Road Trip Update: Vegas, baby!

There's something really amazing about watching the sun set over the mountains/desert of Nevada.  Kate and I sang Jenny Lewis songs at the top of our lungs (sidenote about the movie of my life: at one point, all the the influential women in my life will come to me in a dream and give me advice in their own words and they will all actually guest star in the move: Chrissie Hynde, Oprah, Jenny Lewis, Terry Gross, Sarah Jessica Parker. I would like to be played by Zooey Deshanel. Ah! I digress... ) After a weird stop at the Hoover Dam, it was dark and the visitor center was closed, it was a very short drive to Vegas. Quotes from Kate: "If this wasn't the Hoover Dam, I'd think those people were smoking pot." "They need some Stadium lights up in this bitch."

Las Vegas is in valley in the desert, and when you approach the city at night, the entire city's lights glitter for miles. It glitters. It got me thinking about how a city can function solely on the tourism industry... schools, grocery stores, doctors, lawyers, government agencies, landscapers, vendors for things like food, clothing, napkins and shit. It's not just people working in the hotels, or strippers. Kate had been to Vegas a number of times before, but I decided to take charge booking the hotel. I decided on the Monte Carlo, because they had an advertisement for Mini Kiss on their website. Mini Kiss is a Kiss cover band comprised of midgets. As for Walter, we snuck her in a zippered L.L. Bean boat and tote bag, and I put a disposable kitty litter pan in my own giant bag. It was pretty seamless. On our way out the next morning, the cleaning ladies were in the hall- we just dropped the kitty pan in their cart and no one was the wiser.

My fantasies about Vegas were probably formed from watching an infinite number of sitcom television shows and romantic comedies- I've always wanted to elope in Vegas, and to be wed by an Elvis impersonator. This is seriously, not a joke. One of my other fantasies included walking down the strip in either a glitter dress, or stretch pants. But our plan was more like, get dressed in reasonably normal clothes (actually, I did end up wearing leggings.) Kate and I got ready to the new episode of Modern Family, and I was excited for a hot shower, then head out. The view of the Strip from our room was awesome.

Upon leaving the hotel, I realized two things: 1) People in Vegas are relentless. There are all these people trying to push things on you, like crazy Mexican men trying to give you cards with the phone numbers of prostitutes (I wonder who pays these guys? The pimps? A temp agency? Plus, I'm not gay!) 2) Kate and I were among the most attractive women walking around the Strip that Wednesday night- everyone else was either old, part of a touristy looking couple, or both. We came to this realization because of all the crazy people trying to get us in their club, enticing us with cheap drinks or free admission, and because some wicked scary voice from behind asked, "You ladies goin' clubbin?" I literally ran down the stairs, faster than a speeding bullet. My feet have never moved that fast- I was like Fred Astaire. Get it!? This freaked out Kate because of the size of the heel on my boot. Close call, creepy dude. (I just asked Kate if she saw his face and she said she did and it was so scary she doesn't want to talk about it, that those were some empty eyes.)

We hit some hotels and shopping centers and settle on the Ballagio. I say settle like it wasn't the setting for Ocean's 11 and I didn't know that the rooms were insanely expensive and out of our price range. My mom taught me how to play Black Jack during the Ice Storm of '98, so I bellied up and bought in to the table like it was no big deal. Kate said that I should only order bottled beer from the cocktail waitresses (drinks are free when you gamble), because everything else is watered down. Well! I got a vodka-soda, sucked it down, then a bourbon on the rocks and sucked it down, to prove that they were, in fact, not watered down. Surprise! I lost my winnings, got drunk, and the Epic Meltdown of 20-10 happened.

We walked across the street to a bar/casino called O'Shea, or O'Shay's or something. It was an Irish bar, and Kate immediately says she doesn't like it because she doesn't like Boston. Although I can't quite articulate why this made me so incredibly angry, and I'm not going to go into detail about the ridiculous things I said at that time or try and explain myself and the logic behind the crazy things I said. But I will defend Boston and my Beantown pride, though I'm not actually from there, now, because I'm sober.

In elementary school, field trips to the aquarium were always really exiting. Boston was the place we always had to drive to in high school to see the best bands. Boston was the place we all dreamed about going to college in- the big city, and they are a serious college town. In college, I got my first piercing in Boston. There are no major sporting teams in Maine, we've got the Sox, the Patriots and Celtics- Boston teams. Before I started drinking beer, and before I knew what microbrews were, I always thought I'd drink Sam Adams, the Boston lager. Flying to the West Coast or internationally, it's usually cheaper to fly out of Boston. We didn't have a city in Maine, which is part of why Maine is the glorious place it is, so we have to live vicariously through Boston. If I'm alone, travelling and lonely, and I find there's someone from anywhere in New England or someone wearing a Sox hat, I immediately feel comforted. People in Massachusetts have summer homes in Maine, and hell, Maine used to be PART of Massachusetts. I love Boston, even today.

Kate and I made up, well, she chose to ignore my wildly inappropriate behavior and even though she'd only had three Coronas and I was drunk and sleepy, we went to bed. She cashed out of the casino that night with almost $100, so it wasn't a total loss. The next morning as we were checking out, I ran into a couple that I recognized from the Portland Jetport on Monday morning. I couldn't help but ask them, "Excuse me, are you on vacation? Oh, can I ask from where? ME TOO! I thought I'd recognized you two from the airport!" Small world. Next stop: bowling and tacos with Craig Hildebrand.

Road Trip Update: Days Two and Three

Austin was pretty great- Kate's friend Matty was nice enough to pick us up at the airport in one of the biggest trucks I've ever seen, probably from 1981. It had a killswitch and a carborated engine. Welcome to Texas, where everything is bigger (especially the trucks and the bugs.)

After a few last minute-moving errands, we walked by the legendary Emo's, where a bunch of kids were waiting for some new it band to go on. Clearly, it was an all ages show- it was like Hot Topic exploded on the sidewalk. We got BBQ at Stubb's for Kate's last Austin meal. On the menu there was fried okra, which I've never had before. Actually, I wasn't sure if I'd ever seen an okra before. Trips like this help me remember that although I'm pretty open minded, my Portland life, though awesome, is sheltered. The pulled pork was as good as expected. Kate picked something up off of the side plate of pickles and onions and took a big bite. She thought was an okra, and in an effort to enlighten me to the vegetables I'd been living without, took a big bite. It was some sort of chili pepper, hotter than a jalapeno, and she had a breakdown. Kate doesn't eat spicy. Her mouth was on fire and her lips were burning and she didn't know what to do. I pushed some bread at her and tried really hard not to laugh.

We hung out at a bar in Austin called Liberty, which served these great chicken buns. It kind of reminded me of Amigo's meets the Downtown Lounge, plus a million stickers. Kate pointed out a bar Bill Murray surprise bartended at during South by Southwest last year. I'd absolutely lose my shit if I walked into a bar and Bill Murray just so happened to be there. Maybe I need to get out of Portland more often.

The car is packed so full that there is literally no room for us, anything else, to go boxes. Walter keeps walking around in circles from the blankets in the backseat to my shoulders, to my lap, to the dashboard, to Kate's lap, back to the backseat. There are Dairy Queens in every town we drive through.

In one memorable stop for gas in Coleman, Texas, a really old man with a gaping open mouth and a ten gallon cowboy hat, asked us how far we were moving. I said San Francisco. He said, “Well gee, that's clear out the County!” Coleman had a slightly desolate main street, where we found lunch at the Owl General Store Soda Fountain and Grill. All of the store fronts had Go Bluecats messages written in their windows, and I realized this was the kind of town Varsity Blues is supposed to take place in. The kind of place where everyone goes to high school together, and everyone stays in the town, and the social structure stays the same because no one leaves and no one new arrives. To quote James Van Der Beek, “I don't want your life.” The food was pretty good- Kate decided to get the chilli cheese burger, blacked out, came to, and had eaten the whole thing. I got a chicken salad sandwich, which wasn't as good, I'm sure, but at least I didn't want to die after.
I drove a car for the first time in six months and I didn't kill us. I'm following Katie Kearn's two rules of driving: Don't hit anything, and don't get hit by anything.

At some point, I started telling Kate that sometimes I have fantasies about the movie of my life. Whitesnake's “Here I Go Again” came on the Pandora station. I've decided that in the montage of me doing things by myself, bowling, coming home to an empty mailbox, table for one, walking down the street alone, etc, in the scene right before I meet the person I'm going to be with for the rest of my life, (the movie of my life is a romantic comedy with a happy ending,) “Here I Go Again” will be the backing track for the montage.

If Kate's life were a movie, right now, Walter the cat would be her daughter, and Kate would be a single mother played by Susan Surandon in the 80s, with a perm and a white tank top. Since she's been picking up and moving so much, (three times in the last year), there'd be a lot of empty promises and excuses and apologies for a better life. “This time, we're really gonna settle, Walter. San Francisco is real nice, and I bet you're gonna make some great friends. I just know it.” Kate's movie is a little bit less literal, but still has a happy ending.

Driving through West Texas to New Mexico can get pretty barren (though there are some scenic parts and I can't believe how big the sky is out there.) Kate really needed to pee, there was nothing in sight, so I pulled over. She said that her vag was going to get bit by a rattlesnake, and I was supposed to watch Walter, our cat friend making the journey with us. I forgot to keep an eye on her, because I got a text message. She escaped, and almost disappeared into the desert of New Mexico to live off of cactus water and armadillos before becoming totally feral.

Albuquerque was great, also, and it was nice to see Andy and meet all of his friends. His roommate and his friends are really well read, and have a lot to talk about. They have a pomegranite tree in their back yard, and cooked us a delicious meal. We went to a metal show at a bar with a stage that had a mural of some palm trees behind it. Epic.

More updates soon.

Road Trip Day One Update

Trip thusfar has been reasonably uneventful- although my cab driver from work last night tried to have me critique his poetry, and my cab driver this morning got all philsophical about life being too short to be unhappy. Zen and the Art of Cab Driving?

I had three hours of sleep and managed to board the plane forgetting only my belt (actually, Mandy's, sorry) at security.

I always fantacize about working as a flight attendant, then I remember I'd have to like, save people if we crashed. I like critiquing business men's suits and briefcases and how fast they're walking, making eye contact with cute guys, people watching in general. I always wonder if I'm seeing people who are on their way to or from a funeral.

I fell asleep listening to the audiobook Rock On: An Office Power Ballad by Dan Kennedy, though I think that has less to do with the book, more with my lack of sleep. Then Grown Ups with Adam Sandler and an all-star supporting cast came on, and I'm not embarassed to say I laughed a lot. Good ol' family friendly slapstick.

Anyway, I write this entry because something terrible happened, actually. Worse than the time Darcy and I were getting drunk at the airport bar and almost missed our flight. Worse than the time I climbed over the sleeping man- I felt bad waking him so I sort of straddled him and made my way to the bathroom- he got a facefull of boob and when we landed he told me, "I didn't sleep a wink!" Worse
than a baby or a snorer or snakes...

I think someone pooped their pants. Or sharted. Really, it's so potent I want to gag. But I can't say anything, because you smelt it you dealt it. There's no way it's the toilet because the toilet is all the  way on the other side of the plane. Seriously, this is an airtight, pressurized cabin a.k.a. stale, stagnent air. I want to vomit.

See you in a week, Portland!

In just a few hours, I'm about to embark with the fantastic Kate Digby Skinner, on the Epic Road Trip 20-10.

I've been on an epic road trip once before, with the fantastic Mandy Lou Wheeler. Highlights included: Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, rival school football game, meeting new people, cool kids in Denver, consignment stores in Denver, Mandy's family, all of the rock and roll shows, Bridget's hospitality, Halloween in SF, the drive from SF to LA, going to my first Hooters, the whole drive home, staying in random motels, getting lost, cotton fields, coming home. Lowlights included: not knowing how to drive the stickshift, having so much stuff with us, fighting all those fights about everything, losing my debit card on the first day, homesickness. We were gone for, no joke, 40 days, and 40 nights.

This year, older, wiser, and boozier, I'm looking forward to a few things: Vegas for the first time (stretch pants?) I probably won't elope and be wed by an Elvis impersonator, like I've always envisioned my first trip to Vegas including, but stranger things have happened. I've made some playlists, including dance mixes, podcasts and audiobooks for the car, and I can drive the car this time. I haven't seen Kate in months, and I've been feeling like I direly need a vacation (if only you'd have read all of the depressing discarded drafts of blogs I've been starting with things like, I feel like Eeyore today.) The only thing I'm not looking forward to is missing everyone at home, including my cat, and the fact that the trip is so short.

Updates soon, from the road, hopefully. I'm getting in a cab in three and a half hours. Sunnufabeotch.

Just another Monday night...

My new approach to dating is to just sit back and see what happens. Good for life, not as good for blogging. When I decided to post this tonight, I considered the fact that I have to be aware of how many Baby stories I post, just so that I don't start seeming like some sort of lonely, crazy cat lady.

Okay, so, you already know that my cat is a little bit crazy and I'm kind of, well, disorganized, right?

I was at the Front Room for lunch today (seriously, I should just open my wallet and dump it in that guy's pocket,) and I decided to finish listening to the podcast of This American Life after I got to the bar. I didn't feel that weird about wearing headphones, I'm in there often enough, and it was a shift change for the staff anyway. But I did feel weird about the bartender who did not serve me grabbing the napkin I used to wipe my dirty BLT hands off then rub some boogers off my nose. So I stuck it in my bag and forgot about it.

A few hours later, Angela and I were going out to the grocery store, and as I was checking to made sure my wallet was in fact where it should be and had all of the necessary contents, the crumpled dirty napkin fell on the floor. In the bustle for me to find my shoes, jacket, reusable grocery bags, Baby finds the napkin on the floor and starts clawing it and rubbing her face on it. I don't know how or why she was doing this, but I sort of forgot about it on our way out. Anglea, btw, thought there it was like, covered in my perfume or something. Perfume, really? I'm lucky if I remember deodorant.

Once we return from the grocery store, I'm in full-on cooking mode, since we needed to eat immediately, and I still didn't call the oil company, so our heat isn't on. The napkin was ancient history. I decided to make a quick pizza, beef stew and apple crisp to warm us up. Angela, who usually does most of the cooking (or Rebecca, who is house-sitting tonight,) cozies up to the table with the new issue of Real Simple magazine, a glass of wine, and starts changing her toenail polish. It's where the heat is, after all.

Disaster strikes when Angela knocks her hot pink polish on the floor. She's grumbling and I'm still sort of busy chopping and shit, when I hear her say over my Dr. Dog Pandora station, "Luckily, there was a paper towel right there." I go into survival mode and yell, "AH! NO! I BLEW MY NOSE IN THAT!" Really, it was more of a wipe than a full-on blow, Angela gets super disgusted and throws it away. She needs to wipe the spill before the polish dries, and she does so while commenting on how incredibly strange it was that the cat was essentially rubbing her face all over my boogers.

The best part is that on her way out of the kitchen she gives me a distainful, disgusted, disapproving sidelong glance and says, "You two have a weird relationship."

Stoli Razz and Soda, Please

I've been really lucky when it comes to jobs, and that's especially true at Bayside Bowl. I can't say enough how great it is, everyone I work with is awesome, my customers rule, blah blah blah. One of the many perks is that I get one free meal for every shift I work, and I'm  usually compelled to wind down with an adult beverage once I clock out. If you, my readers, haven't already gathered that I drink a lot, I'm telling you now: I drink a lot. My lifestyle lends it self well to this sort of behavior.

At Bayside Bowl, we take our liquor seriously and our attitudes about liquor even more seriously. Our beer selection is extensive, featuring tons of craft beers, from here and away, but also favorite imports like Guinness, Heineken and Corona. As far as liquor, we have plenty of scotches and bourbons, as though bowling is such a sophisticated business. We probably sell more Courvoisier and Tuaca than any one bar in the entire state. But for me, even more enjoyable than a Shipyard Export or a Bulleit bourbon, is my dress size. From time to time, if I'm having a drink for the purpose of relaxing, I'll grab a vodka-soda, the low-sugar, low-cal, less-gross alternative to light beer. Even better than a vodka-soda, though, is a flavored vodka. I don't get all crazy with the blueberries or the passion fruits, just a simple Stoli O or Razz from time to time.

This was a secret from everyone at Bayside Bowl for a long time. It took us months to start carrying Stoli Razz, and that's only because it was insisted that we carry it for a private function. Before that, anyone who tried to order a flavored vodka was met with (thoughts of) pity or contempt. I would secretly sympathize, offer a splash of cranberry juice or a margarita. Then, last Friday, I went for it. I ordered a Stoli Razz and soda. I asked Nathan, the Handsome, Talented Photographer moonlighting as Awesomest Bar Manager Ever, to be cool about it. He knows I'm not a Midori-sour kind of a girl, he knows I'm cool when it comes to brews, but he can't help but totally make fun of me, extremely loud, and I don't blame him. "AMANDA! HOW IS THAT STOLI RAZZ? ARE YOU ENJOYING YOUR STOLI RAZZ?" All of a sudden I'm no longer hip-staff member charming customers and coworkers alike, I'm that girl asking, "Do you have blueberry vodka?"

My drink is awesome. It goes down fast, as I'm telling a new coworker all about my recent lovelife drama. The owner asks me if I want a refill, and I nod, cringing, "OMG, does he know that I got the Stoli Razz?" (Yes, I speak to myself in acronyms from time to time.) And he goes, Tanqueray and tonic? And I'm like, yessss! He doesn't know.

At this point, I decide that I'd really like to bowl. (I usually bowl alone.) And I also decide that I'd like one more Stoli Razz and lemonade, which I ordered through my laneside server. This is what came:

It was so ridiculous, so many garnishes, I couldn't even look at it, let alone drink it. 

The rest of the night consisted of a few bowling games of diminishing scores, despite encouraging cheers from the next lane over. I called a cab, since it's not safe to walk home alone at one o'clock in the morning, let alone tispy on gin and flavored vodka.The cab seems to be taking longer than normal, so I go back inside to use the restroom. When I come back out, a group of drunk people are trying to get into my cab and I find myself yelling and running down the stairs, "NO! NO! NO! Get out! That's my cab! No! No! Get out!" Luckily, for me, they did, because those girls were a lot bigger than me. The cab driver and I laughed about it and tipped him well.  

Public Market Confessional

I've been thinking about the importance of the blog in my life, whether it's ridiculous that I'm doing this at all, and the consequences of sharing a lot of personal information on the internet. It's both empowering, and increases my vulnerability, but not quite as vulnerable as the result of this chance meeting the other day...

I met a friend for coffee. We'll call him, Frank, because Frank is like my favorite name and he's like my favorite guy. He's 43, and has a pretty good handle on things. I tell him about my life, he gives me honest and useful feedback. It's great. We met up at the Public Market House, a place I haven't seen much of since Kate Digby Skinner left.

It had been a few months since we'd caught up, and I had a lot to talk about. Mostly my love life- a lot about what I'm looking for, what's gone wrong in the past. I'm literally, pouring my heart out, talking about my insecurities and my frustrations and details about my renewed singledom. And this guy sits down right behind me, who I know from karaoke. I don't know him well, just a familiar face attached to a name. I karaoked a Todd Rundgren song once, and he really liked it, which is basically all of our interactions at this point. It seems like the best idea for me is to try and ignore him, that way, I can continue my earnest conversation.

This guy gets up to leave after about an hour, and Frank makes eye contact. He and Frank have an awkward interaction for about a second, when Frank motions to me, then points to this guy. THANKS, FRANK! I give a half smile to be polite, say something about how it's a small town and it's nice to see him, and turn back to my conversation.

A bit later, Frank and I leave, deciding to meet up in a few weeks. This guy, however, shows up at Bayside Bowl a few nights later, walks straight up to me and confesses that he couldn't help but listen to everything I said, once he realized it was me. There was honestly, no more than four inches between the back of my chair and the back of his chair. What was I supposed to do? Ask him what exactly he heard and his thoughts? That seemed even worse than the awkward interaction we were already having. Apologize that he overheard? Ask him to not tell anyone? It wasn't my fault, I was there first. He should've kept to himself the fact that he was eavesdropping. It was none of his business, and Frank owes me big time- if he didn't initiate an interaction between the two of us, he wouldn't have been able to tell me he heard anything, because I could've maintained that I didn't know he was there. I know I can be pretty candid, but there were a lot of things I said in the confines of that coffeeshop I don't want just want just anyone to know. It was LiveJournal kind of shit.

At one point, Frank had asked me why I don't go out with that guy, since he clearly likes me by the way he was awkwardly standing there waiting to get my attention (Frank's words, not mine.) I brush him off, because I don't find this guy attractive, in the least. So he asked, why not? The answer isn't lengthy or complicated, I just don't, which led to me explaining in great detail how I might not know what I want in a potential life partner, because I believe people can be compatible in a lot of ways, but I have a pretty decent idea of what I don't want. Frank thinks I should use the blog as a platform for advertising these qualifications, but then pointed out that it's possible the blog could be standing in the way of my quest for true love. My thoughts are, it's a silly, irrelevant blog. And you know what else? Blogging is a lot like writing!


...

Emoji? Emoj-you!

Mandy and I have become obsessed with emoji, and it's actually kind of sick.

I'm not sure if you can see what these are, but I'll try: fax machine, gavel, ghostie, red balloon, trophie, coffee, cheers, martini, ramen, pasta, eggplant, merecat?, whale, octopus, six smiley faces of varying horrific emotions, okay, praise the lord, look up, rainbow, bicycle, barber shop, mailbox, clock, "Ok," "fast forward," "rewind," "Cool."

Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

Have I talked about my cat, Baby? Originally, I was torn between naming her Penelope Whitmore and Beyonce, in the meantime called her Baby, and it stuck. Although I adopted her as an adult, her name was Miss T, and it had to be changed. No daughter of Mr. T would be hanging out at my house.

She's can't meow properly. And she's absolutely insane, like, will unpredictably lash out at people. Well, people other than me, partially because I'm the center of her universe, her one true love, the hand that feeds her. I can also tell when she's in a bad mood and might lash out. Anyway, she is also a really great snuggler, and has killed a mouse or two in her day, so I keep her around, cock block or not. My roommates have been really patient in regards to the cat, for example, not flipping out if she scratches one of their friends. I guess nobody puts Baby in the corner.

A few minutes ago, I was sitting in the kitchen, working on a paper, and the door to Rebecca's room opened. This kind of thing really freaks me out, I mean really. Then the internet stopped working. I went into the other room an gchatted Angela:

 me:  did you get my last chat?

rebecca's door just opened by itself.

then the internet stopped working.

WHAT THE FUCK

 Angela:  I responded...it's the wind!

 me:  the wind made the internet stop working??

i'm thoroughly freaked the fuck out.

baby seems to be cool, though, so i guess it can't be a serious ghost.

 Angela:  Yeh, I would trust baby...if there was something super-natural in there, she'd be clinging to the ceiling fan.

 me:  or trying to attack it.

Then I posted on Rebecca's wall and said, Um, your door just opened by itself and then the internet stopped working. Be honest, are you hiding a ghost in your room? You KNOW I'm like, really scared of ghosts.

Rebecca: You probably know I don't believe in ghosts, so, how could I hide something I don't believe in in my room? (Cue a bunch of really boring stories about how someone swears they saw a ghost once.)

Rebecca: Maybe your cat attacked and killed someone and they're hiding out in my giant closet? That's more plausible.

Angela: Guess I should call Cole [her boyfriend] and make sure he's still alive.