Snarfle Argy McSnargy

Ok, I'm freaking the hell out (thus the nonsensical title to this post). Everything has happened all at once, and I'm a little overwhelmed.

1. I am now living in the burbs. It is way too quiet. I mean it's like solitary confinement at Alcatraz quiet. Crazy quiet. I was eating crackers the other day, and I could swear that it was so loud that my neighbors could hear it (if I have them). My new apt is ok, though. I had to sign a wildlife addendum that says that I won't feed the animals etc. I've seen lots of raccoons and huge ass spiders with webs as strong as guitar strings. No alligators yet, but they were mentioned on the addendum with coyotes.

2. A month and a half until my marathon. Had a little panic attack today. I did 18 miles last weekend with little problems (the arch of my foot cramps up at mile 16), but someone sent me this link today, and it freaked me out. Really, it freaked me out. WTF am I doing? What was I thinking? Seriously, I went to a meeting atop Central Market in May, and they showed me these damned videos with poor leukemia kids crying and fat people crossing the finish line, and I'm totally bawling deep down inside with the little lump in my throat and I signed the dotted line. WTF??? I am NOT a runner! What was I thinking? Holy shit. I could die. Really, I could die! I mean the fear has now gone from not finishing to freaking dying. OMG.

3. I have a new running group. It's still the Leuk society, but this is the clear lake leukers. They're nice. They are. I have to say that. They're much nicer than Memorial and less competitive. In fact, I came in second on Tuesday, right behind Chipper Lori who I keep calling Chipper Jen because I forget her name is Lori. Chipper Jen/Lori wears pink and not much of it because she forgets to wear clothes when she runs. She has less boobs than I do so she only needs two bandaids and dental floss to hold them together while she runs. Her shorts or speedos or something on the other hand, I'm not sure about. I wouldn't be caught dead swimming in that little fabric, much less running. She's built like a string bean, though, and has the energy of a rabbit on speed. We live in the same complex, apparently, and she's so damned excited that I could be her running partner. "OMG OMG OMG OMG, we TOTALLY live right next to each other you should TOTALLY come knock on my door and be my running partner." And she's running in place while I'm trekking up kemah bridge at the best of my ability for the 5th time, wheezing. As I explain to her that she runs an 8 minute mile, while I run a mere 11, I can see her eyes lose that twinkle and her Jokeresque smile start to sag. She looked like a little girl who had just dropped her lollipop in an ant bed. I explained that I hadn't ever run before, and this is my first attempt, and she says, "Oh TOTALLY! I TOTALLY started running in college 5 years ago." Yeah, that did it. I kicked it into gear and finished the last repeat faster than the Roadrunner. Bite me, chipper.

4. Did I mention I live in the suburbs?

5. Work is crazy insane. I haven't had time to breathe.

6. Everything I have is in boxes. Everything. I have one pair of shoes and a bra. I've been pulling shirts out of random boxes and putting them together with whatever will cover my ass. what happened was that I ran out of boxes on Thursday night before I moved, so everything got shoved into random grocery bags or duffel bags or filing cabinets--anything that holds something. I think I have a pair of underwear in a carafe somewhere, for gods' sake. My house looks like a life sized version of a Jenga tournament, boxes precariously stacked upon one another. I'm going nuts. And it's so damned quiet!!!

7. i forgot to switch my mail over, and I keep forgetting. WTF is wrong with me?

8. I can't even remember 8. I'm losing it people.

The girls, Vajeesus and Don Eduardo

So I've been too cranky to post, but since my little Clustrmap thing started over recently, and now I don't have those cool giant red dots all over the country, I feel like I should provide some posts. (That was the longest sentence I've ever written on this blog).

So I'm looking at past August posts for inspiration, and I found that August of 2006 was a wonderful year. I finally came to terms with my boobs, after making the resolution to on Jan 1, 2006 via phone to Glinda. In fact, my post on Aug 7 was all about how I patted them in the shower to show how much I loved them. AW.

Then there was the post on Aug 17ish, when G and all of the angels were hanging out at the birthplace (and birthtable) of Don Eduardo and someone, I'm thinking SFV, named her hooha Vajeesus.

Then there was this night. Ah, I can still smell the pre-puke. And the day after.

And that was also the month of the mysterious bruise that G gave me when I tried to haul her ass up the stairs and into her bed safely! Said bruise got me many looks at work and even a comment from my boss. At least she didn't nail me to the wall.

And all I can say is that this August, I've spent most of my nights at the hospital with grandma, most of my days at work with the crazies and with the cp who makes my ass twitch (and not in a good way) and my week off moving grandma and trying to find a place in the cool part of town. Alas, there is no said place, so my ass has to move to the only freaking apt in Stepford...er, i mean Clear Lake, and THEY can't even decide if I'm good enough for them. Seriously, they have called references, and it has been 5 days since they took my money, and they still haven't made a decision as to whether or not I'm cool enough to live in their Disneyfied crackerbox. Vajeesus!

So in 2 weeks, I may be homeless. Seriously. Homeless.

I WANT AUGUST OF 2006 BACK!

Hair bands in Houston

Today was a wretched day at work. Wretched. I can't even get into the wretchedness because I just can't. I can't relive it.

But what I can do for you, my faithful blogging audience, is paint a picture of the funniest bar in Southeast Houston--no, scratch that, Clear lake.

First, however, I must paint a picture of idyllic Clear Lake. Think NASA people--engineers and their spouses who are either also engineers (the cool people) or are bubbleheaded, plastic faced women perpetually clad in tennis skirts or maternity tops, depending on their condition. Think chain restaurants and bars attached to ritzy hotels, where you moor your boat and then step up to the bar for a $15 well drink. Got the picture?

So I end a horrible day with dance class, where I just make a fool out of myself because 23 years of ballet does not an Irish dancer make. I meet up with the cool pastor at Finns. Now 2shirts knows this bar--it's across the street from his pad. I figure if the doubleshirted wonderboy likes it, then I will, too.

I walk in and sit at the bar, waiting for the CP. The Cards/Mets game is on. Score is 3 to 2, Cards favor, dominantly displayed on the screen. A man, exceedingly drunk at 9 pm, says to me, "Who's winning?" I say, "um...St louis, and point to the screen." He then says, "NO, who's winning?" Then I say, "you mean the series?" thinking that maybe he's not a complete idiot. He proved me wrong: "No, the game. Who's winning?" "Um...cards. St Louis." He then asks me to play pool, and I say, I'm waiting for someone, and he says, "Stop. Retract that. Done." Sad thing was that he was probably one of the more sober ones of the bar.

CP shows up. We talk shop for a bit. Crazy ass place. Then Kareoke starts. Lord help us all. Out of the chute first, my friends, steps up a man--and I don't mean just any old man, but this man was, well, how should I put it...um, he was C. C. Deville. In fact, he began by singing, "Every Rose Has it's Thorn." Here's the thing: I hear the beginning of it, but I'm at a table with my back to the stage. I look at CP's face, and he says, "Dear God, you...you...you have to turn around and look, Kim, omg, he's...he's...he's got the microphone. HE"S SLINGING THE MICROPHONE!" I turned around, and he had the microphone stand over his head and was swinging it in a circular motion. His voice--not so bad. His stance--just like a freakin hair band. knee cocked inward, skinny legs in latex. I was almost on the floor laughing.

Singer2--Lydia. Lydia is the only name I remember from the night because Lydia was SO BAD! Lydia likes to sing songs by Sinead O'Connor and Cher. Lydia truthfully sounded like Rosanne Barr singing the national anthem, only Lydia was serious. For this song, though, she sang Material Girl, as if she had never heard it before in her life. I've never heard anyone sing it quite like that.

Singer 3--Raul. Raul could sing ok, but Raul liked to rap better. Raul shouldn't rap.

Then we start the rotation over. DJ begs for other singers as he calls C. C. back up to the mike. That's when the intro to Home Sweet Home starts. Ok, now you can't really appreciate kareoke until you hear C. C. singing Crue and then midway through, he pulls out a pistol shaped lighter which sends off a bright red flare and then leaves a flame that he holds over his head, waving it back in forth, singing the chorus to himself. Each song, btw, he keeps getting closer and closer to the audience.

Lydia gets up again, and DJ asks Raul to sing a duet with her. It was the Kid Rock/Sheryl Crow song, and jeezalmighty, nothing could make my skin crawl worse. Truly, it was bad. So so so so so bad. For the record, in 3 hours, Lydia sang 6 times. All bad.

C. C. is back up again. This time, he sings another hair band song, but I can't remember what it was. The microphone stand swirling over his head mesmerized me.

Then a guy who is the spitting image of Trent Reznor, gets up and sings The Whipping Post. Not bad, actually. Odd song choice. His friends were in the back kicking each others' asses--men and women. No one seemed to care about the bloody faces they gave each other. Just another day at Finns.

I sang, and the waitress was enamored. I think she almost asked for my autograph...wait, she did, though it was on my bar tab. Still, though, she touched me funny, several times, and I think she wanted to take me home, lock me up in a cage, and make me sing to her. If I could just make people throw money at me for my voice! Wait they do that for my smile...hmmm...I could really use some things to my advantage. Note to self. The CP thought I did a good job, though he liked my "gravelly" tone, which I take as an insult, but he seemed to mean it as soulful and Melissa Etheridge like. CP used to sing in a band. He wouldn't sing kareoke. He sucks. After 2 cocktails, though, he was leafing through the book, so I think one more rum and coke would've prodded his ass up on the stage.

So, more bad kareoke, and then the DJ notes that Halloween is on a Tuesday, when they will be having Skareoke, which prompted the CP and me to both say at the same time, "As if tonight isn't scary enough."

Finns. What an odd little place. Skareoke anyone?