High Alert On Amtrak

Here  I am, sitting on an Amtrak  from Los Angeles to San Diego jolting along like someone’s trying to get the last tic tac out of the container because I literally blew up the engine in my blue POS car Lil’ Tumbleweed by taking the advice to get an oil change in a timely manner as a mere opinion.  Blew the damn engine. On the freeway. Outside of Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base. I guess pouring oil into your engine after it already starts to sound like robots are grinding on each other like two middle schoolers at a dance is too little too late. So I need an entire new engine and I cried when pepboys told me that, so they gave me a fat discount, but of course because it is a bigggg discount, they are taking their sweet glitter effing time and I have to take the train back and forth to get to my clients in San Diego. Gorgeous ride. Plus they have an alcohol car with snacks. bye?

Our country, actually, our entire world is on high alert because of the recent attacks in Paris, as well as Baghdad and Beirut, all on the same day. ISIS has decided to wield it’s crooked creepy ass dick on social media and the news, threatening to continue their reign of terror on the US after slaughtering over 100 people in Paris.

So, it is not my fault that I was a little on edge coming to the Amtrak station in downtown LA bright and early this morning.

First, the front of the station’s lobby is filled with at least 100 9th graders all flirting with each other’s acne. Why aren’t you in school right now in classes that don’t teach you about real life like not overdrafting your bank account so you can get 2 shots of tequila and a burrito at Panchos at 3 am?  You’ll be needing that sooner than you think.

Then, half of the massive station was without power.  Heavily armed sheriffs with german shepherds patrolled the lobby. Which means LA’s downtown crackheads were prowling in the dark corners on one end, and guns and dogs were on the other end. It’s fine, I’m safe here. There’s no cell service once in the station until you get to the platform for the train. I was assigned platform 9.

And yes, I did search for the 3/4’s.

No such luck.

I’m sitting on this train minding my own over-active imagination’s business. And then it went down.

10:14am- Some a-hole teenager popped a new bag of chips  and I pretty much flew out of my seat thinking it was a gun shot. My apocalypse emergency plan was about to go into immediate activation mode.  He and his little friend just sit there giggling. Laugh it up, PETER, laugh it up.

I move seats to the quiet car because it has bigger seats and you don’t actually have to be quiet because this is America. Also because the Amtrak guy said we it’s actually just a rumor that it’s a quiet car because it has massive relaxing seats in it.

10:34 am- I’m arguing with my best friend online about Candida and other really attractive things that girls talk about and flooding her facebook messenger with gigantic dick pics because she is annoying me with her righteousness (and her rightness) to the point where she can’t respond and I’ve stopped being annoyed. Best friendship saver, ever.

10:46 am- UMMM it is not at all comforting when the Amtrak stops and 2 Amtrak employees come running down the aisle and one screams to the other way down the train “DID HE GET OFF?!”

Ummm we are on high alert nowadays around here people, you cannot just scream that on mass transportation! I’m already on the emergency exit up to my thighs half out the window.

11:10 am- They disappear up the aisle, come back a few minutes later, having a convo about how the guy is hiding in the bathroom in one of the cars and they are going to force it open. If he has so much as a pen attached to his shirt I’m flailing off this train.  Just flinging myself the fuck off.

I am sitting by the fire extinguisher. I always do. This is why: 1. they are always by an exit/entrance 2. if a terrorist takes over, you blast that shit everywhere until it’s empty so he can’t see where he’s shooting and you just creep through that cloud and roll your ass down the steps. Hit him in the head with the heavy metal container if you’re confident in your reach because you may have long arms like me that turn long sleeve shirts for normal people into a 3/4 sleeve.  It’s called being a famous model okay.

11:26 am – Now they have a conductor involved and they keep searching and talking about him and how he is “somewhere on the train” and now a guy with a backpack just went running past me ducking along the seats lol I DONT WANT TO BE ON THE TRAIN ANYMORE

11:34 am – to add to the paranoia, the entire car now smells overwhelmingly like cooked broccoli which i am interpreting as a fire.

11:44 am- Amtrak guys act like nothing happened and are laughing it up with two guys sitting in their seats. WHERE DID THE FUGITIVE GO

HOPE YOURE HAVING A GREAT TIME WITH YOUR BESTIES, JERRY, while i’m sitting over here googling how to turn an extinguisher into a weapon to save us all.

11:46 am- Adderall is wearing down, I think i can open the tuna can of a bathroom door now and try to pee without twerking.

Young guy behind me listening to trap music and the old man next to him taps him on the shoulder and yells in his year ” I DONT KNOW WHAT YOURE LISTENING TO BUT I CAN GO ALONG WITH THE GROOVE!”

 

San Diego.

The End.

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Tinder Harassment Gone Wrong

Some men on Tinder (soft ass southern California boys I should say) say the most uncleverly vulgar things without warning- because they are looking for a negative reaction since nobody gives them attention or they are showing off to their equally sad scraggly friends.

I luckily stand up for myself well in these situations but as I get older I’d like to ignore them,  but I just keep thinking of the countless girls that look down at their phones thinking they are talking to someone great who immediately out of nowhere says something so violating to make her feel immediately gross, like he jumped through the phone. And so, I give these idiots the time of day they never deserve yet so desperately seek out with some simple messages back. I want them to know someone’s going to clap back.

You’re welcome, Bryan.

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When Ticks Attack On An Innocent Monday Morning

When you’re scratching your head after working on things since 5:30 am and you feel a giant lump. Is it a tick? is this a tick?! and the more you feel it the bigger it is, and you’re having full on anxiety that you’re going to get lock jaw from Lyme’s Disease and never speak again and you’re having strange macabre fantasies of how this massive tick has spent all day, night, nights?! slowly sucking out your life force and possibly your intelligence, lowering your IQ with its inferior invasion of your skin. But then you realize it is merely your pearl earring ratted up into your messy bun and that you’ve been walking around like David Bowie with one damn earring in and nobody has said a word. It’s fine. It’s just Monday.

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Stop Referring To Your Kid’s Age In Months After 2

Stop Referring To Your Kid’s Age In Months After 2

Oh hell. Please do not refer to your child as “42 months old”. He’s 3 and a half. Your kid is 3 and a half years old. Jesus christ. I guess I’m 338 months old.

I am really not in the mood to do mental mathematical gymnastics to determine if showing him Pulp Fiction and Wild Things is age appropriate when you leave me in a room alone with him.

What if mothers get tired and they drop the “months” as we’ve come to drop the “years” when we tell people our ages??  42 months. So now your kid is just 42.

Are you 3 and a half, kid? Or are we going by dog years? in that case, you’d be 22 and a half. and that means you can watch bad things. What about bourbon? Is 42 months old enough for that? because 42 sounds old.  When you invite me to your kid’s birthday party, and I say I’m at a 42nd birthday celebration and my friends want to come crash and bring champagne, what am I going to do with them when they come and destroy the moon bounce because they thought you said you were going to have moonshine ??

If we are counting by months, why aren’t you having a birth month party? Why does a yearly party even matter anymore?

Am I up to date as far as developing on a 30 day cycle goes?  Am I exactly where I should be? Am I young for my age?

This month, if I pay my credit card bill off completely, I will have paid all bills on time, have had no hangovers, have worked out almost 4 days straight, not used my last 35 dollars on shots and chicken tenders, and not made out with anyone in a shitty bar. Those are some pretty solid milestones for 338 months. Yours truly, your little blooming buttercup, with pollen in ALLL the right areas, is progressing age appropriately!  It was touch and go there for a while, I wasn’t hitting any significant progressive markers in my late 20s as my other peers were. But now… now I’ve mastered bill paying, credit restoration, emotional stability (somewhat) and some advances in the career that I literally pulled out of thin air and created myself because I just couldn’t fart out another resume cover letter telling people how fantastic I am and lying about how hard I will work for them.  Pretty good for being a mere 338 months old.

Like seriously your kid is sh*tting in his own hand and constructing grammatically correct sentences on the floor of your prius with it and stealing organic dog treats from the bulk bins then storing them under your boob after a very public breastfeeding when he wasn’t really hungry, he was just walking up to you for money for candy but you tore your shirt off and shoved his head into your nipple anyway, then glared at everyone, demanding they challenge your right to force feed your 42 month old baby in a public arena. #FREETHENIPPLE I don’t think we need to celebrate every damn month at this point.

Your kid is 3 and a half.  You can do it. Say it. THREE AND A HALF.

But I am still 338 months. CARD THAT AT THE BAR, BETCHES.

Don’t Be A Dingleberry, Go Grab A Homeless Man

Seriously.  If you’re anywhere on the mid to north east coast in this blast out of Hades ass cold weather, be aware of the homeless if you venture outdoors.  

Regardless of how liberal or conservative you are and how jaded you are and how much you think that homeless people “refuse to find shelter” and choose to be sleeping on the streets, if you see a shelter impaired human being, please dig out your little iphone 5 out of your pocket and use your special touch screen finger tip gloves to call one of the local numbers that are providing a pick up and shelter for those who have none. 

Some of these homeless people are our veterans, some are just batshit crazy, some are, of course, junkies.  But, honey, you weren’t so innocent with your legs splayed out in the air in college for half of Sigma Nu and you weren’t so cute wearing those same panties twice in a row last week because you were too lazy to change them when you woke up in the morning, so let’s not play judge about whose life is worth more on days when a pot of your scalding hot ramen water turns into brown fairy fart dust when you throw it into the wind because you ran outside to do it as soon as Linda Shartynipple on Fox 11 news scampered out and did it.  

Here is a list of numbers for the Washington DC area and other cities. If this is not where you live, you already know how to stalk an ex like you’re in the NSA, so there should be no trouble looking up what number is provided for your area (or call 211). 

  • Atlanta: 404-447-3678 for the Metro Atlanta Task Force for the Homeless
  • Baltimore: 311
  • Birmingham, Ala.: 205-252-9571 for the Firehouse Shelter
  • Boston: 617-534-2526 for Friends of Boston’s Homeless or dial 311
  • Chicago: 311
  • Denver: 720-944-1007 for Denver’s Road Home (during business hours)
  • Detroit: 1-800-274-3583 and 1-800-343-4427
  • Fort Collins, Colo.: 719-632-1822 for Springs Rescue Mission and 970-484-5010 for Catholic Charities-Larimer County
  • Kansas City, Mo.: 816-474-4599
  • Las Vegas: 702-369-4357 for HELP of Southern Nevada (from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m., Monday through Thursday)
  • Minneapolis: 612-879-7624 for St. Stephen’s street outreach team
  • New York City: 311
  • Philadelphia: 215-232-1984 for the Project HOME Homeless Outreach Hotline
  • San Francisco: 311
  • St. Louis: 314-802-5444 for the Housing Resource Center hotline (between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., Mon-Friday)
  • Thunder Bay, Ontario: 807-620-7678 for the SOS team (operates between 2 p.m. and 2 a.m.)
  • Toronto: 311
  • Washington, D.C.: 1-800-535-7252 for the Hypothermia Hotline

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Illegitimate Child of Lloyd Christmas: What Happens When Your Dad Is A Hair Cutting Control Freak

So this is real life.

My dad, Smokey, cut my hair himself until I was twelve. He would have cut my hair until menopause if he had the chance.

Nobody else was allowed to touch my mane of knotted glory, not even my older siblings’ mother, who owned a hair salon.  She was only given the privilege of washing my hair, combing it out, and blow drying it, but only for a minute because Smokey didn’t want my delicate strands of hair to be incinerated into wisps of burnt DNA flailing in the cross breeze by this new fangled hot air blowing robot some folks had nicknamed “hair dryer”.

This is where I started learning the etiquette of tipping, as Smokey would hand me a couple dollars, when we were finished,  and make me go to the back where Norma, the shampoo woman, had shampooed me. He’d push me forward and remind me to thank her in spanish.

Smokey taught me from a very young age the importance of tipping and acknowledging people for the services they provide, but I was always embarrassed to do it because I constantly fought the urge to just let Norma know that next time I wanted 5 extra minutes of hair washing because when she massaged my scalp I wanted to pee my pants and melt out of my chair like a limp noodle all at the same time because it felt so good so if she could please NOT STOP next time, that would be great.

My dad’s haircuts were pretty good sometimes. But, as with all people starting out, there were the early years where he had not quite perfected his craft.

Smokey Scissorhands must have had some rusty shears back in the day or maybe he was feeling really creative. Who knows. Maybe he just really really liked Jim Carey.

This is what happens when your dad is a hair cutting control freak.

Apparently I am the illegitimate daughter of Lloyd Christmas.
Apparently I am the illegitimate daughter of Lloyd Christmas.

That’s me on the right and my cousin Ashley on the left.

Do you know how traumatic it was to discover my dad may be Lloyd Christmas?

DOWN TO THE GAP IN THE TEETH. SERIOUSLY.

I never questioned the paternity of crazy ass Smokey but I can’t let my spidey senses forget my uncanny resemblance to Lloyd Christmas from Dumb and Dumber.  And Ashley’s shaping up to be the spawn of Harry, so I don’t even know what is going on here.

With the sequel, Dumb and Dumber To coming out, I think my cousin and I deserve a role in the film as the illegitimate daughters of Harry and Lloyd.  If this were to be true, it would explain a lot. A LOT of coincidences.

Like why I had a pet parakeet named Harry, who just straight up flew out of the door one day straight into the blizzard of ’96.

Or why I foolishly popped some random meds in my mom’s mouth while she was sleeping after she said she had a bad headache, which too closely mirrors the scene in Dumb & Dumber when Lloyd and Harry get the hitman to take rat poison instead of his heartburn pills by accident. And I got yelled at too, once she woke up spitting out half melted children’s Tylenol or was it Fen-Phen? Can’t quite recall. Trauma of getting yelled at blocks the memory of which drug I tried to force feed her while she was unconscious.

After this hair cut, Smokey improved quite a bit. I’m sure there were a few other life-altering cuts he gave me, but I haven’t dug up any evidence yet.

When I was 12, he stopped cutting my hair because we got in a fight, didn’t talk for half of a year and I rebelled by getting my hair chopped off to my chin at Hair Cuttery.  My new goal was to no longer channel Llyod Christmas, but to embody Zac Hanson.

I like to call that hair cut MMMchop.

Come glittereffing struggle with me over on Facebook. www.facebook.com/ifyourewearingpearls