On Gambling

First, have you checked out my guest post at Triton Cove yet? You HAVEN'T? Tsk. Well go and read it now. I'll wait.

Are you back? Awesome.

I've never been much of a gambler. Personally, I'd rather stick my money in a cash register and take home shoes.

KACHING! I'm a winner every time!

And my feet look fabulous.

I grew up 3 hours from Las Vegas and have family there. So you'd think spending plenty of time waltzing through casinos growing up, I'd have developed a taste for gambling. But not so.

My mom, she loves the nickel slots. Loves to pull the lever. Thinks she'll hit the jackpot. But slot machines aren't as fun anymore anyway. You don't get piles of coins spilling out from the machine; you can a little receipt to cash in. What fun is that?

For my 21st birthday (after the parties in Los Anegels where my cousin took me out dancing and got me rightfully drunk), I was forced to participate in the family tradition of going to Vegas. My mother made me gamble. Made me. Gave me twenty bucks and threw me at the roulette table. Nevermind that I had absolutely no idea how the game worked. I only bet ten dollars and lost it all in one shot. That was painful.

I spent the rest on a chocolate eclair. That was worth it.

My dad, he likes the blackjack. Has a whole system where he puts his gambling money in one pocket and his winnings in the other. When the first pocket is empty, he quits. Smart man, my pop.

Then there's the poker. What is the obsession with poker? I get the classic game of 5 card stud. My dad taught me as a kid. I know all the different hands and all that jazz. What I don't get is the betting. When to bet. When to call. I totally get when to fold. And what the hell does double down even mean? Totally sounds like a dance step to me.

And don't get me started on Texas Hold Em. I have a childhood friend who deals Texas Hold Em and I have yet to fully get the intricate dance that is that damn game.

And why should I? Whyyyy? Why do I have to learn how to gamble properly? It is not my life's goal to one day be a pit boss in a major casino (or even a minor one). Though if I were, I'd totally spot the underage punks think they can fool me with a fake ID I know your game get out of here, punkasses!

Excuse me, I got a little carried away for a sec.

 However (insert brilliant segue), despite my disdain for gambling (and it's really only a disdain for my own gambling...you all have a blast. I'll be in the buffet.), I am a bit of a gambler sometimes.

I've walked out on careers and started all over from scratch. I've given my heart freely without any guarantee of a return on my investment (and failed, but I don't ever seem to learn). I've tried new things without any instruction except my own instincts. I've packed up my whole life and moved to a new state without anything waiting there but a wonderful friend and the hope for a fresh start.

I may not see the point of gambling with my money. But I've certainly and readily gambled at life.

I don't always win, but I always seem to go back for more. Hrm. That's maybe not the best strategy. Maybe I'm a life addict!

That was way deep, yo!

Are you barfing?

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SO, that was a Word Up, Yo post. 

I think you see me participate in these from time to time. 

I was even dubbed a Made Man in the Nerd Mafia from this post last year.

And now you can be in the Nerd Mafia too AND help me get promoted! 

Plus, I know you SO want to particiapte because it's totally fun. 

Yes! Do it!

Here are the rules:

So, if I recruit one person to join Word Up, Yo! I get a promotion. 

If I recruit two or more people to participate, I am will get a generous bump to Capo 

To have a post count in the recruitment challenge it must:

1. Use one of this week’s words (listed below)

2. Link up to Word Up, Yo!
3. Mention the name and/or blog of the person who recruited them. (THAT'S ME!)

4. (I added this one) Go follow the Nerd Mafia Dons at their blogs:

A Belle, A Bean, and  Chicago Dog

Taming Insanity

Mommy of a Monster (I mean toddler) and Infant Twins

How YOU can get made: use any of the Vegas themed words below. 

As always, the best post gets jumped in to our cozy little Mafia Family.

kaching!

jackpot

winner winner, chicken dinner

roulette

double down

gamble

pit boss

Those Asshat Starving Students

I have my things! Well, most of my things anyway. I have my bed! And last night was the best night's sleep I've had since like July. Ahhhhhhh I love my bed. And my cats are stoked too. They are so happy and have been sleeping and bounding all over the boxes and furniture.

So soft and cozy!

But, like I said, some of my things didn't make it.

And thus it is time to tell the tale of my mountains of crap and the extraordinary logistics of moving it all from So Cal to Portland.

When I decided to move to Portland, I couldn't afford to rent a big truck. I could only afford a trailer. So the plan was to sell most of my stuff off and then hook the trailer to my car (which I want to drive up anyway) and drive it up myself.

My father, however, was extremely worried about leetle ol' me wielding a trailer for 18 hours. And rightfully so. My wielding anything that unwieldy is a frightening proposition. Is the word wield starting to sound weird to anyone else? Wield. Wield. Wield.

Anyway.

He proposed this (and had to really talk me into it): he wanted to hire movers (my dad is a notorious cheapskate so he obv meant business), but in order to do so, would have to borrow against his 401k. But he couldn't do that until August. I was moving in July. In fact,  I had already given notice on my house and at my job. So we decided to put all my crap (still sold some of it) in storage in So Cal and I drove up without it.

In late August, my dad got the funds, waiting for them to clear in his bank, and about 2 weeks ago, started calling moving companies. We chose Starving Students because they seemed nice and were inexpensive (well, in comparison).

I guess you get what you pay for. Let it be known: never hire an asshat company.

They got squirrely pretty early on. First they said they'd call us with a 2-12 day window of when they would pick up and deliver. Ummmm, not okay with me as we all have lives and things to work around. Never mind that my dad would have to take off work and drive 45 minutes to my storage space to open it for them so it makes it hard if we don't have a specific time.

Then they gave him a pickup time last Thursday at noon. When they didn't arrive at noon, my dad called them and they hemmed and hawed, "aw man, we have another pickup, it'll be at 3." So he waited. Until 3. Nothing. They called him, "aw man, it's going to be tomorrow instead." Excuse me? My dad took off work to come down and they couldn't even make the appointment on the same day? He told them as much and they promised to show up the next day.

They did show up that time. BUT (and a very large but indeed), they had picked up someone else's stuff already. The truck was over half full. So then they squeeze my stuff on, but my couch, TV, books, and book shelves wouldn't fit. For the record, my dad had told them how much stuff I had and the dimensions. And if the truck wasn't mostly full, it would've fit.

Now, if it were me, I would've had them unload the truck and said we'd go with another company. But my dad is not me. He figured it was already loaded, so may as well send it down and he'd yell at the company and they'd send the rest for free.

Now, this sounds like a scam to me. They knew my stuff wouldn't fit. And if they'd picked mine up first, someone else would've been screwed instead. And they load it up and go, oh no it doesn't fit! Like you're gonna unload it after that. Bullshit.

I guess my dad talked to them today and threatened litigation (it takes a lot to piss my dad off enough for him to do that) and they were like, "go ahead and sue." So he's calling the supervisor before anything else. But we may end up in small claims court.

But it's not just that. Now I have to pay another month of storage. And if it was just furniture, I'd say sell it. But it's my books. And my picture albums. And yearbooks. I just can't lose those.

So the moral of the story is? Never hire Starving Students! Spread the word.  I'm starting a boycott. Never hire Starving Students!

Because they're total asshats.

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UPDATE: Starving Students agreed to move the rest of my stuff for free if we pay the weight (which we would have paid anyway). Hooray!!

this random girl

random
–adjective
1. proceeding, made, or occurring without definite aim, reason, or pattern: the random selection of numbers.
2. Statistics . of or characterizing a process of selection in which each item of a set has an equal probability of being chosen.
3. Building Trades .
a. (of building materials) lacking uniformity of dimensions: random shingles.
b. (of ashlar) laid without continuous courses.
c. constructed or applied without regularity: random bond.
–noun
4. Chiefly British . bank3 ( def. 7b ) .
–adverb
5. Building Trades . without uniformity: random-sized slates.
—Idiom
6. at random, without definite aim, purpose, method, or adherence to a prior arrangement; in a haphazard way: Contestants were chosen at random from the studio audience.

This week's word of the week is random. Geez, how the hail am I supposed to use that in a new way? I already have a random thoughts post that I churn out randomly (in keeping with the definition). I already pepper my speech with randoms, even when I don't actually mean it was random per se. I really mean it was unexpected or strange.

But then I remembered, I just watched Creation this weekend. That movie with Paul Bettany (swoon) about Charles Darwin. It's not what I thought it would be about, less about the science and more about Darwin's emotional and philosophical struggles when writing Origin of the Species. It was excellent, anyway, I mean Paul Bettany (swoon). 'Nuf said.

But the film has had me thinking about life lately. How up until 150 or so years ago (that rhymed. hehe), destiny was the name of the game. Darwin changed all the rules. Forget about killing god, or whatever, what it came down to was fate, destiny, a plan, versus the random. And for the last century and a half, it's been two camps: religion vs science. Yes? Still with me?

(Oh dear, I fear this post is turning into something frighteningly esoteric and maybe even a little preachy. Sorry about that. I'll try to make my point quickly. Also: I won't pretend to be a Darwinian expert. Just go read about him yourself.)

But religion is just a code word for the comfort of a plan. I'm not knocking that. It's appealing. We all know I don't believe in a god. But it's not about god, really. Whatever your beliefs, I commend you for sticking to them, but I can bet they contain some element of a plan. It's about not feeling alone in the universe. We as humans have a consistent need to feel safely on a preset path. Whether by god or gods or stars or simply fate or destiny.

(Here is where the believers start condemning my soul to hell. I know. I spent 9 years in a Christian school. And here is where I say: hey, if there is a god, color me corrected. But I prefer to live my way.)

Instead of randomly banging around the universe without any known course other than survival.

What's interesting is that I don't find the latter all that scary. I find destiny scary. I find the idea that everything is laid out before me and I need to read the signs or make the right decisions in order to stay on the "right path." Or whatever. The idea that my choices mean nothing other than deviating from my set destiny disturbs me. Makes me feel imprisoned.

Maybe it's my rebellious spirit, but I've always been drawn to ideas that color outside the lines. To birds outside of cages. To animals outside of zoos.

I like the idea of randomness. I like the idea that my choices mean something. That every step I take makes a change in whatever path I choose. That survival is the one major rule. That maybe survival includes societal mores or normatives, but that's what we work around. I like the connectivity of species and each generation of life affecting the next. I like to think that humans aren't preordained to survive on this rock, but each choice we make changes the next and the next and the next.

I've lived my life in that way, I suppose. On some level, I've bounced around, taking life, as random as it is, as it comes. When I feel the need for change, I decide to change. My personality be damned. I'm organized. Anal retentive. Detail oriented. I should like the set path. No random variables. No haphazard life for me. Right? Bullshit. I'm a complicated being. I'm changeable and moody. I like my clothes organized and my life a series of random events. I chart my own course and I'll deviate at will.

Who I was 10 years ago is not who I am today and who am I today is not who I'll be 10 years from now.

And who's to say that I'm making my own path? That I'm, as Nelson Mandela put it, the master of my fate, the captain of my soul? Who is to say? There's no way to really know. But I like the idea very much.

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Indubitably Foul

For some in inexplicable reason, I awoke in an incredibly foul mood to day. It's completely irrational, though indubitable.

I shouldn't be in a foul mood. My computer was fixed (for the second fucking time) yesterday (Huzzah!). And my roommate painted a cute design on my toenails. And I have Shakespeare in the park and my birthday party to look forward to this weekend.  And the weather has been delightfully cooler and misty. I love that. And I should be getting a paycheck within the next millennium for this freelance work I'm doing.

But, indubitably, I am feeling foul as a bird (har de har har ba-dum-chh).

True story. I went to bed wearing my coziest happy pants and awoke in cranky pants. huh. Maybe I'm a sleepwalker.

Perhaps part of the reason for my foul mood was the most deliciously delicious dream I had this morning, which would normally put me on a fantastical mood. But when I woke up with my cat perched on my shoulder purring in my ear and I realized my dream wasn't and never will be reality and my actual reality was a fucking cat on my shoulder, I wasn't the happiest of campers. Despite that camp award I won in 1992.

Also, my hips are fucking sick of sleeping on the ground. My back isn't too happy about it either.

You know what else thats sucks about sleeping on the floor? Whenever anyone walks within a 400 mile radius of my room, the floor shakes. And that means I shake. And when I say anyone? I mean my cats. I need to stop feeding those assholes so much.

Also also? Personal dramas suck monkey ass. I rejected you, Drama. I told you to back the fuck off. I told you I never wanted to see you again. My new friends were Fun and Bliss and More Fun and we decided that you can't play with us anymore. Because you so bring everyone down. But noooooo. Here you are, muscling your way into everything. Trying to be the center of attention. Yet again. Well no more, attention whore.

And to the asshole with your bumpin' ass subwoofers in the back of your janky ass car parked right under my window for the last HOUR, you can go run into a knife. I hate you. Go play in traffic. But before you find a tall building and jump off? Turn off your fucking car. That bass just sounds like the soundtrack to your murder right abouts now.

You know what else? I'M A TRAIN! I'M A TRAIN! I'M A TRAAAAAIIIIINNNN!!!

Right. Now that's not getting old.

I think maybe I need a good massage. Or maybe a new massager. Rosie, dear, I love you and all, but a girl needs variety.

Indubitably.

This post participates in:

Hot Mess Monday

So I fell down my stairs last night. Seriously. I did. Like a baby giraffe just learning to walk. Down stairs. Only that baby giraffe was wearing a long skirt that got caught under its feet in the process. Also, the giraffe has toes and its big toe jammed up into its foot causing searing pain and so the giraffe emitted a gawdawful yelping MOTHERFUCKER OWWW!.

The giraffe has a bit of a potty mouth.

So yeah, I fucked up my toe. I iced it a ton last night, but it still hurts today. And I've broken a toe before (The same toe, come to think of it.) and THAT shit hurts like a motherfucking sonofabitch (That's the technical term. At least, that's what the baby giraffe told me.), so I don't think it's broken. And it's not my toe exactly that hurts; it's more like the joint where my big toe connects to my foot. And now I'm getting shooting pains along the bottom of my foot to my heel. Fucking awesome!

Of course to add to that, I've also got The Period going on and my cramps are making want to strangle a small, male animal. But not a baby giraffe. Never. A baby giraffe.

And then the cabinet guys were supposed to come fix our crooked cabinets today, but they're not here yet, the fuckers. I swear to all things unholy if we don't get usable cabinets soon, I will transform into an adult giraffe and trample my smug fucking landlord's car. I know which one it is too. She parks right outside my house. Wunderbar (Spellcheck wanted me to change that to wonderbra. I considered it for a full 2 minutes.)!

Then I spent a good 15 minutes (which is like FOREVER, YO!) on hold with my student loan company to ask one tiny question only for them to tell me that I'm fine. Yup. Worth it. Totally worth it.

So you could say I'm a hot mess this jour. A hot fucking mess.

On the potential upside, I sent my resume in for an awesome kickass job this morning, a job that I'd be awesome at and would pay well (hopefully) and is closeish to where I live and is perfect. And I want it. A lot. If you can't tell. I want this job. If I don't get it, yours truly will be stripping soon. And we all know I'll be awesome at that.

And this last weekend waaaas pretty great so I can't complain too too much. Still doesn't make me a hot non-mess. But still. it was fun.

I still suck today. I'm still a pathetic hot mess. Maybe it's because it's Monday? OOH! New idea! Hot Mess Mondays! What do you think?

The baby giraffe thinks it's awesome. So there.

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shiftless, lackadaisical, slothful. ANTONYM rambunctious

I don't have kids. Nope. Don't. Or hadn't you noticed in all this time reading the asinine words I vomit onto my computer (ew. Okay, so I wanted to write: that I vomit onto paper. But that would've been inaccurate.)? Hadn't you noticed that I never write about children, unless it's my bestie's son Ethan or the baby lust I am stricken with?

You didn't notice?

Weirdo.

So yeah, no kiddos here.

But I was once a child myself, believe it or not (those may be the exact words my dad used many, many times). I did. The crazy lady was once a crazy child. And I totes was a crazy child. A little compartmentalized (which is a nice way of saying it).

I was actually pretty shy, but not allowed to be. I wanted to read or create pretend worlds alone in my bedroom, but instead spent most of my time trying to be my mother's little star.

Wait, how did this post get to be about my mom?

Back on track...I was somewhat shy. But also hyper. Not rambunctious, per se. No. And not ADD either (ADHD hadn't been invented yet). I could certainly focus my brain  to the point of not being able to hear anything going on around me if I so chose.

I just couldn't sit still. A fidgeter. Constantly in motion. It was a good thing I had 5 different dance classes, soccer, swimming, and horseback riding, because I liked to move. But that didn't necessarily get the energy out; it wasn't excess energy that was the problem. In the grocery store, I'd dance down the aisles (you mean they don't make them that long for that express purpose?). At school, I'd tap my feet under my desk or fiddle with whatever I could find. I just couldn't stop.

Okay, so maybe that does qualify as rambunctious. But, I never caused trouble. I was that know-it-all good little girl teacher's pet Hermione-type.

I was a talker though. Notes to my parents from teachers always read: bright but talks a lot.

Are you beginning to understand me a little better? So I was this insane, shy little child who was scared of new things, but once you got me going wouldn't shut up and couldn't sit still if you paid me.

Cut to today: lazy ass biotch who has been lazing in bed until 10 and 11 every day accomplishing jack squat (Who is Jack Squat? Is he cute?). Unemployment is truly delicious. Except for the whole no income part.

But it's enjoyable as all hell.

Today? I am the opposite of rambunctious.

I think that's called getting old.



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World Blog Domination (or something like that)

Ohmygoodness the blogging world has been too nice to me.

First, I won the Word Up, Yo! contest for my post Plethora of Periods (and I actually share this win with A Day in the Life of a Surfer Wife for her vlog). This is what Taming Insanity said:

"Her post was laugh out loud funny, used the word a plethora of times dealt with a monster of a problem."

And I guess that makes me a Made Man!

Thank you, Word Mafia. How can I ever thank you enough? Perhaps with a bouquet of punctuation marks? Or maybe a box of assorted dictionaries and thesauruses? 

This just goes to show how insanely competitive I am. The first time I decided to participate in Word Up, Yo! and I had to pursue it with total and complete world domination in mind. 

I'm a total freak. 

But a lovable freak, right? 

AND THEN! And then, the loverly Kristin over at Taming Insanity, who is just too damn nice and sweet and is rocking my bloggerverse, gave me the Sugar Doll Award.

"I'd like to pass this lovely award onto Crazy with a Side of Awesome Sauce. Her recent post on her plethora of issues had me holding my sides with laughter. Then I put my cranky pants back on and cinched them up tight."

Isn't that just the nicest thing you've ever heard? Maybe I'm just too new to the blogging world and haven't had praise heaped on me, but hot damn if that doesn't make me all blushy and gooey. I'm like a little cartoon character, red from head to toe, batting my eyes and crossing my feet over each other, squeaking out a thanks. 

So, rules: I guess I'm supposed to share 10 things about myself and pass this award onto 10 other bloggers. Instead (subversive rule-breaker that I am), I'm going to share an as yet undecided amount of things about myself and pass this award onto 5 bloggers: 

Sarah P at Naked Cupcakes: because she's funny as hell and is one of my first tweeps and blogging buddies. She wrapped her sweet cupcakey comments around me and welcomed me into the fold. 

Becky at i'll go eat worms: because she's the sweetest thing on the Internet, so sweet it gives me a toothache. Her blog is total awesome sauce and she rocks my world. She'll rock yours too. 

Lizzy at A Series of Thoughts: because this little lady is the poet laureate of the Internet. She's totally brilliant and her unfailing kindness always boosts my days. 

Krissy at Diary of an Angry Fat Chick: because she's not just my real life friend (not that I'm playing favorites), but she's a highlarious and talented writer which totally took me by surprise. Everyone needs to go check out her blog. 

Morgan at Watering the Elephants: because, okay, she's another real life friend, but she's also an amazing writer and I know she doesn't toot her own horn so to speak, so I'll just flog her blog for her (hehe flog her blog hehe). 

10 crazy things that happened to me in Europe:

1. My first week living in Paris was my 26th birthday. Long story short: we went out for the night and found ourselves past the time when the metro closed and struggling to find a cab. A group of guys were hassling us (oh French guys) and were walking alongside us when cop cars zoomed up from every direction. We were lined up against the wall, frisked, IDs examined, and I was convinced we were headed to the Bastille where I'd get my head chopped off (note: the Bastille was torn down in 1790something). Finally, they let us go when the guys stood up for us and said we weren't with them. Turns out the guys had been tagging and someone tipped off the La Police. Also, my friend Alice had taken off running and we didn't know what happened to her, but that's a story for another time. 
2. On Bastille Day in Paris, I was meeting friends and amidst the mayhem that is Bastille Day (trust me, it's INSANE), I was frantically texting my friends, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? when some guy grabbed my phone right out of my hands and took off running. I did what my professors said to do and just started cussing in English as loud as possible. Luckily, some British guys took pity on me , chased the guy down (who turned out to just be a drunk A-hole, not a savvy thief), and got my phone back. I rewarded them with thanks even though they really wanted my phone number as compensation. 
3. That same evening, as we stood on the steps of L'Opera, waiting for the last of our friends to arrive, some Frenchie was hitting on my friend and while doing so, let his cigarette burn right through my tights and into my leg! In my limited French, I tried to tell him what he did: J'ai mal a la jambe! J'ai mal a la jambe! But he didn't give a flying fuck. He just wanted to fuck my friend. Assmunch.
4. Then there was that time we tried to teach our French language instructor about s'mores. I think one of the American students in the class used s'mores for her presentation of something from her culture. And Bernadette, the French teacher (and quintessential French woman) just could not grasp the concept. Pretty soon all the Americans in the class were jumping in to explain. But she just couldn't get it. We eat a sandwich? Of graham crackers (never mind how long it took to explain those) and chocolate (no explanation needed) and marshmallows (she just dismissed those as food of any kind) and we light it on fire? And eat it? Impossible. And we wonder why the French and Americans can't get along: it's all differences of food. 
5. In Paris, my cousin, my best friend, and I explored the infamous catacombs below the city. We were walking and it was creepy and dark and we were all by ourselves. There was only one way you could go because sections were locked off because the catacombs are humongous (supposedly they change the route occasionally) and somebody before us at some point had closed a gate (prob fucking teenagers) and we thought that gate was locked. So we turned around, but the all the other gates were locked. We were getting pretty freaked out (maybe they needed more bones!) when my brave cousin sacked up and pushed on the original closed gate. It opened and we found the way out. We felt dumb, but it *was* pretty damn funny.
6. When I was in Amsterdam, my friends and I accidentally picked up this stoner puppy outside our hostel. Not an actual puppy, a fuzzy faced stoner who decided he liked us and followed us around all weekend. We couldn't shake him. Not the craziest thing, but certainly the weirdest. Oh Amsterdam.
7. My cousin, my best friend, and I backpacked the UK over Christmastime. In that time, we made it up to the gorgeous Isle of Skye in Scotland. It was cold and beautiful and stark and despite that nothing was open, we had a good time. But for whatever crazy reasons, we just couldn't get off the island. It was winds and then the wrong bus and then the train schedule, etc etc. Someone joked that we were trapped like in Wicker Man and we kept yelling that they were wasting their time with us! We're not virgins! I don't even remember how we finally figured it out and made it to Glasgow. But we did, exhausted but laughing.  
8. I dated this Italian descendant of Roman gods named Giampaolo and when I was in Rome, he kindly volunteered to drive me around the city. In his Smart Car. It was the closest I've ever been to death. Not only do the Italians drive like complete maniacs, stopping inches from the bumper or curb or pole in front of them, but there is NO cushion in a Smart Car. None. I was convinced I would die that die and no Roman gods could save me. I lived. 
9. One of the first places I traveled was Tours in the Loire Valley in France. My friend Alice said she took care of finding a hostel and off we went. We arrived in Tours and tromped around the city and totes enjoyed ourselves and then went to crash at our hostel. Which was full. And didn't have any record of us because Alice hadn't called them. So we frantically searched Tours for other hostels, all booked. Wandering the city at night with out guidebooks, half convinced we might have to sleep on the street, we finally found a hotel that would give us a halfway decent rate. It was way more than we could afford, but it was shit yeah better than the street. 
10. Taking the train from Liverpool to London was quite the experience. There was a huge soccer match that night AND one of the scheduled trains was out of service, so they packed all these soccer fans onto our train. It was packed. People were standing in every inch of space and sitting on the floor. So to make the trip bearable, I began entertaining my two lovely friends with bits from Eddie Izzard and Mitch Hedberg. Next thing I knew, the people around us and then the whole car was listening and laughing. Who knew I could entertain a whole train car of British soccer fans with plagiarized comedy bits?