The Hunt for Red July

CODE RED! CODE RED! ALL HANDS ON DECK! St. Louis has been declared in a state of emergency. The tsunami-like storm hit during a pleasant dinner with my family. The sky turned black and winds blew leaves past our window at the restaurant. Upon our arrival home, we found trees uprooted, cables on the ground, stoplights laying in the road. Luckily my house remained unscathed, besides the shredded fungi covered awning above the back door that I'd been meaning to take down anyway. Nothing like a natural disaster to kick procrastination right in the ass!

I've been without power for two days now in a St. Louis summer. Days are 105 degrees, nights hit a stagnant 90. No A/C, no gas stations, no lights, no TV, no computers, no garage door openers, no cordless phones, no restaurants. Nothing. It's like Armageddon without Bruce Willis or Ben Affleck. Oddly enough, this also means no stoplights, which apparently don't exist without the glowing ball of color inside them. I know you're supposed to stop at them even when they're down, but I just don't see them! I'm busy pointing out that the broken tree limb looks like a dragon head. It's like watching human frogger as the pedestrians try to manuver their way across the 4 lane streets. "Ok after the blue Tempo..." "WAIT!" "Ok after the green Probe" "OK GO! GO GO GO!!"

I have to admit, the damage was more significant than I ever imagined I'd see. My favorite park, Tower Grove, has been destroyed. Behind closed gates, the massive hundred year old trees are split, leaving jagged branches and naked stumps. The braches sprawl across the grass like fallen soldiers in a battlefield. Trees are uprooted throughout the city, leaving shallow graves in fractured sidewalks.

I've been calling my house throughout the day, hoping my answering machine will pick up, letting me know that power is back on and life can go on as usual. But I am sorely disappointed everytime. Wish me luck and maybe if everyone blows at once, a breeze will sweep through St. Louis as I lay sweating in the stagnant heat tonight.

Are your legs tired? From running away from lame pick up lines...

I wonder where "honking at a girl on the street" falls on the list of 100 ways to not pick up chicks. It's probably somewhere between punching her in the face and peeing on her car. I don't know one person in the history of conversation initiation that this has worked for. However, I also don't know any hookers and I guess it works for them.

Today I stopped at McDonald's to pick up an RFT (a local publication, if you don't know) and an eggamuffin/coffee on my way to work. I got honked at once on my way into McDonald's, once on my way out while fumbling through the RFT box out front, once driving to work in traffic by some weird middle aged mexican man in a conversion van (no, I didn't hit his sweet van or cut him off-I was driving perfectly perfect as usual) and once walking from the parking lot to my building at work. I didn't realize until I checked the mirror at work that I had worn my "free hot sex here" shirt. Silly me.

Among all this horny horn blowing, I was stopped on my walk (after the 4th honk) by a young, some kind of middle eastern doctor. He asked me if his tie was straight. WHAT A GREAT PICK UP LINE! Not only does he start conversation by doing this, he also got touched by the hands of a strange (but devastatingly good looking) woman while I straightened it out for him. He didn't come across sleazy or annoying, just as a human being asking for help from another human being. Of course the other human being was devastatingly good looking, so we know what he really wanted, BUT STILL! Bonus points for being subtle! Why can't all men follow this kind of lead? Probably because they aren't all handsome, young, intelligent doctors. They are weird, old mexicans in conversion vans.

Hi, my name is Calamity Jen and I'm a human wrecking ball.

I never claimed that I would frequently update this bad boy. For anyone that still reads this, you're a real trooper for hanging in there. I'm proud of you. SUCKER!

I have two days of work left at my current job. What could be better than spending my lunch hour with my friend, Elizabeth, enjoying the warm, sunny day in Downtown Clayton? Sitting outside to eat? You betcha. A scrumptious appetizer? Excellent idea. A raspberry mojito? Not so much. It all seemed like a good idea when E ordered it up, but thing progressively went downhill from there. Since I’ve returned, I’ve nearly amputated my pinky with an exacto knife, almost threw up in the elevator and ran into the side of receptionist’s desk, breaking her candy dish. I should also mention I’ve been back for 15 minutes. I still have an hour left. Do you know the damage I could do in that amount of time? I am a human wrecking ball. And I wish I could use the alcohol to justify the $100 I just dropped on a pair of totally impractical shoes, but I bought before I drank. And I’m only going to talk about shoes because anyone that knows me and reads this will know how rare it is that I talk about such a thing. So imagine the black pumps your second grade teacher wore. Then extend the heel 2 inches. Then cut out the toe. Then buff em up and you have my new shoes. I know I’ll only be able to wear them 4 times a year, but with the hot sex these things radiate, it will surely be worth it.

The Final Countdown

Gather around kids because we have 3 very important things to discuss today. I’d like to begin our conversation with one my biggest demons, a lifetime control struggle, an inner strife, if you will. Yes, that’s right, I’m talking about my daily battle with my pantyhose. Besides automatic transmissions, pantyhose may be the worst invention ever. Surely they were designed by the same geniuses that brought us the iron maiden and David Hasselhoff. Who else could wish to torture us so? If you’re a man reading this, let me explain. First, no matter how gentle I am sliding my legs into these delicate sheers, I always manage to snag them on something. Be it a hang nail, my hardwood floors or even a piece of dry skin (I swear it happened), I can’t manage to get them on without snagging or somehow defacing them. And they aren’t cheap. Second, even if you do manage to get them on properly, the crotch is usually at your knees by lunch and all hope is lost by 5pm. Third… well, I don’t really have a third, but if the first two aren’t enough to convince you, go get yourself a pair and try it for yourself.

The next thing I want to talk about is the woman that sits in the cube directly across from me. Since I’m the new kid in the publication department, I don’t get an office like the big girls. I get to sit in a cubical in the customer service department. This means I get to listen to one-ended telephone conversations all day long between our customer service reps and people with questions about their prearranged funeral. It seems like all of the questions are either about the balance of the plan or when a funeral that already happened will be paid on. Nonetheless, what I want to talk about is the woman across from me. I have no idea what her name is, but I know she has a feathered mullet and she wears a leather jacket regardless of the weather. She’s so cool. I wish I had that kind of dedication to being awesome. Oh wait, I do. Oh yeah, story. Anyway, she talks on the phone all day and calls people names. Not offensive names (well they are to me, but I’m an indifferent biatch), but cutesy names. We all know how I feel about cutesy. Anyway, here is my list of names, just from today, in the order in which they were said:

Angel, sugar, sugar baby, sugar booger, booger, the bomb, girlfriend, pumpkin, what’s up doc, and my personal favorite- suck butt.

Really? You can call people suck butt at work? I always thought sugar booger and pumpkin were entirely appropriate, but suck butt? Blasphemous.

Last, but not least I want to vent about ribbon magnets on cars. They’re really starting to get out of hand. Now that I have to drive 250 miles to get to work every day, I’ve noticed a plethora of these though provoking, ribbon shaped presumptions. I thought I’d seen them all… Cystic Fibrosis, Spay and Neuter, every cancer out there, Support Our Troops, Cardinals, Rams, you name it. But yesterday I was caught off guard. In a mad dash attempt to beat Clayton traffic, I left 5 minutes early, certainly ensuring myself a good spot on the highway. Instead, I got a ribbonful of anti-abortion. Half of this ribbon was dedicated to “Stop Abortions”, while the other half slyly reminded me to “Support the Unborn”. Don’t let me forget to mention that the center of the ribbon formed a heart that clearly stated, “I heart God”. Covered all the bases there! A sure ticket to the pearly gates of heaven! I have an even better idea, support the drivers behind you and take that shit off your car so I can drive without practically rear-ending you to read your bumper stickers. And don’t tell me to not read them if I don’t like them or I’ll remind you not to have an abortion if you don’t like them. Take that.

Well that’s all for today. And for a week at that, because for the next 7 days I’ll be rolling around in fresh powder in Breckenridge with a 157 centimeter long board strapped to my feet. See you when I get back, and I might even have a cutesy picture or two for you. HAH! YEAH RIGHT! (Ooo, that just reminded me that I totally pulled off a homo-said-what joke off yesterday.) Oh and also, for those of you that know what I’m talking about- I started THE book. For those of you that don’t, it’s a secret. Mwahaha.

Putting the "fun" back into funerals!

Well team, your favorite unemployed bloggernaut finally landed herself a job. Yes sir, goodbye to Missouri Department of Unemployment paychecks and hello to sweet, hard-earned moolah. I didn't fully understand where I worked until today, and to even use the word "fully" is a complete lie. It's more of a loose concept with self invented explanations and theories to make myself think I understand what it is that I do.
I take that back, I know what I do, it's my company I'm confused about. I am a publication specialist. Yes, you can have my autograph later. But really- I design brochures, letters, training manuals and any other publications within my company. What is my company you ask? Simply put, they sell death insurance. No, it isn't the same as life insurance, this specifically covers your death costs- whatever they may be. You give this company money to invest in a trust fund and when you die, they make sure all of your wishes are granted.
An ash coffin lined with red velvet in a thin cement vault? DONE!
Donating your liver to a cancer patient, your eyes to a blind man and your heart to the cruel? DONE!
Laying your lifeless corpse above ground to rot for all eternity in a "green" cemetery? DONE!
Since my computer hasn't been ready for me for 3 days, I've taken this time to read up on the funeral industry and my company in general. I've learned this much:

• The man in the office next to me looks EXACTLY like Daddy Warbucks. He makes me want to burst into song everytime I see him. Everyday I go home with "Together at last, together forever, we're tying a know, that no one can sever" in my head because it's the only words I know to the classic Annie/DW duet.
  
• There's a product that's a biodegradable seashell specifically designed to hold your crematory remains as you gracefully descend to the ocean floor.
• The reason coffins slide in and out of hearses so easy is because they have rollers in the floor, which makes me wonder if the coffins bounce around while driving? Hmmm?
• I think I'm allergic to my work because my eyes and nose water incessantly the minute I walk through the doors. The same thing happens to me at department stores and Wal-Mart. My mom used to tell me it was because I was allergic to the dyes in the clothes, but I think she was just trying to get me into the store. It's like how I tell people I'm "allergic" to raisins because I think they're disgusting shriveled pieces of rotten food, unless an instant gag reflex is an allergic reaction.
• There are motivational quotes all over that heed such warnings as, "Dance like no one is watching, sing like no one can hear, love like your heart has never been broken and whatever the rest of the bullshit is". The strange thing is that they all end in morbid suffixes like "because this could be your last 60 seconds- EVER". Now, I've never been one for inspirational quotes, and maybe they're trying to keep morality up with job security, but it's just terrifying me. I know I'm going to die and I know it might be when I fall asleep tonight, but honestly- I have a lot to do still. Maybe working here will shift me into second! Or I'll slip the clutch and kill it. Score one for bad analogies.

That's all I know for now. I'll keep you updated as more bizarre occurrences, well... occur. Stay tuned and remember... don't come around here looking for frequent updates or cutesy pictures, because you're just going to be disappointed! Yeehaw!

Why I don't break the law.

Of course I speed. And my car is still licensed in Illinois, even though I live in Missouri so I don't have to pay personal property tax. Sometimes I run red lights, but only if they are a ripe shade of yellow. These laws are such little white laws that no one even notices most of the time. I have no desire to rape or murder, because that just goes against my own personal ethics code. But I have to admit, after leaving Best Buy last night, the only thing that kept me from not swiping a CD is fear. That and they didn't have what I wanted anyway. Rat bastages. When I say I have a desire to steal from Best Buy, it's only because it's a faceless giant of a corporation. It's not like I'd hop a plane to Africa to lift a goat from a child in Ethiopia.

Last night I came to the realization that the only reason I behave as a law abiding citizen is pure fear. Fear of being caught and fear of punishment, particularly sharing a cell with a large woman. And honestly, I don't even care if I get caught in the "Oh no, she's a thief" sort of caught, it's the sentencing after the being caught.

This got me thinking. (Look out!) Do people only obey laws out of fear of punishment? Are laws ethical commandments for those of us that otherwise would scoff at such moral injustices? And does it even matter? Is a society filled with moral people different from law abiding felons as long as neither of them break any laws? As long as they are sticking to the same moral code (laws) what's the difference if they are ethical or not? As most of you know, I'm not a religious person. Although I wasn't raised with scriptures and commandments on how to live, I feel that my parents instilled a great set of ethics in me and overall I'm an alright person. I guess where most kids have the fear of god, I have the fear of prison.

I could answer this entire dilemma by posing the question, "Would I break laws if there was no punishment?" Hmm... If that means looting, pillaging and stealing, then hell yeah because that's pretty piratish, and we all know how I love pirates. And honestly, I can't think of any law besides stealing that I want to break that I don't already. So I guess it's solved. The answer is: I'M AWESOME!

As a side note about me not being so awesome, I found out today I didn't get the Brown Shoe job. If they only knew what they were missing. Mwahaha.

Things I shouldn't do.

There are several things that I should just stay away from. These are things I love, but do me no good. These things will inevitably ruin me, get me into large amounts of trouble, and/or kill me. Feel free to add to my list in comments, but here they are in no particular order:

• Chocolate cake.
• Tight entrance ramps.
• Cigarettes.
• One certain dark-haired boy.
• Alcohol before 2pm.

Maybe it's not the 2pm part of the binge that's the problem, but the filling of the entire "card" in a matter of 2 hours. Confused? Well, let me explain. Saturday, I went to a Schlafly beer tasting event at the evil City Museum. For $10, you get a punch card equivalent to 18 "taster" size samples of a crapload of different beers. Naturally, I wanted to get my money's worth, and since I got there late, I had some major catching up to do. Everything started well, I tasted several different beers, and we got along fine. Luckily, they were small glasses so I didn't have to waste too much time getting to know them. Then I met Oatmeal Stout and I never tasted another. We were inseparable for the rest of the day (by then I had an hour and a half left). I became friends with the Oatmeal Stout tapper and she kept my glass full, my heart fuzzy and my sobriety diminishing. Honestly, I don't remember past the first hour, but I'm positive I said some incredibly intelligent things very loudly. Here are my other very intelligent, very drunk friends, Lori, Lauren, Becky and moi.

You might notice that I cut all my hair off. I don't really have anything to say about that, except it's true, I cut it all off, every single one. (One or two of you will understand this reference.) Here's another picture of Lori and her brother, JJ. Aren't they cute?

I do remember leaving and eating a giant burrito once I got home. I couldn't fall asleep because everything was spinning, and we all know what that leads to. I think I fell asleep for like 15 minutes because I have this picture.


Then I woke up and went snowboarding! YAY! Not so much, because I was hungover. I'm not sure I've ever been hungover during the day, but it's not so fun. And that is why you shouldn't drink before 2pm.