Is this thing on?

Yay, still here!

Where The Hell You Been?

I know.
Please don't hate me.
I'm back now, I promise, for good...
Let me get some rest and I'll tell you all about how I caught my toddler with his cock in Elmo's mouth...
Seriously, who could make that up?

The Real Crash Banticoot: The Real Reason Why I Shop At Target?

Hello, world! I am blogging again. You know what that means..... Blogging= angst.

Sigh.

Someone hit my car on Monday. My Volvo!!!!!!

Let me interject, here. My Volvo is not new. Its actually like, ten years old or something. But, I love it. I drives well, the mileage is great, its red, and 99% of the stuff in it works (mmmmm, 95%) In other words, its totally me.

Immediately after said accident, and my very own live, personalized episode of Cops*, the jokes began. My cousins are all, " Another accident? What are you- a moving target?"

Blah, blah, blah...

So Jess, one of my cousins, is like, "How many accidents have you been in, like, ten?"
Then, I'm all like, "Something like that".

Then, I really start to think. How many accidents HAVE I really been in???

The answer will certainly amaze you:

1. In my mom's Volvo when I was 7. Broken nose.
2. In my crackhead stepdad's (take that as literally as you'd like) pickup truck.
3. Age 20, Altima. Two weeks old. Pissed. Totaled.
4. Age 21, Camry. Dodge Truck Hit me on the highway, kept it moving. Pissed Again. Car repaired, and returned.
5. Age 22, Camry. Sleep Driving on Ambien. Confused. Totaled. My next car, the Carrolla, was lucky. It was stolen. As was the Accord.
6. Age 22 or 3. Ford Focus. Fell asleep (probably the Ambien again?) and hit a dude and his wife on the way home from back surgery. Sucks, huh? Totaled.
7. Age 22 (23?), my mom's spare Caddilac Deville. At Fault. Mom was Pissed. Repaired and Returned.
8. Age 23, Crown Victoria. Drunk dude backs into me after seeing the friendly neighborhood prostitute. Pissed. Repaired, returned. Still in my garage (don't ask why).
9. Age 23, Crown Victoria. Lady rear ends me. Not much damage.
10. Age 24, Chevy Blazer. Latino kid runs into the road at Lenox Mall and I sideswipe a pole to miss the bastard. Pissed. Mom pretended to speak no English. Security called cops, told me it was a civil matter. Really pissed as bastard's mom just shrugs. Repaired via uninsured motorist. Returned.
11. Age 24, Chevy Blazer. Rear ended in Atlanta rush hour traffic. Pissed. Totaled.
12. Age 26 or 7, Chevy Uplander. Barely tap a guy. No damage.
13. Age 26 or 7, Chevy Uplander. BRAND NEW. Two payments made. Rear ended by a woman who had spilled her cd's. Took 6 months to repair, ultimately deemed totaled 4 months later. Looooong time in a rental car.
14. Age 27 or 8, my mom's spare Surburban. Aren't I lucky she has a lot of cars? Isn't she screwed for having me as a daughter? Asian man tries to avoid a ticket by backing out of intersection, and into me. Sigh.
15. Age 28, Mom's spare Surburban. Again. Teenager rear ends me in front of the mall. Repaired and returned. At this point, my mom is so disgusted with me that she just gives me the truck. Yay? Not really.
16. Age 29, Mom's spare, no, MY Surburban. Guy hits me, keeps going, and I swerve into the median wall. Terrified. Totaled. Mom was pissed.
17. Age 30, Shiny red Volvo. After living across the street for 4 years from a crazy lady who hates me, and calls the police any time my company parks in front of her house on my side of the street, Her nurse parks in front of MY house on HER side of the street. And I back into her. Ironic? Broken tail light. Pissed.
18. 48 Hours ago, Shiny Red Volvo. Sitting still in front of a Gas station, waiting to turn into the parking lot. Driving while texting lady hits me going full speed. Confused. THEN THE BITCH TAKES OFF. Pissed.

Without giving too much juiciness from the next post, that's 18 accidents. 14, were not at fault. Maybe there's a reason why I love Target stores so much. I am one. A target, not a store.

Sigh.

OW, MY BACK!!!

* Here's the totally awesome news: I'll be posting TWICE. The whole Cops thing requires a post all to itself, and it will be totally worth the wait!

Thirty Year Old Jail Bait? It Really IS the New Twelve!

Let me start out by stating that I've missed you, dear bloggery. The waves of joblessness and poverty ebb and flow, thus I have had less time to pour out my ridiculous soul. I'll take busy over broke ANY day of the week, though. That being said.....
Today when I left church, I didn't feel the spiritual upliftedness that gets me through to, say, Thursday. Today was different. Today I needed several showers and a nap.
Mind you, I did not show up to church today wearing a whore's uniform, either. I wore the cutest blood orange colored linen dress WITH a slip (thank you, Granny), BELOW the knee (cute shoes, too- one of the colors on the shoe matched the dress perfectly, and the heel was just low enough to be comfy). My cutest accessory, Party Sub, was on my lap.
The Party Sub is the reason I usually sit close to the back- in case I have to dash from the church to change a diaper or murder a toddler (Buzz Lightyear goes to Children's church, Carlton Banks, Teen Church). Today, ushers sit us next to the sweetest looking elderly man with thick glasses and two hearing aids. He looks at Party Sub and goes, " CUTE BABY!!! HOW OLD IS HE?!?!?"
Yep- it was THAT loud. During Preservice prayer.

Hold onto your panties, girls. It only goes downhill from here.

He goes on to tell me, during preservice prayer, that he is a ninety one year old Navy Veteran who finally got his recognition from the government, and how he had SO much fun in Normandy last month (thanks, POTUS*, for the pick up line), and now he just needs someone to share his life with.

WHAT? What life? Didn't you just say you were ninety one? Ninety one is SO not the new fifty one, dude.

You know that record scratching noise that happens on television when some bull shit is going down?

I could totally hear it.

Then, he asks me if I am married.

Oh. Hell. No.....

Thankfully (I think), a lady comes and tells him, REALLY LOUDLY, that we are still having prayer time, and to shut up (politely, though).

What does Jesus's third cousin do? He pulls out a PEN.

And writes me a NOTE.

He asks, AGAIN, if I am married. I nod yes.

He asks if I am happy. I nod yes and point to the obvious indicator (a baby) on my lap.

He asks if I need a "friend". I look around for Ashton Kutcher.

As I look for Ashton Kutcher, I see an usher. I whisper the exchange to him, and he LAUGHS.

NOT what I am looking for, here.

He tells me to take it as a compliment and see if I can get his check. Funny, but as much as I need money, I don't want it like that.....

BLETCH. I experience the tiniest of dry heaves here.

Service goes on, and he leans over to look on in my Bible before the preacher begins. At this point, Sub Sandwich is getting sleepy, so the "mommy take out your boob" wrestling match begins.

Old dude is VISIBLY delighted.

So delighted, that he drools on my Bible. Splash.

I know.

You can fling yourselves back into your seat and scream now.

I will pause to allow you to compose yourself.

As I am finally able to wrestle Sub Sandwich's tiny (but very strong) arm from between the buttons of my dress, Chester the Molester suddenly leaps (as fast as he could, anyway) from the pew and races out with his "excuse me" finger held towards Heaven. Then I look over.

And see the wet spot, about the size of a dollar bill (scream again here).

Why Jesus, why?

Don't stop reading. The worst is yet to come.

The usher (the same one, no less) comes with gloves and a cloth, and gives the spot a quick spritz. When the molester returns, the dollar sized spot is covered. Yes, he RETURNS. I guess a little pee in the drawers never stopped a budding romance (he thinks romance, I think stalking)?

Then he writes me a note telling me I am nice, and get this, "prettie". I guess they spelled it that way before the Civil War? As I smile and nod.....

He puts his HAND on my damn thigh. Next to the BABY.

I'll pause again here.

I know I looked at this hand in horror. What I don't know is for how long. I also know that I took that cold ass, bony, ninety one year old hand between my thumb and forefinger and flung it so hard I almost broke is whole arm.

He was completely unbothered by this.

I think he just wanted me to touch him.

GROSS.

So then I write HIM a note, telling him that the pastor was preaching about living a holy life, but I would kill him if he did that again. Also, that there was a girl two rows in front of us that seemed to be wearing a blouse for a dress. He smiled and nodded.

After the benediction, I raced for the door, going the long way down the pew so as not to give Grandpa Perv an accidental lap dance and heart attack.

I swore, as I was leaving, that I heard the shriek of a woman with a hand under her blouse as she passed by. I mean dress.

Dress.

Really (no, not really. It WAS a freaking blouse. Sheer- with no slip. Being a size zero does not allow you to show up a Jesus's house dressed like a hooker. Come as you are, my ass. It was a BLOUSE. It barely crested the bottom of her nonexistent ass.).

Don't ask me what the Pastor talked about today. I really have NO idea.

And so, that was today.....

*POTUS is President of the United States, dumb ass. We don't call the Commander in Chief by his first name like he is our homeboy or something. Oh, and God bless America. Not the person, the country. Just so you know, that's a stupid name. Just saying.

Poverty and the Retro-er Hairdo

I'll get to the shotgun wedding thing soon, I swear. I'm waiting for EVERYTHING concerning said encounter to be over, and it's not... Yet...
So, you totally know I've been having hair issues, right (see "Dude, Where's My Wife" and "The Cost of Customer Service")?
Today I get all fed up with having 75% of a freakin' hairstyle, and decide to give myself a little trim.
At this point, ALL eyebrows should be raised. And someone who loves me should tackle me and take the sharp object, for I am clearly delirious.
Anyone who knows me is totally aghast right now, because the task of COMBING hair is usually too much for me. I just cant do it. I feel that there are certain things that people should be paid to do, like grooming me. Hair, nails, painful crotch snatching (that's waxing for those who haven't had it done), everything. If I could afford bathers.......Here comes the glimmery visual:
"The Royal V-Jay Jay is clean, your Highness". Hilarious.
ANYHOW!!!!!
Seeing as though I can hardly afford the items needed to bathe (water included), the bather, the pedicurist, and the licensed professionals with scissors and wax seem a bit too extravagant right now. So, I take the scissors to my own coif. After all, how hard can it be?
The Answer: Really completely totally hard.
Geometry notwithstanding, if anyone in an actual establishment had done this to my bangs, I would beat. Their. Ass. Royally. But, since this hack job was done by a chef that does a little butchering on the side, I will refrain from kicking my own ass for now. At least its even.
Ish.
Sigh.
So, as I look in the mirror, Ive got serious deja vu. So, I run and grab my tenth grade yearbook, and guess who has mom clipped bangs and a dumb ass look on her face?
This time, throwback is NOT cool.

Next Post

For my next post, I will be discussing how a pregnant, ambivalent bride can morph into the perfect Bridezilla, and why shotgun weddings can sometimes pay the bills.

The Price of Customer Service

I recently mentioned that I had gotten my hair done, and that the encounter was a post all on its own? Well, here it is, in the form of the online review that I posted on Yahoo! Search. Cant WAIT to see it. One more thing? You can pretty much guess that I gave this salon one. Whole. Star. Which was way too many.
Here's the comment I posted:
Ever see those coupons in the mail for hair salons? That usually means one of two things:
1. The business is desperate and in trouble.
2. The offer is too good to be true.
In the case of Yalonda's, BOTH are true.
The coupon says $25 for a wash and set, $50 for a sew in, & $75 for a sew in with a closure. You WILL leave this place with a total WTF? look on your face. Here's why:
Say you go in for the $25 wash and set. They will wash your hair, but not condition it. That's EXTRA. They will be nice enough to ask if you want it wrapped or roller set. When you are done drying, they will NOT unwrap your hair or comb out the curls. That's styling, and styling's EXTRA.
If you you have a bang- and the dryer makes it look all crispy and air dried, don't think you're getting that flat ironed. That's $15 dollars EXTRA.
Notice a pattern? Me too...
So, I go in for the $75 full sew in with a closure. I see the online reviews, but I'm all, "How bad can it be?". SIGH- I'm cheap.
So the stylist (this term is used REALLY loosely), sews in the hair. Then, she she spins me around with kind of a Voila! gesture. She doesn't even comb it through! Not even a finger combing! I'm like, "You're done? The ad says this comes with a basic cut".
She says to me, "That's only if I sew it in crooked. In that case, I just clip off the long piece. If you want the ends trimmed, that's EXTRA."
I cannot forget to mention the poor girl next to me, being serviced by the 17 year old working there without a license. She only mentioned that the sew in was WAY too tight about 80 times. I guess listening is EXTRA.
Next, let's discuss atmosphere, then sanitation and customer service (or the lack thereof).
Say you bought a foreclosed property. Say also that the prior owners were pissed to be leaving, so they threw wet toilet paper balls all over the walls (like we used to do in grade school), then painted all the walls and all the tissue bombs Crayola Crayon Green. You sweep in and get the property for a steal, then put a fan in the window and a boom box in a chair (with a wire hanger antenna!), and your decor is complete.
This is LITERALLY what Yalonda did.
You can actually tell that where she stands to do her "magic" is where the STOVE was! The original counter is still in place!There is not even a wash bowl in there!
Speaking of washing...The ENTIRE time I was there, not one stylist washed her hands even ONE TIME! I know this because neither of them left the room EVEN once, and there is NO sink upstairs. They touched, like, 20 heads, with no soap, hand sanitizer, and none of that green stuff for the combs that real stylists use, either. There were not even EMPTY cups FOR that green stuff (or is that stuff blue? Either way, there was NONE). I guess cleanliness is also EXTRA. I wonder if the wash sink is in one of the old bathrooms??
If you decide to set foot in this place, you had better know where you're going. The entrance of the house is the living room. There is no one there to say hello, or even a BEWARE! sign. Yalonda is up in the kitchen, and I think the stylists down in the bedrooms are independent, because Yalonda spent the entire time discussing how they were down there "'Effing up people's hair left and right". Yes, that's a quote. At any rate, when you come in, don't expect to hear "May I help you?" or anything like that. Everyone will basically stop talking and stare like you were the one they were all just discussing. It's up to you to initiate the conversation, and don't expect any small talk or smiling, either. Customer Service must also cost EXTRA.
The entire time I was there, no one left with a completed hairstyle. Who the hell wants to pay someone to get their hair started, then finish it at home? That's like going to Taco Bell for Fourthmeal and then coming home to assemble your own Nachos Belgrande.
Seriously.
If you want a hair- do complete with air conditioning, customer service, salon products, cleanliness, hair combing, AND a style.. NO WAY.THAT'S EXTRA.