster....

Which REALLY?  With all the …?  Could this guy be any more annoying?  The answer is yes.

For example an area of concern so far is the requirement of someone that has written over 1000's of lines of MDX query lines in a cube project. I can assure you, if they are seeking to finish any number of cubes that consist of 1000's of lines of MDX code, the 2 months already sound like an under-estimation.

SSAS Cubes are becoming more and more prominent and not all clients understand their complexity.

So with that said... who is this client so that I begin my research to see if I'd like to get involved with this project. I have my own set of criteria whereby I'm able to discern the benefits of becoming involved with a client's project.

I look forward to your quick reply.

Thanks,

Mike

MY RESPONSE…

I would like to speak with you 1st before sharing the client. I'm also checking on if they can meet your required rate. If they say no, then it's a nonissue anyhow. I should know by tomorrow sometime. 

-Angela

HIS RESPONSE…

Oh I'm sorry but this is one of my requirements as well when deciding on whether or not to deal with certain "recruiters".  When I ask for the client name and a recruiter does not wish to share, I immediately discontinue discussions as this shows inexperience on the part of the recruiter.

Incidentally, there is nothing I can do with their name. I have absolutely no desire to attempt to contact them directly.  Developers like myself simply do not have the time.

I am not interested in pursuing this.

Good luck in your search.
M

ANNNNND Enter his need to end every email with some form of the phrase GOOD LUCK.  Also, he’s now become so informal to no longer use the Thanks, Mike at the end of his email.  We’ve moved to concluding it with 1 single letter – M – like we’re friends.  Ohhhh buddy, we definitely aren’t friends.  And there are a few things in here that were his own personal way of telling me to eff off.  Putting the word recruiter in quotes?  Really?  Could you respect this profession and me any less?  And I am sure my not just emailing him back who the client is without so much as even talking with him via phone, is a clear indication that I am inexperienced, right?  This guy has successfully worked my nerve.

MY RESPONSE…

Well when I'm dealing with "professionals" I expect respect.  My not releasing the client name has nothing to do with a fear that you'll present yourself to the client directly. I have done nothing but share an email transaction with you and that's not good enough to release anything to you. It's like taking a girl on a date and expecting something in return because you paid for dinner. Your response to my request to speak via phone first, is not acceptable in any instance.

-Angela

Now everything about this guy’s reaction to me not behaving in a way he believed fit, said he wasn’t going to respond to this email.  Well color me surprised when he DID in fact reply.  It was clearly well-thought out, and even included a roadmap to my success.

HIS RESPONSE…

Angela,

You'll have better success when you understand that we Business Intelligence Professionals are the ones that drive the show. We are the ones that the client's are seeking, we are the ones that have the skill sets and talents that they need in order to make their business operation run. I receive no less than 20 recruiters contacting me on a daily basis via email and telephone. Depending on the time of year that number can be higher. That is per day. I get calls and emails all day and cannot stop and speak to each and every recruiting company that has what they believe to be a "great lead".

Trust me when I say, I have many high-quality, top-notch, professional recruiting companies at my disposal. I'm not at a loss for prospective projects / positions.  Actually, I have more success on my own finding projects by simply doing a quick search on dice.com or monster.com.  It’s not rocket science what recruiters do.

And so, with that said... please remove my contact information from your files as I do not wish any further contact from your "recruiting" company.

Good luck!

Thanks,
Mike

Ok… first, there’s the GOOD LUCK again.  This was the last time I was letting that nonsense slid without a retort.  But all that aside, this happens to be my personal favorite response.  He’s going to open up this email to me with an insight as to how I can be more successful?  Nice form on the attempted slight against my success.   As for the rest 1^st paragraph, it’s clearly his personal mantra that he recites nightly in the mirror to remind himself just how special he really is.  This guy likes to stroke something and since his ego is well defined, I’ll leave the WHAT is stroked to the imagination. 

Now it should be said, there was a great deal of things that could be said back to this guy.  But any snap reaction would have been exactly what he was looking for.  Meaning if I took it to a personal level and tried to prove how successful I really am or berate him for belittling my industry, that would have been like saying the equivalent of – yeah, well you stink.  That just wasn’t going to happen.  Instead, I found myself calling him a hypocrite right out of the gate and doing so by using his own words.   

MY RESPONSE…

The complete hypocritical nature of your response, is humorous.  First you say you are the one who runs the show because you have all the skill sets while inferring the uselessness of recruiters and then in the next few sentences, you suggest that you have and need recruiters to help you find jobs.  And I wanted to thank you for your advice as to how I can be more successful in my business.  It’s about as relevant to me as my opinion of how you could be a better BI Professional would be to you.  But thanks again for taking the time to write me back with all of your insights.  I certainly needed the chuckle. 

I wouldn’t worry yourself over anyone from our company contacting you in the future.  Your response 2 emails ago resulted in my marking you as unprofessional in our system. 

Good luck stepping around your inflated ego when you’re out there interviewing.

-Angela

It should also be said that I LOVE working for a company who doesn’t care when I reply to dbags like this!  And while I am on funny email transactions, I just remembered another from not that long ago!

Ok, so the back story on this guy is that I had a scheduled call with him and I got locked up in some work that was more mission critical, so I emailed him asking if I could reschedule the call for the next day at the same time ANNNNND enter humor.

MY INITIAL EMAIL TO RESCHEDULE THE CALL…

Hey Farshid!  Can we reschedule for tomorrow same time?

-Angela

And I am not changing any grammar, sentence structure and/or punctuation here.  This is REALLY what I got back.

HIS RESPONSE…

no we can not !!!

if you don't respect your appointment, that means you are not

professional, and i don't want waist my time.

Thanks

Farshid

MY RESPONSE…

Ok Farshid, not a problem. 

 Side note – it’s spelled waste, not waist.

-Angela

HIS RESPONSE…

I'm french, English is not my language,  could you speck french ????!!!!

and I'm a Professional IT engineer, how about you???!!!

Anyway continue as you work!!! I'll send a email to your supervisor!!!

Which, LOL.  Go ahead buddy – knock yourself out!

MY RESPONSE…

I’m not all that worried about you emailing my supervisor.  You’re response and attitude is the opposite of professional.

-Angela

So about 2 seconds after I sent that email back to him, he did the most HI-larious thing.  He didn’t know who my supervisor was, so instead he sent a blanket email to OUR ENTIRE office through one of the job boards (which every person in the office is copied on) and he sent the following email…

Hi there,

I need to talk with a manage or supervisor,

because he (or she) should know with which kind of people works !!!

I don't give up till i have a good response.

Thanks.

Farshid

Know what we did?  Oh and this is just brilliant really – we blocked his email at our sever, preventing any emails to come into our inboxes from that email address.  Now THAT, that made me laugh.  Mostly because he said he wouldn’t give up until he had a good response.  Knock yourself out buddy!  Knock yourself out.  Good times.  Sometimes I imagine him still trying to get in touch with my supervisor so he can tell them about which kind of people works.  LMAO.  

i almost died today and no one was to blame but... me?!

I’m pretty sure I almost died today. Ok, well maybe I wouldn’t have died, but I damn sure would have been really jacked up… like hospital time jacked up. I will preface this little rant by saying that I’m not all that impressed with my ability to handle stressful situations. I mean, in a previous blog when I was in a crisis situation, I decided that BEFORE going to the hospital, I needed to change my clothes. Seriously?! Change my clothes?! Yeah, whatever. I’m going to have to have a chat with my ego – no scratch that… super-ego (apparently I need to go over ego’s head) and get the eff on the same page.

So today, I’m walking in to work from lunch. I’m walking with visitor parking on my left and through traffic can pass on my right. I’m heading towards my office. I first have to pass an area where cars pull in to be able to park in the garage. I didn’t even make it that far. I’m passing a truck on my left that is hanging out of its parking space.

Which quick aside… screw all you guys who INSIST on driving big trucks. They’re gay. They’re even gayer in parking garages. Rant over.

So I’m walking around it, when this red Lexus comes pulling into the garage. Fast. He’s makes a left turn without slowing in the least. He’s approaching me on my left.

3 thoughts went through my head in about 2.3 seconds.
1 – He’s really driving fast for a parking garage.
2 – Surely he’s going to slow down.
3 – Holy shit, he’s going to hit me.

Now, all of this happened very quickly but I know I was trying to make a decision as to what to do. I couldn’t move to my right because there was that effin truck – the bane of my very existence – sitting there. There was no possible way that I would be able to run in front of the fast moving car to the other side so this is what I did…

I bobbled back and forth like a fool doing nothing helpful. The very next thing that happened is the car was so close to me that I hit the hood of his car with my hand and jumped backwards. I’m not sure if it was me hitting his hood with my hand or him looking up from texting to see he was about to hit me, but he stopped... JUST as the front bumper of his car made contact with my knees. Ok, and let me be clear here, where he hit my knees it didn’t hurt. I’m not sure I’ll even have a bruise. The palm of my hand was throbbing, but that was the only thing that was injured in this whole mess.

Ok here’s my first disappointing moment. I’d like to think that if a car was coming at me, I would monkey jump onto the car leaving two big EFF YOU footprints on his hood. Second, I’m really sorry to admit that my reaction to an oncoming car is to lean forward and jump backwards. WTF? Really? So disappointing.

Anyhow as all of this is going on, the building maintenance guy is watching the whole thing happen. He’s a Hispanic guy, which doesn’t really matter but all he was doing was screaming something that was neither Spanish nor English. Upon recollecting the event later, I speculated that he was attempting to translate “Dios Mio” into English but it was coming out in terrified moans. He speaks all of 5 words in English as it is. There were easily 3-4 other people who saw the whole event and were more terrified than I was… which I’m strangely uncomfortable with the fact that I didn’t drop 20lbs of adrenaline and wasn’t mad about him almost killing after the fact.

Anyhow, he stops his car and opens the driver side door to say something… to get out… I’m not sure. I was already walking past his car to continue into the building. He says something like – Oh my God, are you ok? To which I said and without even really looking at him – No, I’m fine, but you really need to slow down in the parking garage. I was already past his car and headed to the maintenance guy who looked absolutely mortified.

After a few more intelligible words, he hugs me and asks me if I am ok. I mean, this guy was noticeably shaken. There I was standing there, not shaken in the least, not upset, not scared… nothing. It was weird. The few other people have gathered around and are all asking me if I am ok – which I was. I mean not a scratch on me. I will say that had that guy waited another 2 seconds to break, I would have been up under the driver side of his car… guaranteed. So I feel like I should have been scared, or upset… or something. But nope. The maintenance guy is asking if he needs to do anything, write a report, anything. To which I just told him that it wasn’t really that big of a deal and I was fine.

NOW… to the douche bag part of this story. So for whatever reason, I didn’t look at the guy who was in the car that almost hit me. I mean, even to this moment and after I had a confrontation with him, I’m doubtful that I could even pick him out of a line up. I could however pick his car out. It looks exactly like my boss’s car except my boss has an Acura. I’ve seen this ass driving recklessly in our garage before.

Anyhow I’m still talking to the maintenance guy when the apparent driver of the car comes down the parking garage stares. I was guessing it was him because he was heading straight for me. I expected something like – Holy Shit! I’m so sorry! Are you ok? – something to that effect. But NO. NO… this guy had started building his defense against my supposed future accusations.

HIM – You shouldn’t have been walking in the middle of the parking garage.
ME – (processing that DUMBASS statement) Excuse me?
HIM – You shouldn’t have been walking in the middle of the parking garage. It’s dark in here and you’re in all black and I didn’t see you. You shouldn’t have done that.

Ok… NOW I’M LIVID PISSED. I wasn’t mad when you almost killed me. I wasn’t mad after I didn’t die. I wasn’t mad at all. I was oddly and eerily calm. But you did NOT just walk up to me and tell me that YOU almost ran ME over because of accusatory 2 false statements.

So in typical Angela-form, I did what I do when I’m making points in a heated email… I bullet it. Except trying to bullet a full-on confrontation wasn’t going to translate. So I numbered this bitch. I had 6 points. I had been disappointed with my reaction to this whole thing starting with my lean forward/jump backwards approach to not getting run over. But #6 on my list… well, it was my proudest moment of the whole damn thing.

ME – Listen here effer (which wasn’t censored in the least when I said it)…
• ONE – I wasn’t in the middle of the parking garage just dicking around not paying attention. If you noticed I was almost pinned between a truck in visitor parking and the front driver side of your car. PLEASE explain to me how that puts me in the middle of the road, because it doesn’t you blind fuck. Not to mention there’s 4 people who SAW YOU ALMOST HIT ME.
• TWO – I’m not in all black. I have a black jacket on, a light grey scarf and JEANS. I’m not in a pitch black jogging suit running in the middle of the night with no reflectors on. Maybe you didn’t see me because you were texting… couldn’t have been that now could it have?
• THREE – I’m pretty sure you were easily going 10-15 mph when you haphazardly pulled into this parking garage. Any idiot with a brain knows to slow down when pulling in here as there are people walking across ALL THE EFFIN TIME to get to the building. YOU HAVE TO CROSS HERE TO GET TO THE BUILDING. How fast were you going… no really, I’ll wait… no screw that, I’m not waiting. You were going WAY too fast and that’s that – I don’t need your confirmation.
• FOUR – Are you seriously trying to say that I am at fault for YOU almost hitting ME with your car? No really… is that what the EFF you are saying to me? Well I suppose you just think that if a train came off the tracks and took out a mother pushing a stroller you’d say, well shit lady, you shouldn’t have been so close to the tracks. (He’s now shaking his head no) No? No, you say? Well that’s about how retarded you sound right now.
• FIVE – (And this was only because I was stuck on our ABOVE GROUND PARKING GARAGE being too dark and me being in all black, I had to circle back to it) AND WTF with it being too dark in here?! Are you effing kidding me with this shit?
• SIX – And just for good measure you retard, I don’t care if I was dancing a jig in the middle of the parking garage if you mowed me over with your car, you dumb dick it would have been your fault. Not mine for doing a ditty in an inappropriate place.

I’m pretty sure I was about to move on to a seventh point, but he cut me off. I was surprised he let me get to six with the tirade that I was on.

HIM – We’ll we’re just lucky it turned out the way it did.

Now, let me just say that this isn’t the first time that someone tried to end a conversation with me in this fashion. The pharmacist at CVS told me one time – Ok, I will do you this favor, this one time. To which I responded to that incompetent prick with – YOU’RE DOING ME A FAVOR?! I think not princess. You improperly filled my prescription, THEN sold me someone else’s prescription, THEN committed insurance fraud, REFUSED to reimburse me what you fraudulently charged me and YOU… YOU’RE doing ME a favor? No, no lady. It is I who is doing YOU a favor by not calling and reporting you to HIPAA. I’m fairly certain that they have some policy about someone fucking something up 12x in one transaction. And I won’t even go into the repercussion of insurance fraud. I think you and I BOTH know what the ramifications of that little doozie are. Eh? Yeah she just stared at me in shock for a moment then I followed that up with – Yeah, you can go ahead and do ME that favor now, princess. I’ll wait… and I’m NOT waiting in line again when you get this shit straightened out. Right? To which all she muttered out was – right. And I didn’t… I went right to the head of the class!

Anyhow, this guy tells me that “WE” were lucky. Yeah, no… that wasn’t going REMOTELY in the least bit fly with me. I mean like not even kinda.

ME – WE aren’t lucky you dick. YOU ARE for not killing me. If I was dead, I wouldn’t care. I’d be dead. And you’d get to live with that for the rest of your life. Even if I didn’t die, I might be jacked up and in the hospital but I would have taken you for every single dollar you were worth. So I’m not the lucky one, partner. You are. Remember that for the future… and try not to blame your future victims for your irresponsible and negligent behavior.

At that point, he muttered something and then walked off and into the building.

So, aside from this guy being a total douche and trying to blame me, I wasn’t mad about the situation at all. I oddly don’t remember being scared at all either. Even after the 4 people who saw it were all clamoring around me with absolute terror and fear painted on their faces. I remember thinking that I should be reacting… or having a “holy shit, I’m merely a mortal” moment. It never happened.

I walked into my office and told a few people that were standing around what had happened and even then the only part that riled me up in the least and caused any kind of emotion was this guy walking all the way over to me to blame me. He didn’t even ask if I was ok again or say he was sorry. That shit just pisses me off… I mean badly.

I’ve been waiting all day for my – oh shit – moment. I don’t think it’s coming. I find that a bit odd… I don’t know. I’m not very pleased with my minds coping mechanisms. And I think what I have successfully proven is a pattern of inappropriate reactions in stressful situations, you don’t want me ANYWHERE near one that someone else could be involved in. I’m useless.

But, I can bitch a person out afterwards in a numbered fashion. It’s one of my finer points, I’d say.

bathroom attendants are the bane of my very existence…

Let’s just start out by stating the damn obvious. What the hell do I need someone in the bathroom for squirting soap into my hands and handing me a paper towel afterwards. This is quite simply a task that I learned at 2 years old when being appropriately potty trained. Furthermore, these attendants expect me to pay them for a task that even a kindergartner knows the appropriate cause of action. I mean, I’m already at a bar paying for over-priced drinks to start, the last stressor that I need right behind a growing bar tab is to have to pay to pee. I would think that since it’s mandatory for said establishments to provide me with a place to excrete, that I shouldn’t feel obligated to then pay for the pleasure of peeing.

And I have yet to come across an attendant that actually does what I would validate paying a person for a job as such. I mean, how many times are the bathroom stalls out of toilet paper? How many times are they just as dirty as they would be had there been no useless body in there pointing at a tip jar for their “services” rendered? Who the hell needs a sprits of some 2nd rate perfume before returning to a smoke-filled bar? Gum…maybe? Put in an effin dispenser already. Problem solved. Anything else that these attendants offer in there is 100% useless. Period.

Let’s talk about the scam that is the bathroom attendant.

ONE – who the hell carries money into the bathroom? Even if I did take my purse in there – I like 99.9% of the rest of the population function paperless, i.e. credit card-centric. Where’s the place to swipe my card should you even make me feel guilty enough to actually give you a damn thing? What cash only? Well sounds to me like you are shit-out-of-luck, sucker.

TWO – They conveniently remove all the soap from their ordinary dispensers making it impossible for me to refuse the soap they are trying to shove into my hand. Let me tell you a little secret… I don’t feel compelled to pay you when you remove my choice to pay you for a service that I don’t friggin need.

THREE – They remove all access to paper towels, except of course for the one roll that the attendant unrolls to hand to you. Shit, I will pat those suckers dry on the back of my jeans and be on my way. When you decline said pre-torn towel it’s accompanied by a scowl. I really just want to ask one of these people who THEY would pay for the exact same service.

FOUR – They ALL remove the tips from the jars as soon as someone puts them in there. This gives the illusion that they have made no money for the evening further initiating your quilt mechanism until you find yourself seeking out a dollar from your table of friends before returning to the bathroom just so you have something to put in there sans the nasty stink eye that is inevitable.

FIFTH – You’re at a bar. You’re drinking. I know me and when I’m at a bar and drinking, I’m in the bathroom 45x. Now, if I were to pay to pee every time I go in there – I’m into my bathroom habit for at a max of $45 and if I decide to pull a pay every other time $23. This could at times far outweigh the actual bar tab. Screw a bunch of that.

Now, I might even concede that if I am at a 5-star restaurant that I might demand a bathroom attendant present. I think the quality of service should directly correlate back to the type of establishment you are in. This is not to say that I expect shitty service at a hole-in-the-wall bar, but let’s face it… that’s exactly what you get. I’m also paying $1 per jello shot, $3 for a pitcher of beer and using a restroom that smells like the septic tank is a month over-due for a changing. I do not however, expect to see a bathroom attendant in a mid-level bar on your average bar strip.

This expectation leads me directly to my personal bathroom attendant experience this past Friday night.

Fine, I was in Uptown. A nicer area to be finding a bar to enjoy for the evening, but certainly not nice enough to have a bathroom attendant making me feel guilty about using the bathroom every 5 minutes.

We were at a bar call Cretias on McKinney Ave in Uptown. This place is nothing special, I will outright admit from the get-go. When I walked in, I needed to use the bathroom before I even got started on my bar tab. I was immediately put off by the fact that they had the bathroom door propped open with a bar chair. Awesome, I get to pee while still feeling like I am on the bar floor with pounding music at maximum capacity while I try to calm bladder down enough to get on the same page with me. Furthermore, the positioning of the bathrooms coupled with the doors being held wide open, really made me feel like anyone in the bar could see through the cracks in the stall door to get an idea, at the very least, of what was going on in there. None of this makes a bashful bladder act appropriately.

After inveigling my bladder to man up, I then have to leave the stall to find a bathroom attendant standing there. Well shit, awesome. She’s this tiny Hispanic woman who clearly had Spanish as a 1st language (and I determined later, her only language) standing there waiting on little old me. Well shit, awesome. Sigh. I need to give the illusion that I am a clean person so I walk over and turn on the water. Before I can even refuse the soap she is holding, she has squirted about 45 dabs of soap in my hand. Good lord… it was like trying to get shampoo out of my hair in a soft water shower… AKA impossible. While I am trying to get it all off, she begins rushing me… in Spanish of course, because there’s a girl at the other sink needing soap and I am cutting into her routine. Well shit… ok, bitch, give me a second here. Then I say to her that I don’t need the towel and begin to wipe if off on my jeans when she shoves… I repeat – SHOVES – the towel in my hand. Well shit. Do I friggin owe you money now? I have none on me… good lord. So I manage something like – I don’t have any cash, maybe next time. Then I bail out of there. Fortunately, on that trip, there was a line and she didn’t have the time to give me her sob story – in a completely different language. Whew… dodged that one.

The next time I had to go to the bathroom, I held it until the point of potential hospitalization. I was dreading having to go back in there and face her. I still didn’t have a single dime of actual cash on me, so this was going to be interesting.

I go in and quickly make it into a stall without her really noticing me as she was dealing with other girls at that point. Maybe I should have waited because I picked the stall with no toilet paper in it. Well shit, awesome. I tap the girls foot in the stall next to me and ask for some TP. She obliges. It was in that moment that I had decided that this bathroom attendant hadn’t done her job. And if you aren’t going to do your job, you don’t get a tip. Which worked out well, because I didn’t bring any cash. I wash my hands and TRY to decline the soap to use the dispenser on the wall. Shoulda known… empty. As I am dejectedly returning my hands under the hottest water I could get, she shoves 45 squirts of soap into my hand. Son of a BITCH… you quick senorita, you friggin got me. At that point, I just accepted the towel she’d torn for me and quickly walked out of the bathroom. She said something to me harshly in Spanish. I really didn’t care, because I had no idea what she’d said in the first place. What I did understand and what she DID say in PERFECT English was – TIP?! As she pointed to the tip jar while she had managed to grab me by the forearm. And I just said – I can’t hear you and I need to go. Then I walked out.

Good lord. Now I’m absolutely dreading having to pee. I mean, it’s becoming an issue of can I hold it the rest of the time I am here and pop-a-squat at that dumpster area I saw when we were walking up to the bar at the beginning of the night. Real lady-like I know… but peeing was starting to stress me out. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And really, let’s face it… I’m not all that lady-like to start.

Enter my need to be #3. This time, to avoid the whole uncomfortable situation, I beg borrow and steal for a 1-dollar bill. Which as I am doing this, I am pissed that I am. Regardless, bathroom trip #3 went smoothly. It’s like she had no idea that she’d blatantly asked me for a tip the last time coupled with her violating my personal space bubble by actually touching me. Which, that whole little scenario seems quite bathroom attendant unprofessional. She had everything available to you in that bathroom, except a comment card box. Real Convenient. REAL EFFIN CONVENIENT. And kinda clever. Don’t mistake that last comment about cleverness with respect for said “oversight”.

It was trip #4 to the bathroom that really put me over the edge. See, by now all the girls in my group were so annoyed with this bathroom attendant not only being there in the 1st place but now demanding a tip VERBALLY from anyone who washed their hands. We all agreed that while our next plan was slightly disgusting, it was hard to argue the validity of it all. We decided, if we don’t wash our hands, we don’t owe her anything.

Now let’s just talk about the logistics of what this little plan meant. I was purposefully and with premeditated foresight actually agreeing to be a dirty effin bastard. Trouble was, I saw this solution as more acceptable than being bullied by a 4’5 Hispanic woman who was becoming increasing more aggressive every time someone wasn’t tipping her – i.e. me.

Well, I couldn’t wait much longer after making the –no hand washing pact – to actually have to cash in on bathroom trip #4. So off I go. I sneak into a stall past the attendants gaze. I didn’t however properly plan. By the time I was done using the bathroom and redressing, I was the only one in the bathroom. Well shit. I’m not trying to be blatantly obvious that I am not washing my hands, so shit. This resulted in me waiting for a couple other girls to come in, use the bathroom and exit the stall – kinda in a pack so I could scoot out, unnoticed.

QUICK ASIDE – The other 2 stalls in the bathroom were now housing anywhere between 2-3 girls in each stall. You know how us girls do… all go to the bathroom at once then cramming all into 1 stall at once. Now let’s just say there were 3 girls in 1 stall and 2 in the other. This meant I would have to hang out, now for an uncomfortable amount of time in my stall (with just me in it) and wait for 5 girls to pee while gabbing incessantly and even taking a phone call or 2 to tell whoever was on the other end of the dbag in the bar that night. At this point, I was sitting on the toilet, pants complete up, with my head resting on my hands of which my arms that were resting on my knees. REALLY? OVER A FRIGGIN PISS TIP. Too far I say… TOO DAMN FAR.

After what felt like 10years, both stall doors open and the gals poor on out. Score. Here’s my chance. So I wait 2-3 seconds after they are all clamoring around the only 2 sinks in the bathroom and I exit thinking I am about to make my great escape. But no, no. The bathroom attendant spots me right off. I say – Oh no that’s fine, I’m not going to wash my hands. 10-eyes of pretentiously judgmental Uptown girls all meet me eyes as I am backing out of the bathroom in total and complete retreat. Dude, fine… I’m nasty. Whatever. I’m pretty sure you all just pee’d into the same toilet as one another without flushing you dirty bastards. So you know what… wash those hands, but I don’t see a bidet in here so who’s going to wash your nasty asses?!

I couldn’t even formulate that really rather ingenious comeback when the Hispanic woman started angrily yelling at me in Spanish. And I mean angrily. She had her finger pointed and had taken 2 (small as her stride was no competition for my own) steps towards me. Now where I come from when you point a finger as you are making a forward progression coupled with hateful angry words… thems is fighting words. I quickly evaluated that not only would I be charging up an older lady but that if I did in fact hurt her, she’d totally use the whole – hate crime – bit on me. Add that to the fact that she’d claim she was elderly, though she wasn’t that I could tell – and I woulda been screwed. So instead I backed out of the bathroom saying I don’t want to wash my hands thanks. I then found myself at a hurried pace making it back to my table of friends. I ½ way thought she was going to follow me out of there and make an announcement to the whole bar in perfect English that I hadn’t washed my hands. Then I would have to take the chance of a hate crime and beat the shit out of her. Didn’t happen, but it could have.

Bathroom experience #5 was going to be different. I was going to walk in stating my objectives. You know, get them in the open right from the get. I walk in and say – I won’t be washing my hands so please don’t yell at me in a foreign language and point to your tip jar and demand I tip you for a bodily function. She pointed to an open stall for me to use and I chose the one she didn’t point to so as to say – hey eff off, I can pick my own damn stall. Then when I came out, this crazy ass met me at the door and squirted soap in my hand before I’d even fully exited the stall. Alright abuela, 2 can play at this. I waited for her to set the soap down and she turned around and with palm up was attempting to guide me to the sink to wash this soap off. Yeah, well that open palm was calling to me. Without thinking I wiped the soap she’d put in my hand back on hers and I said – tip yourself. I didn’t hang around to see the aftermath – I literally ran out. Like a good old ding-dong-ditch back in the day.

By this time it was approaching 1:30am and honestly the stress of having to mastermind several different bathroom escape plans had finally made its mark on me. I couldn’t handle a 6th episode. And while I had the pee leg-shake going (AKA the pee dance)… I conceded that I would be able to make the 30-minute drive home. Well make the effort, anyhow. I made it, but my bladder damn near burst. I sure showed her. Eat shit angry bitter Hispanic bitch.

I just feel like the bottom line here is… that I should not have to be that calculating and/or stressed when doing something that my mere biological make-up dictates I should. And I certainly feel that it’s absolutely absurd to have to pay for such a task. Sure you can mask it by saying that I am paying for the soap and towel. But to you I say – AGAIN THE RESTAURANT LEGALLY HAS TO SUPPLY THOSE THINGS TO THEIR GUESTS AT NO ADDITIONAL CHARGE. You stick a body in there and boom, I owe you to pee.

From now on I’m gonna bring latex gloves and pop those bitches on all surgical-style… but not until I get into the bathroom. I really want her to know I mean business. Then when I walk out, I say – didn’t touch a thing in there. I owe you shit and I’m not a dirty bastard. OR maybe I will go into the stall and put them on quietly. Then when I come out and she goes to aggressively put soap on my latex-ed palm, I’ll have some clever line like – You thought you had me… but I remember who you are and now I bet you won’t forget who I am.

I’ll leave this blog with this… Casey (a guy friend of mine) and on the topic of bathroom attendants said (while I was reliving my traumatic experiences of that night) – You know, if they put a hot young scantily clad dressed chick in the men’s bathroom as the bathroom attendant, the flu would be eradicated within 5-years. HAHAHA! My response was put a hot dude in the women’s bathroom and he’d likely be as angry as the Hispanic woman demanding tips from the chicks. The only way a hot dude as a bathroom attendant in the chick’s bathroom is in cougar central – i.e. Sambuca @ the Shops of Legacy.

I hate with a passion… the mere concept of bathroom attendants… especially the pushy ones. C’mon now. For shits sake, you work in a bathroom… just be happy with the fact you have a job. Unemployment in Texas went up a whole point in 1 week, you fortunate ungrateful bitch.

-Rant over.

Only me…

I’ll spare you the details of this first admission. And for anyone who actually knows the details about this will tell you that the term – spare you – is really quite an understatement. Next Tuesday, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I will be having surgery. It’s not dramatic, but it will require going under general anesthesia. This little fact has caused a little anxiety. I mean shit, they give you this pamphlet for you to read that tells you while this procedure is minor – YOU COULD EFFIN DIE. I would be the only person in 200 years to die from this procedure. Whatever. I will just do what I have been doing and pretend that I’m not having surgery.

Ok all that aside, I have been feeling pretty crappy for months – thus the succumbing to the mere idea that this procedure is probably 5 years over-due. It’s amazing how much pain a person will live with, or rather become comfortable with the notion that shit just hurts sometimes and life goes on. Deal. It’s screwed with my sleep patterns a bit and made me just feeling a bit run down to the point that while anxiety provoking in its own right, I secretly and desperately look forward to this fixing my busted body.

WHICH SHOULD BE NOTED THAT IT’S POSSIBLE THAT THIS SURGERY WON’T FIX A DAMN THING.

Super awesome, right? I digress…

We’re done with the surgery pretext. The second pretext (because no story of mine can just be 4-sentences and funny) occurred a couple of years ago. I’ll give you the short of the long… Someone had it out for me, I firmly believe. Two of my tires were slashed in my parking garage. I was getting hang-up phone calls over-and-over again and at all hours of the night. THEN the icing on the cake was one day I came home from work and my peep-hole on my door was almost unscrewed in its entirety. Now, maybe I am just a dumb chick, but I was pretty perplexed as to how this could even happen. Like did I shut my door too hard and forced it out? Cute, I know. It wasn’t until Casey came over and I was telling him I couldn’t get it back in its original resting place, that he tells me that people break into apartments by unscrewing peep-holes and put some kind of object through the opening to pop open the locks on apartment doors. WTF? Ridiculous. So Casey being Casey and after he fixed the peep-hole, fidgets with the hidden top-lock to make it lock back farther than it should making it harder to pop open if someone was in-fact trying to break into my apartment. Sounded like a good idea… until today.

ASIDE: When the peep-hole thing happened, I had decided it was probably time to call the police and report all these occurrences. You know, get it documented and all. I was also hoping to get the number that was calling me repeatedly since the little effer would call me from a blocked number. Which PS (AKA an aside IN an aside) I learned that you can’t block blocked numbers any more. Stupid effin AT&T. And when I called AT&T to find out if they could give me the number this bitch tells me there is ZERO way to figure out what a number is when it’s been blocked. Ok, WHAT? So me being me, I say – So let me get this straight… you mean to tell me if a person is murdered and the last call on their phone right before they are murdered is from a blocked number, you are telling me that the police are shit-out-of -luck on retrieving that number because according to you blocked numbers go into this amazing blocked number abyss? Is THIS what you are telling me? There’s ZERO documentation of blocked numbers? I mean seriously, how the hell do they train you guys? In someone’s garage with kool-aid and purple blankets? To which she then responded with – well, yes there is documentation, but it has to be requested by the police. Which prompted my next call… to the police. At any rate, back to the original aside – the police officer asks me who I’ve pissed off recently and my only response after an uncomfortable pause was – well now, that could be a long list. She was silent and then told me she would document the events and to call back when I had a better idea of who wanted to probably murder me. Bet AT&T would give them the damned blocked number then. Bastards. Whatever.

Ok now to this morning… finally. I actually got amazing sleep last night. First time in awhile. I’m up, dressed and looking better than the ½ dead look I’ve been sporting the last month or so. Today’s going to be a good day. Well, that’s when I should have known that this COULDN’T be true. Yeah… wasn’t. I go over to my front door to leave and what’s this? The top hidden bolt is effin broken. I mean spinning all the way around and not unlocking. Let’s get this straight…

I’M OFFICIALLY LOCKED INSIDE MY APARTMENT.

Which ultimately caused me a little panic. This is obscured, really. I know this. There have been countless lazy Sunday’s where I didn’t leave my apartment once or leave my couch for this matter. But the mere knowledge that I COULD leave my apartment at any time just was. Today, not so much. I’m trapped in here. On the 4th floor. I literally can’t get out. Yeah, semi-freaked out. Fine I’m ridiculous. I’m ready to admit this… it’s who I am. I’m ok with it… you should get ok with it if you’re not. Anyhow, I call down to my apartments to get them to send someone out to let me the eff out. I get the answering service here. DON’T GET ME STARTED ON OUR GHETTO-ASS ANSWERING SERVICE. I’ll leave that at that and spare you from a 3rd aside. They say they will send someone as soon as possible. My anxiety of being trapped had subsided with the knowledge that someone was coming. I call my brother to tell him why I am going to be late to work because I am locked inside my apartment. All he does is laugh. Hysterically. Saying something like – you’d be laughing if it was me. (I probably would have but I was stressing out a bit… it was funny later… kinda).

40-minutes later… things were getting a little heightened. I call back and the apartments are now officially open and they say the answering service requests take 30-minutes to 1½ hours to be answered. I guess me being locked in my apartment wasn’t a crisis for them – WAS FOR ME. So they say they’ll send someone immediately. 5-minutes later, there’s a knock on my door… OMG! Salvation… maintenance guy’s here.

He knocks and I say from inside the apartment – Hey I’m trapped in here.

HIM – ok, open the door to let me in to look at the lock.
ME – no you don’t understand, the lock is broken and I am trapped in here. I can’t unlock the door, thus the problem. (Which I had explained the problem to the answering service AND the idiot girl at the apartment complex.)
HIM – oh, shit. Ok, well sounds like I need a drill. I’ll be right back.

** While that sunk in as I heard his footsteps AWAY from me getting out of the apartment, I knew he didn’t understand that I meant the top hidden bolt. Drill ain’t gonna help dude. Nothing to drill. I’m never getting out of here!
** 5-minutes later.

HIM – ok, stand back from the door.
ME – no, no you don’t understand, it’s the TOP HIDDEN BOLT.
HIM – oh… shit… ok… hang on… shit… ok… let me think about this.

** 30-second pause.

HIM – Ok, do you have a Philips Head?
ME – Yes.
HIM – use it to take the cover off the top bolt completely.

** PS I had already frantically been attempting to do this for the 40-minutes it took him to get to my apartment in the 1st place. It became more frantic as more time passed of me being trapped in my apartment.

ME – I’ve been trying to do that, it’s not coming loose.
HIM – keep trying.

** 2-minutes later, I yank the shit out of it, stripping the screws and sweating a bit.

ME – got it, now what?
HIM – what do you see?
ME – a door and what appears to be what a dead bolt looks like when you remove the cover. (sarcastically… what do I see… you kidding me?)
HIM – what kind of dead bolt is it?
ME – a dead bolt man, I don’t know.
HIM – what does it look like?
ME – an EFFIN dead bolt man… what do you want me to say?
HIM – ok, tell you what… there’s 2 kinds of dead bolts we use here. Look through the peep-hole and I will hold the 1st 1 up. If it looks like yours tell me. If not, we’ll know it’s the 2nd.
ME – it’s not the 1st one.
HIM – ok, take your screw driver and make sure this little piece at the top is all the way to the right.
ME – it IS all the way to the right.
HIM – your right, right? Not my right, right?
ME – dude, right is right. Your right would be left. What are you talking about? It’s all the way to MY right.
HIM – hmmm, shit… well ok… shit… ok… hang on here… ok…

** 30-seconds pass.

HIM – ok, well see if you can stick the screw driver in and push the bolt back manually.
ME – no man, I don’t have one that will work. One is too small and the other is too big.
HIM – shit… ok… hang on… ok… shit…

** 30-seconds pass.

HIM – ok, I’m going to get a crow bar and wedge it in to give you some more room. When I pull it back, see if you can get the bolt out.
ME – ok.

** 2-minutes later.

ME – I’m free!!! On a positive note, I do feel safer given that it’s this difficult to get into the hidden bolt. Do you need me? I’m late to work and need to go.
HIM – nope, I can finish this up and lock it for you.

I bail out and head to work. I get there about 45-minutes late and disheveled. My brother is still laughing and I was getting texted by everyone who knows both my brother and me – saying gay shit like… trapped in your own apartment, loser! Awesome. Thanks Jeremy.

I mean… this is my life. I had to be troubleshot through a peep-hole on how to exit my own residence – a task I have been doing for 3-years now all on my own but now needed assistance. It made me think of when I get old and depend on someone else to do shit for me that I used to be able to do and now can’t… and I’m old and not a priority and they’ll get there when they get there… then use some technical jargon about how to fix something and I’ll be saying back when I was your age, we just had things called iPhones. Traumatic. The whole thing really.

I’m not dramatic. Shut-up.

let's talk mexico...

Now, I believe that anyone has been to Mexico will say that it’s quite possibly the most amazing place on earth. Granted, there are places that are far more beautiful, have better attractions, better oceans, better everything… but Mexico in it’s beautiful simplicity has that numbing effect of euphoric idealizations of quitting your life back home and working in an all-inclusive resort for the rest of your life. People never want to leave. When I am there, I never want to leave. On October 28th my best friend and I took off for the Riviera Maya for 4-days / 3-nights.

Let’s pause for a moment and let me introduce you to my parents. My mom and dad are creatures of habit, rarely veering from a world that they know and trust.

My father, while being quite possibly the smartest man I know, is not one who will take an undefined risk. I mean he’ll play the stock market and call it risky, but really he’s bought every book written on how to play it effectively and successfully. While some minor follies may have occurred on the road to being a stock market Billy Badass, the risks he took weren’t undefined or uncalculated. When I told my father that I planned on taking a job right out of college that was based on a salary and commission structure, while attempting to be supportive, the mere thought of having an undefined paycheck every check wasn’t a risk he could effectively calculate to a certainty. Which, this isn’t to say that he didn’t think he’d be the best at whatever he chose to do; it was more driven to the uncertainty of the whole notion. His advice was something along the lines of – well, I wouldn’t do it. I did it anyway.

My father, differing from my mother in this way, will pass a quick and non-condoning comments of distaste for things that occur. I tell him that I am planning to go to Mexico and he says, “Well, I sure wouldn’t. It’s dangerous there. You know the government is on the edge of collapse? Your choice though.” and after that we don’t discuss it farther. Like – I hear you… I’m still going. He says… I wouldn’t but ok, I hope you have fun.

My mother… God love her… Lord knows I do. She can bring herself to Defcon 10 crisis status over the simplest of things. Let’s start small. While she still to this day says this was all a joke, I’ve known this woman all of – oh I don’t know – my whole effin life and this was no joke. She called me from a Tollbooth one time on the North Dallas Tollway telling me, “The toll costs 35 cents and I threw in 40 because, that’s all I had. Where do I get my change?” To which I said, “YOU DON’T… DRIVE. Looking for change at a tollbooth is how you DIE in North Dallas!! DRIVE! I’ll give you the 5 cents.” Then this inspired my rant about the prices of the tollbooth and how no one ever has the odd change they ask for… a ploy to make more money, I call it. I digress. This is also the same woman who to this day and some of you might actually have to look up this term, BALANCES her checkbook to the penny. I mean, if she’s off by 5 cents on her side, she FINDS it. Rarely does she write this off, like the rest of us do, to not writing something down properly. Which who the hell writes shit down in a checkbook anymore? Do you even have a checkbook or friggin checks for that matter? Shit no. You log in online (probably from your phone) check your balance and move the eff on.

Which before I move on… I do have a funny story about my mom, naturally. So, when I was in college, I’d learned of this amazing thing called a Check Card. I’d been using mine for years. I happened to be down at my parent’s house one weekend and I was in the car with my mom while she was going to pick up a prescription. She was pulling out her checkbook as we waited in line. I immediately cut in on her about how checks and checkbooks were for losers. Like to this day if you’re in line at a store to purchase something and the old women in front of you pulls out her checkbook, you think OH LORD… use your ATM card already and join the 21st Century. I’m telling her how I’ve never written a check one and my life is amazingly easy and no one has ever stolen my identity. It’s perfectly safe. She inquires about what I do when I used it when I went to restaurants. She says, “So you let a waiter walk off with your card to run it for your food? Oh, no, no. I would never let my card leave my sight. They could steal your number when they walk behind the wall. Oh no, no. I would never. You should be more careful.” I laughed and continued to prod her to use her ATM card at Walgreens and see how easy it is. I said something to the effect of, “Who’d want your identity anyhow?” So much against her comfort-level, she used the ATM card at the drive-thru for her prescription. Now, I will save you the suspense to tell you that it just so happened that this person who was ringing her up at Walgreens did in-fact steal her credit card number and drained her account. While, I was floored by the news, I laughed. Hard. There I am convincing her how safe it is and then BOOM 20minutes later, her checking account is cleared out. Let’s just say that to this day, the whole ATM card thing is a bit touchy. I still find it funny. I can’t help it. She got all the money back and quickly. I mean short of a little bit of a pain in the ass, it wasn’t all that dramatic. I mean, still… it’s really kinda hilarious! I really can’t help it.

Ok, moving on. When I selected the apartment that I have lived in for going on 3-years, she panicked over the thought of my only having 1 real closet in the apartment. So there I am worrying about my apt choice for completely important reasons unlike the amount of closets it came with – it was the most expensive apt I’d lived in before and was more worried about sustaining the rent should anything happen to the job I had. You know important shit. Well, she got herself all worked up about it saying that I needed to go look at other apts and make a different decision. Now, I was past this point. I’d picked my apt and had paid a deposit fee that was non-refundable and substantial and well… I was moving in. It wasn’t up for discussion. Let’s just say that she met her Defcon 10 dramatics when I got frustrated with her and told her that I wasn’t going to continue looking and that this was my apt and that was that. The last thing she muttered before she took to the silent treatment was, “Well don’t call me when you have no space. I’m just trying to help. I don’t know why you’re snapping at me. You’re the one in the wrong here.” Sweet Jesus! She’s my mother and regardless of anything else, I apologized (eventually) and just asked her to be happy for me. She accepted the apology and said, “I just can’t be happy for your choice tho.” LOL. God love her!

So my mother’s take on Mexico was CANCEL the trip ASAP. The moment I told her I was going she began emailing me links to articles showing how bad Mexico was. I got a text telling me to check my email before I left for the trip. It was the article about the hotel in Cancun that had been hit by a bomb from the drug cartel. She followed that up with a phone call saying that she’d heard that they might be stopping all travel in and out of Mexico. I hadn’t heard (and still haven’t heard) of anything of the sort. She sent emails of alternate safer locations that I could visit instead saying that she was sure Travelocity would change my flight for the minimal cost of potentially saving my life – as I was taking my life into my own hands by “choosing” to go into Mexico. I mean, up until the day I left, she had been trying to convince me not to go.

Quick ASIDE: During this whole time, there was a very real possibility that I would be flying into Mexico and transporting from the airport to the hotel all on my own. A fact I for the obvious reasons didn’t share with my parents. Up until a couple of weeks before the trip did I find out that that wouldn’t be the case. But could you imagine that little conversation?! Shit no, I couldn’t either and so I just decided that while this fact was a bit nerve racking and stressful to me, I would just be uber safe in regards to transport, if I had to go it on my own, because damnit… I was going!!

I told both of my parents that I would text them when I got there and let them know the hotel details. It’s just good practice anyhow to let someone know where you are exactly. Plus it’d calm their frantic minds who by their imaginations freedom, I’d been kidnapped by the cartel, stolen away into the sex slave trade or at the very worse killed. Seemed a simple gesture and promised that my texts wouldn’t be blowing up looking for status updates costing me $400 in international texts. Mission accomplished.

I will say, that I texted both my mom and dad when I was on my way to the airport in Mexico. My dad responded with, “I’m glad to hear it and I will feel much better when you are on American soil. Love, Dad.” Mom chose to respond only when I texted her when we landed in the US with a, “WHEW… YAY!” To which I actually think before she texted them, she made them an emphatic verbal reality.

Ok, so let’s talk about Mexico a bit. When we arrived in Mexico, we were ushered into the security line. While being annoyed with having to wait in a line, it moved fairly quickly. The security line wasn’t the issue. The customs line, on the other hand was total mass chaos. We walk to the large room where a snake-like line had formed with little to no understanding where the end of the line actually existed. After walking the whole room and having more than 20 people first tell us that where we were standing wasn’t the end of the line and pointed us in an direction that ultimately also wasn’t the end of the line. After 5-10 minutes of complete confusion, we find what we believed to be the end of the line. There were no ropes up to keep people in order. There were no Mexican airport workers directing people. There was just MASS amounts of people who while in a quasi-line were directing other people. 5 Jamaican women had made it to the back of the line behind us. There was bitching about the line and how long it took to find the end; so much so, that I felt compelled to join in and bitch about our frustration.

Easily 2-3minutes after I’d made my new friends, the line in front of us broke up and dispersed. We thought the lines had become more organized. Which ultimately was just absurd when you really think of the absolute disorganization of the whole situation. As we progress forward inquiring as to what was happening, a lady who was in the line in front of us says, “It looks like there’s going to be a fight up there.” We’re all trying to figure out where and with who? Between the Mexican security and a passenger? Two passengers? What the hell? So what was what we considered mass chaos before, it had now turned into a disaster area. We move towards where the customs checks were happening. The 5 Jamaican women follow closely. When we get to a good view point of what was happening, we didn’t see a fight happening at all. We saw that there was no remanence of a line left. Instead people were clamoring and pushing to just make it to the roped off section to move through the customs line. It was at this point that I turned to the Jamaican women and said with the 5 of you and the 2 of us, we make a solid group. If we stick together, we’ll be 7-deep and we’ll look out for each other. They bought in without a second question. The most predominant of the 5 women took the lead. Within 2minutes and her yelling at me not to fall behind and stick together, she’d fought her way through the crowd and we were in the roped off line for the customs check. This didn’t go without several near fights that occurred as we pushed through the crowed. You’d think that once we were in the roped off area we were safe, but no. People who’d been waiting in line, clearly longer than we had, were pissed that people had made it into the customs line before they did. They started tearing down the ropes and pushing into the line. One couple was pointing out a guy in a yellow shirt who they’d known for a fact was behind them in the line originally and who was now at the customs counter in front of them and discussing beating his ass as soon as they could get to him and reminded each other not to lose sight of him. I let that couple cut in front of me. There was another guy in line with his kids yelling at his wife who was 2 rope lines away from him with a MASSIVE cart carrying several bags of luggage. He undid the ropes and instructed her to run over whoever she needed to, to be up in the line with him and the kids. He said things like SCREW THEM, PUSH THRU. She noticeably wanted to but knew that it was not the proper thing to do. Let’s just say that she gingerly ran over my flip-flopped foot. I yanked it out, side-stepped to get in front of that disaster and moved quickly to a customs counter.

You know for all the bitching we do about the good old US of A sometimes, I couldn’t help but think that no matter what, in America, this would have never happened. Shit, I’d would have been scared to even attempt a mob-setting at the US airport. With my track record, I would have ended up in jail… possibly rightfully so. Hard to say. No one at any point from the Mexican security or airport staff attempted in any capacity to help regulate the line and/or the mob rushing the customs counter. There were several moments sprinkled in there that legitimately scared me. Then I thought about that original possibility that I could have been going through all of that by myself.

Let’s also suffice it to say that when recounting my amazing trip to Mexico to my parents, I naturally neglected to share this part of the trip with them.

Once we got to the hotel, it was damn amazing. The hotel stretched at least along 2-miles of beach. It wasn’t on a strip line in Cancun other people can meander down the beach from several hotels. This beach was reserved for the occupants of the hotel. It was super relaxing. Our porch had a hammock. I love hammocks. I actually believe my love of hammocks to be unnatural. I probably spent equally as much time in that hammock reading as I did eating and swimming!

On to my ridiculousness. The 1st night that we were there, there was what they called Dorado Idle. We were staying at the El Dorado Royal and this was their karaoke version of finding the next American Idle. One of the guys that is friends with my best friend/cousin and works with her at her current company hung out with us the entire weekend. I decided that I loved him early on. He’s the type of guy you invite out when you are sitting around going – Who should we invite out that will be super fun and zero drama? Friggin SAM that’s who. So there we are watching this karaoke thing going on and Sam says to me, “What would it take you to get up there and sing something?” and I said, “Not a damn thing, I’ll do it if you sign me up.” After going back and forth on song selections, I say, “Sign me up under the name Night Hawk and put me down for Shoop by Salt n’ Pepa, and I’ll do it.” Off Amy went to sign me up. When she gets back to the table she says, “You’ll be glad to know that I just slid you into the last spot that they had open.” We all laughed. So when the last name was called… NIGHT HAWK… which was never more funny hearing it in a thick Mexican accent, I acted surprised and walked up to the stage. When I got on stage, he wanted to know what my real name was and I said my given name was Night Hawk. He stared at me. Then he says, “Are you ready?” and I (playing it up to its fullest) say, “I’m not sure. I didn’t sign myself up so I have no idea what I am singing.” Everyone laughed when they saw it was Shoop.

Now, this wouldn’t be the 1st time I have ever karaoked this song. It’s never gone well, let’s say. But it’s always funny nonetheless. The song is fast and there are words in there that I have been singing wrong for 17+ years. I expected a total disaster. But this was the 1st time that I can comfortably say that I damn near nailed this song. I mean, there was only 1 part where I had to stop and pick it back up as opposed to my usual 10-15times. For the entire weekend, people were coming up to me to tell me how amazing I was and how I should have won 1st place. (This vaguely reminded me of the drunken booty shakin’ contest that I took 2nd place in, in Vegas a couple of years ago; a different story for a different time.) There was one instance where Amy, Sam and I were at dinner and someone whispered, “Look, there’s the rapper!” LMAO. The rapper. That’s straight hilarity. I should also mention that we were in Mexico for a work trip for Amy and Sam’s company. They had meetings 1st thing in the morning and 1 in the evening but after that their time was 100% free. 95% of the hotels occupancy was taken up by people that worked for my cousins company. I found this funny when I went up on stage as Night Hawk and came down a friggin Rapper!

I will end this little blog ranting on night 1 in Mexico. I will tell you that I did drink that night. I wasn’t belligerently drunk when I sang Shoop. I had more sense than that, but I was well into several Vodka/Diets and after I sang pushing me over the edge took little effort. The last thing I remember of night 1 in Mexico was discussing in great detail how the 3 of us were going back to our hotel room and ordering hamburgers from room service; which we promptly did. In between that and when the burgers arrived, I’d passed out. What I woke up to was Sam standing over me, drunkenly wafting a hamburger under my nose saying that if I didn’t wake up and enjoy this amazingness, he was going to eat my burger and his. I took this as no idle threat. I sat up long enough to eat my entire burger and to take a bite of a RANCID piece of cheesecake that I apparently NEEDED when I was the one ordering room service.

I leave you with this… it becomes increasingly difficult to identify when a cheesecake is the WRONG color of brown (the joke here is that cheesecake should NEVER be brown) when you’ve been heavily drinking. I hadn’t needed to throw up, until that fateful bite. NOTE to you… just don’t order cheesecake in Mexico. I think we all learned a little something here. What though, I’m not really sure…