Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Getting Asked Out

When you are a lady and a gentleman asks you to go out on a date with him romantically, regardless of what actually goes down, it is pretty huge. It involves an invitation, a small amount of bravery, and maybe, hope.

I haven't been asked out on a date since June (and I was so deeply honored and excited and it eventually sucked...big time, but I am sure he is a nice guy but just not for me). But today broke the whole almost 6 month recession when a client at the job took the time to remove the sucker from his mouth to say "Go out with me."

Normally, I would've said "Sure." But not today. I felt very on the spot and kind of told more than asked. And word to the wise, I rarely get told what to do. Today, I said the old stand-by, "I've got a boyfriend." And he replied, "That old guy." And then I got very self-conscious like racking my brain to remember "WHAT OLD GUY?!?!?" I can not remember me and an old guy doing squat in like forever. And then I remembered I work with an old guy and it all made sense. In a way. So I just nodded.

But it is always special to get invited to anything. Recently, I was sent an Evite to attend some holiday soiree and I looked at the Evite no less than about 100 times I am sure of it. And the host called me up and was like "Why do you keep looking at the Evite? Are you monitoring it or something?" And first off FUCK YOU EVITE for putting some sort of notifyer on Evites and secondly NO I was not monitoring anything. I was just so happy to get invited! Period! Getting included makes me happy. I'm a second child. 'nough said.

Which is why I am inviting all of you...(and that probably just includes Shaun which is enough for BFF) to come watch me read a personal, prose essay called "My Brain." It is this Friday, November 30th at the Riverview Wine Bar at 7:30 in Minneapplesauce. The piece is about my brain or what it does actually. I will read it and other writers in the Twin Cities will read stories and essays as well. It is possible I might get drunk, again.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Pete Wentz' Sex Tape

Which isn't really a sex tape, is a little special.

He's all tatted up and there's music and there's a shitty editing job and she slaps him across the face.

Until I saw this, I thought you physically owned a somethig or other called "sex tape." No really, I did. And I was like, "Something I don't have. Where can I get me some?" But now I know and they seem to be rather problematic once you have one and then you have to defend it to not get excommunicated and/or piss off you girlfriend or boyfriend. And then think of the KIDS!!

My three little boy's that will someday spring forth from my body (or so says the fortune teller) do not need a mother who has a sex tape in her cedar chest. Instead little Alvin, Simon, and Theodore are going to have a mother that just admires sex tapes from afar.

But his is the best because he is kind of hot. Even if it isn't real. Check it out.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007


Honestly, I dig honesty. And I'm gonna be honest and say how sorry I am for my disjointed and ill-edited blogging. I'm truly an idiot and to be honest, perfectly, not that sorry.

BUT today, at the job, a woman calls and says, "They giving out gas cards today?" To which I responed, "I can not answer that question." "Well," she says, "It's about 2:30. General Hospital is over at three...I'll be over after three." So she sits home watching soap operas, comes into this nonprofit to collect free shit, and out of her pocket falls a pack of Salem cigs. And I'm like amazed.

And appeased that her unabashed way of stealing from the taxpayers and other more deserving needy people is sooooo honest. It's like she doesn't give a damn. She doesn't work, her kids go to daycare which gets paid for by the government, she gets free gas, internet, and food AND all she has to do is pretend to be looking for a job. PRETEND.

And now you all think I'm an asshole. But I am not.

A lady walked in. Didn't speak English. Wanted to sign her kids up for Toys for Tots, but we had locked the doors and I didn't have a key. I got into my car and as I drove to my house I see her walking, in the cold, past a bus stop. And I cried the rest of the way home. Or to the liquor store, actually. And the Liquor Master (it's what I called the cashiers at the liquor store) thought I was coked out from the look of my red puffy eyes.

I should've hunted her down, given her a ride, bought toys instead of merlot. And while it is my job as a christian to do so, it is not my job to be the little semblance of justice in her life when behind her back government is handing stuff out to people that just don't make sense.

HONESTY is a little special. I guess.

Monday, November 19, 2007

The World We Know is OVER

Today, I solved computer issues for not one, not two, not three, BUT four motherfuckers.

It just goes to show, that you can do anything if you put your mind to it.

And it also means haste, makes waste.

And possibly you must conquer your fear or you fear will conquer you.

I dated a guy who would roll his eyes everytime I came at him with a mixed metaphor, or proverb, or Bible passage, or personal anecdote, or actually, I'm going to be honest, any formation of words that one might string together in the form of a sentence. He really hated when I talked. Upon meeting his best friend he told me, "Mind your p's and q's. I want you on your best behavior." Which meant, I wasn't allowed to talk too much.

But why do expressions exist if they aren't to be used? Why do people shun them?

Back to being a computer IT mambo Sambo. I work at a non-profit employment counseling service with a resource center and people come in to use computers and sometimes have snaffus. Part of my job, surprisingly, is to remedy those snaffus. If you were to ask previously mentioned bf if he believes I'd ever end up in this situation, he'd probably manifest disbelief in the form of crapping his pants.

BUT I find that I round out these computer counseling sessions with some sort of malapropism or syntactic blend and people respond by looking at me with a hint of pity.

Situation #1: Man can not upload his resume to a company website and he enlists my help. I come over and notice that he has the proposed file for uploadment open. A major Widows "no-no" and with a click here and a click there, his resume is attached and he is now a candidate to accurately saw concrete. He says to me, "Thanks Sam. I wish I knew computer tricks like that." To which I responded, "If wishes were horses, we'd be knee deep in shit."

Situation #2: Girl can not get keyboard to type anything. I tap on the keys a little and smell something quite Dr. Peppery. I ask her, "Did you pour some of that pop on the keys?" "Guilty," she says, "I'm so sorry." And I said, "A guilty conscience never feels secure."

Situation #3: A woman calls me over because everytime she hits delete within a word or sentence and starts to type it 'overtypes' on words she "meant to stay damn put." I noticed she had "OVERTYPE" and fixed it as I knealt beside her. "You going to injure your knees sitting like that," she said to me. I replied, "You're probably right. My Achilles ankle has always been my knees."

Situation #4: isn't able to display pictures of some girl's baby and it's a "real cute fat picture." (I also have another story to share about MySpace) And I taught this individual how to right click on something and perhaps display a picture. And then I kicked her off of MySpace because computers are for job searching and not recreational uses. "But I'm just looking at a baby's picture," she said to me, and I said "Sharpen your pencil." Which was something my father always said to me that meant shape up and stop fucking around.

***Other Myspace story. MySpace apparently has spyware attached to it. And nothing is more entertaining than to watch two people over 50 debate about what exactly spyware is. I was sober and it was about 2 o'clock. And neither admitted to actually knowing.***

Anyways, figures of speech are cool. A lot of people won't know what you are talking about. But I think they are a little special and I try to work it about 10 or so a day. For no other reason than it helps me talk a little bit longer and maybe cements whatever it is I was talking about in the first place into that person's head.

Next topic, anything titled "Mom's ..."

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Accurate Concrete Sawing and supporting storylines

This evening I was watching "Pretty Woman" for about the twenty-thousandth time. And I was particularly riveted by a scene involving Lewis Enterprises. An associate calls Edward (Richard Gere) and says that the company he is intending on purchasing and selling off the pieces has secured a "contract to build Navy destroyers," and then Edward says he will "bury that contract in the Senate's appropriations committee."

What is the point of bringing this up?

If you really watch this movie you know it is more than entertaining. It is extrordinarily well written. The supporting storyline appropriately blends in with the main conflict which we all know is; can love transcend the fact that Julia, while beautiful and extremely witty for a whore, was in fact a whore? Literally. She was a whore.

The Lewis Enterprise is on-goings perpetuate the film that we all know and love. And yet we only remember the parts where Julia gets to shop and when they go to the opera and she cries or the part when she gets slapped by George Constanza.

Concrete sawing is something that I never imagined in my lifetime existed. But now that I know it is a profession and someone can be accurate at it if they might need to be a whole world of realization reality has entered my consciousness.

I can recall a man who was delicately sandblasting gum off a city street. Another person polished acid graffiti off a storefront. And still another person powerwashes windows that no one would ever see in from the outside, and another tuck-points, others assemble, create, build, breaks down, cleans, drives, arranges, audits, drafts, bids, polishes, teaches, arrests, collects, calls, and so on and there-fore that I think I have met one of everyone. I guess what I am saying is that what we do, the supporting storyline of our lives, is a little special.

While to some what we do is who they are, and that's cool. It just means that whatever that is IS a LOT special.

Something has touched my life as of late. It is confusion of what life has dealt some people. That what you pursue academically and/or professionally is and will determine who are your friends are, what things you will need to survive, and maybe what you might buy at a grocery store. And maybe that is o.k. But I had a client once that was a mildly autistic trucker. Never would I have chosen for him to be in my life. But I really liked talking to him. Learning about trucking. And I decided that trucking is probably the best industry for functional autistics. If you think about it.

But I digress. I guess I am just saying that there is a lot to learn from a lot of people out there.

Edward learned what his heart truly desired from the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold, Vivian. And she helped him, coincidentally with his business ventures.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Mark(c) Cohn vs the drunken b-log

Bla-iz-zog. I ran into my friend Matty at the old Riverview Wine Bar and his repeated use of the term "cell block" has fueled by creativeness.

Marc Cohn...he walked upon Memphis. He saddled something. Got stung in an undercover illegal operaion, Out ran the cops.s Got in some sort of ill-conceived litigations and this day, the popularity of one overtly (I thought long and hard bout that word choice) popular pop song couldn't drag him out of despair?!?

Memphis, I hear, is the shiz. The place to have iced tea and think. The place to see porches and bees and angular live action. The place actually feels music.

It's the latter, I don't buy.

I feel Darren Jackson. PRINCE!! Bob Dylan. Marc Cohn was mis-informed. And I hate incredulousness.

Any many will poor dear piece of mis-informed tra-iz-ash. Marc Cohn doesn't have dick to say about shit. But WHY? WHY is what I say?

'Cause I was walking in Memphis? I was walkin with my feet ten feet off of Beale. Wah-alking in Memphis. But do you really feel the way I feel?

TOO MANY QUESTIONS MARC!!!! Too many questions about a place that is landlocked and is humid.

And, let me bring the wikipedia into play...he was Jewish (it is like the 5th word in the description of this man). I have never wanted to be anything BUT Jewish. My whole life, I have aspired to be Jewish. And I thought being Jewish meant you had to wax your arms (thanks Barb when I was in 2nd grade...U R the best!!!). But fer reals...are we to believe that he resided in residential or urban or industrial or rural Memphis anything and anytime? With a talent like his????? I am thinking,,,,nah uhh.

Marc Cohn performs here in the twin cities twice a year. And we are thankful and reciprocate in selling out his concert venues. But do these people sit there for a whole 3 minutes? And enjoy the one song that energizes this man's career? Thank you Clear Channel for perpetuation of one man's blind ambitions.

ANd the next "just a little something special" reflection will be,,,the Twin Cities Company: Accurate Concrete Sawing. It exists. Get serious about it!

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Wallet Chains & Back Pocket Hankies poetry.

I worked with a guy, he was tall
With a peacockish gait and Vans in all styles
He wore silly hats advertising Welders,
and he wore both a wallet chain and a back pocket hankie

I hate poetry.

So yeah, until I met this guy (his name was Josh and he looked like a Who from Whoville only a seven foot tall Who and he repeatedly touched my left shoulder and threw his trash in the bin behind my chair) I was all for wallet chains or back pocket hankies. They are very purposeful and serve a purpose and might be purposed as an adornment or purposely worn as some sort of gang symbolism. I don't know, but they are indeed "a little special." To me at any rate!

I was given a reading by a psychic years ago and he said I would bear 3 male children and I immediately went to Gander Mountain and saw these wallets attached to chains that one can secure onto a belt and then never be pickpocketed ever again and I thought to myself, "I better buy three of these bad boys," because then I would put identification cards and warning labels in the wallets and sew them into my son's trousers and then I could buy a leash (or mountaineering paraphenalia) and lasso my children together and never lose them and they would always be calmed by their mother's voice because I'd be near them. See, I'd be a good mother, I'm already looking out for the little fuckers right now. I know public schools ban wallet chains which is why I'd home-school and we'd pledge allegiance and maybe throw in an Our Father.

And then one Spring I was sent to purchase my Grandfather hankies and I couldn't find them anywhere (hello!?! Minnesota, home of the homer hankie) and I was pissed because it takes a very special person to purge themselves of mucus through their nose onto something purposed for such an act only to be washed and reused. Used and reused. It's full of snot and then it's know you love me.

At any rate, why are they only a little special? Because not everybody recognizes their nuanced place in this world. Just like not everybody will be able to recognize the contributions this blogs next subject hath made to humanity; Marc Cohn.

But that's another time. Josh kind of double dipped and wore both with made me furious at times and I once purposed his hankie as something to dust the Whoville "Where the fuck is Christmas" expression right off his face. And I was like "Blow...give Mommy a good blow." But he politely took it back, folded it in a triangle and stuffed it back into his pocket jiggling and jangling all along with that wallet chain of his.

Yesterday, I saw a man finesse his wallet out of his saggy back pocket and it slipped almost acrobatically out of his hand but did not land upon the floor. dangled about 6 inches above his ankles and he pulled the chain to retrieve the wallet instead of bending a little to actually grab the wallet. It was lyrical.

I'm babbling. Get ready for next time.