I am no longer poor.

That is what this t-shirt is trying to say, for those who might not be as well-versed in our up-and-coming street lingo. (For the record, that shirt wouldn't jive with my bank account currently - maybe one day.)

 

I should preface by saying I watched this man rummage through a garbage can before I faked a phone call and u-turned to get the close-up shot of the T. 

The t-shirt itself, for many, requires a translator to be understood. When I first shared my photo, I found myself having to say "read it out loud" before the humor could even start to be found. (And in all actuality, I don't think the shirt when originally designed was intended for humor.) But what's worse, is that somewhere before this ended up at Good Will, the shirt was most likely used at a marketing tool aimed to convince young minds to invest what little funds they may have into Po-No-Mo Records so that they can turn into the gold iconic "musician" we see in the middle.  

A few clicks on Google let me to the words of Po-No-Mo's CEO:

I'm determined to run a successful record label, as well as do good honest business. I feel that alot has been taken away from the indusry because people are afraid to come together because they are scared they are going to loose out on something. Let's pull our resources together and make this happen for the D/FW. Ya' feel me!!!

No, chief executive officer, grammatical errors aside, I'm not feeling you.

P.S. - I realize it's been nearly a year since my last post. I'm working on that.

Excused from Lease.

I guess it's like the saying, "The squeaky wheel gets the grease." Earlier this week I was emailing with my landlord about my continuing ant problem (or "infestation problem") as I like to call it for dramatic effect, and I suggested my rent be adjusted to disinclude the squarefootage in the "unlivable room". He replies telling me he is unwilling to adjust the rent; however, since I have had "more than my fair share of problems", he will let me out of the lease. I was in shock. I have heard such horror stories about people stuck in leases and paying $1,000+ just to get out, that this was certainly not something I expected. So now, three days later, I have secured a trusty, not-so-old apartment complex that I will readily move into in mid-September, not that I am counting the days (43). Yesterday I signed the paperwork and figured I could make it the short time until I was out of the treehouse without any real issues. Oh contraire...

Last night I got home around 8 o'clock and parked on the wider of the two cross-streets I live on since the other is taken over with bobcats, pipes, and other construction peraphanalia. Then as I'm leaving this morning, I find this:

To the left you will see my 6-week old car with the mirror knocked off. The red splotch is not a tomatoe or paintball as I have since been asked, it's blood... something I discovered after putting my thumb smack in the middle of it. So now, 2.5 hours later, I have finished my police report which was elavated from a "hit-and-run" to "criminal activity" since Officer Whoeveryouwere found five other cars along the street with similar damage. As he was writing down the info (still working under the hit-and-run classification), I pointed out that there are speckles of red (i.e. blood) all along the asphalt leading up to the car. He checked for himself and told me [Andy Griffith surprised voice] "well you're absolutely right!" And as I told the po, lucky for him I watch a lot of CSI.

So anyway, I am now blogging from the car place waiting not so much for my new mirror, but for the 43rd day to come. 

T.G.I.F. 

P.S. - And just for Pollyanna, I am grateful for my landlord for his willingness to let me out of the lease; for my accross-the-street-neigbor who drove around the neighborhood to find the other damaged cars and secured my mirror so it wouldn't scratch my car; for my boss and his understanding of my absence; and for my parents... well for too much to recount. :)

Bachelor Pad.

For those of you who don't know, I am a shameless fan of the Bachelor and Bachelorette series (minus the most recent season with Ashley due to her combination of incessant squealing and fidgeting). Yes, I know that the show is most likely scripted and that the chances of the couple lasting are about one in fifteen, and I do believe that it has the propensity to give malleable young girls skewed views on "reality" (since most first dates don't involve private concerts or skydiving), but somehow I get sucked in season after season to watch the trains derail. And I hesitate to admit this, but I once even entertained the idea of an Oklahoma City casting call (under heavy pressure from my old LTB roommate), but discovered that my employment precluded me from doing so - a good snap back to actual reality. Nevertheless, I have compiled my top 10 observations for those of you who may have missed the 3-hour season premier. (Oh and enjoy, because this list is the closest thing to a recipe you will ever see on this blog, unless maybe it involves a shaker and some form of sugary rim!)

1. Casey is still talking about his heart and unable to form complete sentences. 
2. Vienna still has creepy eyes, now coupled with the worst haircut I have ever seen on national TV. 
3. Gia, you continue to set the bar for class on this show. Why do you keep coming back?
4. Erica is still sporting a tiara, despite the fact she is from a suburb of Houston, Texas.
5. How come they couldn't get Brad Womack on here? It's not like he has any pride left.
6. I still don't get why everyone refers to the wrestler as "rated R". It's weird.
7. Michelle "Money" (I question that being her actual name) appears to have toned it down.
8. I have a real hard time believing any of these people go on this show "for their child's sake" (i.e. Ella). At some point, do they not wonder if it will do more harm than good?
9. Jake, kudos to you. Your performance tonight reinstated you as the Bachelor tool of all time. 
10. And seriously... where is Craig R.?

That's all for tonight. Now onto Words with Friends. 

Laundry.

This morning I finished the laundry that I started last night. In order for this to make sense, I need to give some background on the setup of this lovely residence of mine and its community "laundry room". I live in the apartment above not only the two-car garage (occupied by two separate residents), but above a small storage-looking space that has been converted into a 1980's laundry room. (The back wall appears to be a wall but actually opens up like a horror movie so that if anyone needs to walk around under my house, they are free to do so... something I learned post-lease-signing.) So last night I started my laundry and finished everything with the exception of emptying the last load of whites from the dryer.


Here is a side note: I would have walked downstairs last night to empty the dryer; however, the "laundry room" is located very close to the side of my house that was recently reconverted into an outhouse when an unseen stranger went to the restroom (no. 2) all down the side of it and left his tighty, not-so-whities on the ground next to the three trash cans I empty on a weekly basis. At the time my neighbor, Carly, told me I should be thankful of her hosing down the side of the house, yet she left these soiled drawers on the ground for me to dispose of and followed it up with, "I'm sure you don't know anyone who would do that to you... do you??" No. Pardon my french, but I have no friends who would find it comical to shit down the side of my house and leave their disgusting underwear for me to clean up.


So anyway, this morning I'm walking downstairs, laundry basket in tow, at the exact time that Carly is getting in her car - with fly of jorts unzipped. She stops and says, "Oh I folded your white jeans for you! I love doing that stuff!" 


"Awww!!" I initially think to myself at how nice that is of her to go out of her way and do that for me. And I'll admit I even had a slight tinge of doubt about the conclusions I've come to regarding her sanity. So I go to the laundry area and my jeans are folded on a counter; the rest of my whites are still in the dryer; and nothing is in the washing machine... leading me to the question at hand: why is this woman going through my items in the dryer and randomly selecting what she wants to fold when she clearly has no items to put in there to begin with? This gesture just went from kind to creepy.


Paranoid or pre-cautious?

Dancer's Workshop.

I've started a new workout. (And by started, I mean I've gone twice and am keeping my fingers crossed I won't get bored with it.) But it's called Smart Barre and is basically an hour long workout centered around a ballet bar, the idea being to strengthen and elongate rather than building bulky muscle. So my question is this: when did ballet bars go from exciting to excruciating? I can remember a time when I would throw my leg on the ballet bar like it was nothing and bend my body over, and now, even at my somewhat taller height, things pop. And I'm 25, not 52, so I am in some sort of shell shock over what this means for the future. I guess it's kind of like a trampoline. The last time I got on a trampoline it was somewhat comparable to jumping in sand. (Awful.) So anyway, I just wanted to suggest the class to anyone looking for a good workout because if nothing else, it might take you down memory lane to dancing lessons of your past. I have gone back to Dancer's Workshop and Miss Brandy. That's all for now.

The Treehouse.

Perhaps this is what spurred my desire to "blog". About three months ago I decided to attempt an economical decision, which for those of you who know me is few and far between in the hundreds of choices I make each day. But nevertheless I decided to move from a downtown apartment complex circa 2006 to a modest neighborhood garage apartment circa the 19th century. Hardwood floors, wood-paneled walls, stand-alone sink in the bathroom, a lack of electrical outlets, etc.

I guess some of the initial red flags were the fact that the toilet was so close to the sink that multitasking was all-too-possible; the lack of AC in the kitchen - along with the lack of disposal and dishwasher but considering my cooking habits those weren't really concerns; the fact that the main house is leased as a duplex rather than owned by an individual or family (more to come on this); and the alley that my little home backs up against. But all things aside, the rent is "cheap". And since I was told money didn't grow on trees, I figured I would move into one.

One of the two residents of the main house is a middle-aged woman in the midst of a divorce; we'll call her Carly. I know that she is in the midst of divorce because she told me this within the first 90 seconds of me meeting her, along with the fact that she makes cactus arrangements she calls "Carly's Creations", owns 12 pairs of cowboy boots and is currently in her 4th job in two years -- but partially because she got the bird flu when she worked in an old warehouse in Houston. (Interesting.) We swapped phone numbers for emergency purposes, although it has since been proven that our definitions of "emergency" are not the same, but I'll save that for another day. I think the most positive thing I can say here is that she is a "free-spirit" to the T, and as a native Austinite, I can and appreciate that, or can try to.

Anyway, earlier today I was getting ready for bed around 9 p.m. when I nearly jumped out of my skin as I heard a gong bang outside my window. I waited for a second - because this isn't The King And I - and it happened again. Outside my bedroom window I see a full-fledged bronze gong set up on the clothes line (another red flag I should have seen 90 days ago), and Carly banging away. But since my mother always taught me to look for the positives, "The Glad Game" as she and Pollyanna call it, tonight still beats yesterday - when my new exterminator friend, Danny, upon arrival to my front door to deal with a massive ants-with-wings issue, greeted me with, "Ohhh yeahh I have been here before; you're the one who had the mouse problem!"

So I'll leave that for now. Not to be shared with my dad... but this is exactly why I hate making economical decisions.