A wench walks into a bar...

Spokane: a city of so many nicknames (i.e. Spokanistan. Spocompton), none of which infer it could be anything but a ghetto sand trap that is possibly poverty stricken. Rather, it’s actually a nice place to visit (or attend college) – hot and sunny in the summer, snowy and sunny in the winter. And for a girl that enjoys sunglasses 24/7, the prevalence of sun is quite drawing for me.

That’s not to say that some sketchy things have not happened to me in the many years I lived, and have visited, Spokane – because they have. It’s possible some of these events were self-induced…but I refuse to accept the notion that I may have “asked” for any of the following. Truthfully, I am always cognizant of my actions and sometimes it can be beneficial. I’ll explain.

As a junior in college, I was the youngest of my roommates. The last to turn 21, and for those of you that know me, being left out really isn’t my “thing.” I prefer being included, invited and in the know. Everyone knows at 21 house parties become irrelevant whereas the Bar (really, any bar) is much more appealing. I mean, come on, that’s where all the guys are, right?

*BTW, this is not a new concept for me. I’ll tell you later about my interest in participating in activities that boys generally populate.

Recently 21, and in possession of a fake ID she no longer needed, my roommate passed hers onto me. At that time, Thursday was the new Friday (it still is, FYI) and my friends were frequenting the biggest dive bar within walking distance. An American-Chinese joint that offered karaoke and killer drink specials. At the time, Andrew was their main bouncer – sporting dark brown hair with a mullet that screamed I’m all business until I turn around. The photo in my newly acquired ID looked something like me, back in my “goth” days when I liked black eyeliner. At least, that’s what I told people when they gave me a quizzical look. What’s a girl to do when her ID’s legality could be questioned? Flirt. And flirt I did. Andrew took an immediate liking to me, and if you subtract the time they tracked me down and requested I leave, as I could not produce an ID that someone else hadn’t used moments before, he stopped carding me after my second visit. This did limit my libations to the one locale; however you make due with what you have right? Better than a house party with the freshman, right? Scoff. However, this meant endless minutes of flirting with Andrew before I could join my friends on the dance floor -- then what felt like endless minutes of ridicule for shamelessly flirting with the bouncer.

Side note: What I wouldn’t give for a house party right now. As it happens, once you enter the world of the working-[wo]man people start to care about their dwellings enough to limit the beer-spilling, mess-causing keggers that produce the best dance EVER.

Fast-forward to this past year when passing through Spo after a weekend of skiing, J and I were invited to a house party. SCORE! ::queue dance party remix:: After a successful night of house-partying it up – we called a cab. I quickly curled up, closed my eyes and drifted off while J proceeded to have the following conversation with our almost English speaking cab driver.
Cab drive: So, what do you do over there for work?
J explains his job..putting me into a deeper sleep.
Cab drive: Whatthewenchdo?
J: The who? What?
Cab driver: Whatthewenchdo? The WENCH. What does SHE do?

I imagine that passing out on someone’s shoulder at 1am gives him the right to refer to me as a wench; however while assigning me that nickname why even bother asking about my profession? Urban Dictionary defines a wench as:

“A voluptuous female pirate type woman, usually with a firey attitude, and usually seen around taverns and bars, seaside fishing towns, and wherever pirates roam.”

OR

“Historically a non-derogatory word for a woman who was not a lady. Thus a waitress in times of yore was a "serving wench." more modernly synonymous with bitch or slut but slightly less offensive.”

I will give him voluptuous and firey – otherwise it seems he peg-legged me as a slutty waitress.

Which, looking back at my waitressing days, is debatable.

Get Yo' Self a BAD BOY!

Last night, rather than being a low key adult that stays home, cleans her apartment, packs for a weekend trip and goes to bed early I decided to revisit my teen years with a Backstreet Boys concert.

The girls and I met for dinner and drinks – guzzling our Peach Sweet Teas (with vodka, DUH) and watching the girls/women/gay guys/reluctant or secretly gay boyfriends head toward the concert venue. (BTW – the venue was a hockey rink. Classy.) As it happens, a few cocktails pre-show no longer makes it when preparing to see BSB live. You need homemade shirts. You need Glo-Sticks. You need short hemlines and high, painful heels.

My work attire definitely did not give me a “I’m such a groupie I’d sleep with you immediately just to say I did” look – more so it was a “I should be drinking wine on a sailboat.” Blue and white stripes are totally hot…if you’re sipping champagne with the Captain. Had I known to go full-slut I would have gone shopping WEEKS ago.

After paying our tab, which was conveniently the same price as two tickets to a BACKSTREET BOYS concert, N and I opened a few beverages to slip in our purses for the walk. We weren’t boy scouts, but I can tell you that we are always prepared. (In this event, N was..)

We blindly found our seats, or what we considered to be close enough to our seats – but not without a few stumbles (come on, it was pitch black in there!) and spilling beer down the back of the girl in front of us. It was then that I realized how old I really am. The combination of food, booze, heat and a full day of work had exhausted me. Yes, I do enjoy the boy band goodness of yore, but more so I enjoy melting into my mattress and pillow.

“I hope they don’t start screaming. Ugh,” N said as the lights begin to dim. Then it happened. It was like a pterodactyl screeching its mating call while preying on a young, idiotic, neon wearing teeny-bopper. I looked to my immediate right to see N’s tonsils vibrating, her perfectly straight teeth extended as far apart as possible and her mouth producing what can only be described as the piercing cry of an injured animal. A few tequila shots and she quite possibly would have been trying to slingshot her bra on stage.

We weren’t even that close.

The hour that followed included much karaoke – don’t worry, I was drowned out by other BSB loving folk. However, it seems that the international sensation that was BSB is no longer working with an unlimited production budget. The video screen was playing graphics that resembled a screen saver circa 1995, back when you had to lift with your knees to move your computer. I think there were back up dancers, however it was hard to tell if they’d actually been trained or recruited from the street corner.

While operating a man down, the ‘Incomplete’ set seemed to have lost steam. Yes, it was pointed out to me that they are in their mid-thirties. Combined with the simplistic screen saver graphics, it was as if karaoke DDR was happening on stage.

But who would pass up an opportunity to see a childhood favorite in a po-dunk suburb with a crowd as big as my high school? Not I.

No Spank You.

It’s been awhile since my last blog. But it’s also occurred to me that many entertaining things have happened in my life.

If you are familiar with where I live, you are likely familiar with the maintenance guy that sloths around pretending to look busy. I want to say he means well and is just a friendly guy – however after a semi-recent elevator ride, I have found myself dodging him, hitting the “door close” button and speed-walking past him more often than not.

When I first met him, he was just a nice, helpful guy. He’d leave my packages inside the apartment (yes, I signed a form saying it was ok) and let me in when I was locked out at ridiculous hours (read: midnight) due to my own flustered memory. No, not drunkenness. And I am offended you thought that. (Admit it, you’re a lush.)

Recently, my Grandma has taken to sending me a monthly card to say “wuddup,” which I totally dig since I love mail of the snail-variety. After making my daily stop to see what the Post-Fairy had left me, I hopped in the elevator heading up.

FYI: My mom notes that I need to limit the details I give you blog-stalkers, since it’s public and you never know when someone will map out who/where/how you are based on your blog. That being said, I feel that mentioning “up” in regards to my elevator ride does not give anything away, other than that I do not, in fact, live in a cavern connected by crazy elevators. How awesome would that be though?

I diverge. So, I am in the elevator with said maintenance man (MM) and an Asian couple tearing into what looks like a card that could POSSIBLY contain money. Refusing to look up, or make direct eye contact with anyone – because to be honest, I didn’t want to make conversation – I now wish I would have had my ear buds in. The conversation was as follows:

MM – “Whatcha got there? A birthday card? Is it your birthday?”
Me (head still down) – “Nope. Just a card from my Grandma.”
MM – “Oh, that’s too bad I was just about to start spankin’ ya.”
Me (holding back a gag) – “Keep dreamin.”
MM – “Your parents said it was ok…”

Then the doors opened and I quite literally exited with a sprint. Luckily it was my floor.

I am not sure if the Asian couple was going with a “we don’t understand” approach or more of the “we are laughing at the inside” – either way they were also statuesque and avoiding eye contact with all parties. Or at least I imagine so, since I couldn’t look anywhere other than my toes.

That night I did call to confirm with my mother that she had, in fact, not given MM permission to spank me on, around or after my birthday. She had not. He is now not only extremely creepy – but he’s also a liar. And no one wants a creepy liar letting them into their home at midnight.

Anyone know a hide-a-key that blends with beige?

Put that in your pipe and...sing it?

It’s come to my attention that I have a very routine morning. According to Wikipedia, the most reliable source on the Internet, a routine is “a course of normative, standardized actions or procedures that are followed regularly, often repetitiously.”

In Lara terms? It’s a way to avoid getting ready for work.

My alarm goes off, I hit the snooze. My cell phone buzzes, I respond to a text blindly – for two reasons, the main one being that I refuse to actually open them and the secondary being that without my glasses focusing is a challenge. (Shut UP.) At this point, I generally try to go back to sleep while my phone and alarm race to be the next obnoxious noise to wake me.

This goes on for at least 20-minutes. Sometimes longer.

There are few things that wake me immediately. And this morning it became very evident that one of said things is trendy-pop music that I gobble up like a fat kid + cake.

Feeling vominous, yet? No?

I love Miley Cyrus. And I HATE that I love her.

First off, she is named after either your 90-year old great aunt that you met once and were enamored by the ridiculous amount of crap that she obtained throughout her life…or your next door neighbors dog. Secondly, she was born in the early 90’s…making her ALMOST 18 (boys, keep your pants on.) Even knowing both of these things, I am still addicted to her bubbly, mainstream lyrics.

When Party in the USA first came out, the radio station I listen to religiously worshipped all that is Miley by playing it at least once an hour. Meaning that I could wake up, snooze, text, dream, snooze, check my FB newsfeed, sleep, text and if I was lucky hear it again.

What a disgusting habit. What is the possibility that the music industry laces these songs with nicotine?

I had hoped that my adoration for crappy pop was a recent development. Something that my brain developed an affliction for after three years out of college and a job that is somewhat taxing on my mental stability.

Then S wrote on my Facebook wall:
“The door bell rings cause the party's here, I'm crankin up the stereo like it's New Year, walkin round the house like who's Da Man - can't nobody do it like Aaron can! Miss you!”

If you don’t get that, congratulations. You must play the Beatles, Bob Dylan and possibly Frank Sinatra through your ear buds. (If you don’t have ear buds, I am questioning my desire to be friends with you. Headphones went out of style with your rollerblades. Believe it.)

If you continued on, mumbling “First on the floor! You know that's me. Bustin' out the moves like it's MTV.” to yourself with a headbob – then your brain must be filled with endless hours of Backstreet Boys, pre-crazy Britney and probably Destiny’s Child. Welcome to my world. That, dear friends, is Aaron Carter – brother of BSB Nick.

And that is DEFINITELY no recent development. Prepare yourself for countless commercials of random hipsters shouting the side effects of catchy tunes that have limited cultural impact, because if Miley and Aaron produce an offspring I can only imagine the cheesey crap that will come out of that child’s perfectly harmonic mouth.

Until next time, find me changing stations until landing on Katy Perry’s California Gurls. Or maybe Kei$ha's Your Love is My Drug. She spells her name with a dollar sign and people think it's cool. WTF?

No sir, my finger does not lactate.

They say that the best birth control is babysitting. I am not sure who "they" are, but "they" are entirely accurate with that statement.

Last night, while allowing my addictive hair stylist to cut my hair in a stranger's kitchen (given, it was a friend of hers...but somehow made me feel like I was looking for one more hair-high...regardless of location) I witnessed the inner workings of a family of three.

While holding a crying newbie, desperate for his mother's boob, I had color slathered on my previously neglected hair. You would not believe how difficult it is to explain to a baby that you are not, in fact, able to feed him. Oddly, he was satisfied sucking on my finger for a short period of time. Until, of course, he realized that much like my boobs, my finger didn't lactate either.

Meanwhile, two toddlers -- who wouldn't talk to me otherwise due to shyness of strangers -- were running in and out of the room, waiting for a simple "boo" from me. At which point, they were scream playful, piercing child-screams of giddiness and run back out of the room, leaving me with the newbie who, if he could, would push the dislike button.

And continued to wail of unhappy hunger.

R continued with the color, in a soothing, "Momma's doing hair. I'll be there in a minute." Something I realize my own mother rarely would have done then or now. If I called "MOM!" she would rush to my side. I am sure this is instilling some true form of patience into M and O. At 28 (really? You're only 28?), R has the same tenderness of many mothers. Even when explaining to me that the male-toddler (her friend's son) had actually bitch-slapped her daughter in the mouth.

And yes, bitch-slap was her term.

Holy crap. Child violence. I am so not ready for this responsibility. Or bigger boobs.

As the night went on, I also learned that in addition to not being ready to be a parent, I will also never buy a house with a circular running path. Providing any small human with a track lacking obstacles, like doors and walls, is simply poor architecture. When given the opportunity to run, with EVERYTHING, children will literally sprint at the opportunity. After witnessing a reenactment of Harry Potter - wand included - I am quite certain my child will be using safety scissors until the age of 16, when the state trusts them with a driver's license.

I wasn't even babysitting these children. I was simply a guest. A temporary implant into their life. Can you imagine what would have happened had I been left alone with them?

I can. Only because I once babysat M when she was a baby, insisting that my cousin and his wife had a date night -- a term they are no longer familiar with. Though firetrucks, ambulances and CPS were not involved - I am sure that having a small baby pee on your knee then later spit-up ON YOUR FACE would be grounds for leaving her unattended...as joining a convent and life without procreation was calling my name.

So the next time you are strolling through Target (OMG I LOVE TARGET!!), passing the baby clothes and hearing yourself go "awwwwww cuuuuuteeeee!" remember that yes, floral prints in a mini-sized onesie is adorable.

Until it's covered in poop.

Hair: Such a Tease

If you are an avid follower of my blog (which you should be), I am sure that you know I am obsessed with a lot of things (i.e. Starbucks, myself, Facebook). Clearly, the examples provided are worthy of my time and obsessive nature -- however there are some things that I leave unnoticed. Namely my hair.

My locks are easily the simplest thing about me. They are a chestnutty brown. Cumulatively, my hair is equivalent to the state of Rhode Island, whereas my closest friend's hair is more like Texas. They require little attention from me (unlike my feet, hands, skin) and can often be dried in under a minute. ONE MINUTE. Think about the last time you blow dried your hair ladies. Men, well, I am flattered you are still reading.

For as long as I can remember, I have bounced from my Dad's stylist to my Mom's (love ya D!) -- each time saying, "I'd like a trim, and y'know, something easy." (Chill Grandma, I'm just talking about my hair.) I love highlights, and having someone else wash my hair. They always style it, giving me a momentary vision of hope...until it quickly looses shape once stepping foot outside the salon. Such a tease you are, hair.

In the event that you have had the privilege of waking up next to me, you know that my hair is infamous for being the worst morning hair OF ALL TIME. (Note: Thank gawd my Grandmother doesn't have the internet. I am sure that statement alone would be support for her "...whoring around" comment. See 'Drinkin' For Two' if you don't get the reference, you lazy follower.) Though it's straighter than raw spaghetti, my hair has the ability to form itself into some type of poofy, Meduza-esque mess that can only be replicated by stage-stylists.

I once had a roommate that taught me that half a can of hairspray + backcombing + a ponytail = sexy hair. That right there? Is the extent that I go through for my hair. If I curl it, it goes flat. If I crimp it, I end up looking like a lame Kelly Kapowski replica (side pony?!) No hair product has done me good, unless it's dry shampoo. Otherwise my tresses rebel, absorbing whatever I've tried so that I could pass as a Greaser. ::puke::

When I was 12, my hair waterfalled down my back. It was a long, thin mess of a pony tail that I assume was more trouble than what I can remember. I went to get a cut with my cousin, swearing I was going to have her chop it off. And chop she did. I went from being Cousin It's little sister to a tom-boy with a shag bowl cut. Imagine my Mother's surprise (she always has a perfect 'do, fyi. Blonde bob, with bangs. Perfect.) when I came home, pony tail in hand, near tears to what the stylist had done to my previously lengthy quaff. Needless to say I was rarely unaccompanied for cuts after that, nor did I want to be.

Hair stylists to women are like bartenders to men. They are witty, cheerful people that make you look beautiful -- or if you're a man, your bartender not only listens but pours you enough sauce so the woman next to temporarily appears beautiful. For years my Dad would take me to Great Clips, because what did I know of foiling and feathered layers? Once I finally discovered a woman who promised me effortless, cute hair I was in awe of my willingness to spend my meagre college paychecks every 6-weeks to sit in her chair, and babble about whatever unimportant drama was happening in my life (usually with a hangover.)

Then, I moved back home, leaving my stylist behind.

It's been more than six months since my last cut. My hair is long enough to pull back into a ponytail. My natural color has returned, and my morning beehive seems to be in full swing. I keep promising myself I'll find someone new. Someone just as good. Rather, I live in a world of hair denial, with full on stylist withdrawals.

To you, dearest quaff, I am sorry. I promise to no longer ignore your spaghetti like nature -- I'll find someone new.

But not quite yet...R's in town and I need her scissors one more time...

Drinkin' for two.

Last night I returned from a five day hiatus from the following: reliable cell service, a computer, Starbucks and cable. After spending a long weekend visiting my Grandparents in Montana you would think I wouldn't come back with much to tell -- oh but how you're wrong.

As mentioned above, my vacation lacked many of my favorites. Luckily, coffee is a staple for everyone not just the caffeine-addict that is rolling through town looking for a fix. Though she loves to cook, Grandma also likes to go to the Oasis, a cafe/bar/casino-type establishment. Why? Though their coffee is more expensive than at McDonalds, 75¢ versus 50¢, they have delicious cinnamon rolls. (Even if they are previously frozen, she pretends not to care.)

Yes - you did read that correctly. Drip coffee costs less than ONE DOLLAR. I can't figure out how they are making money. Or, maybe now I understand more clearly why Starbucks is a multi-billion dollar coffee pushing machine.

Though I do enjoy oodles of butter and sugar oozing down golden brown, cinnamony goodness, I was in the mood for an actual meal the morning Grandma and I decided to visit the Oasis. She was as well, and without even holding a menu ordered the senior portion of your standard diner breakfast: eggs, hasbrowns, toast and your choice of various meats. After she ordered, my conversation with the waitress was as follows:

Me: That sounds good. I'll have the same, but you know, the regular size non-senior portion. ::awkward chuckle:: two eggs...
Waitress: You got it.
She turns to walk away..
Waitress: Eatin' for two.

I quickly looked around, hoping someone else heard her. Then immediately looked down at my (empty) stomach. Confused, my Grandmother seemed oblivious of the waitress's comment of me having a cinnamon bun in MY oven. I didn't even have a loose shirt on.

The same evening after cautiously loading my dinner plate, and guffawing with my extended family about the above comment, I headed up to my good friend M's house. She happened to be in town, as was her older sister and adorable nephew -- whom I had never met.

M's dad stocks their house worthy of a Seattle bar. After a few glasses of wine, followed by a couple Greyhounds and enough hot tubbing to make me the fifth member of the Raisinets it was agreed that M and I should have a sleepover. After assuring Grandma that I would be home by 8 am for an intense bonding session, we mixed another and headed back to the hot tub.

As promised, I was home before 8...and locked out. It was reminiscent of losing your dorm keys after a walk of shame across campus, being forced to wait for someone (who was clean and showered) leaving before seeking refuge inside.

Oh the wrath that is a Grandmother. Once she opened the door, scowling, she busied herself. During this time I took the opportunity to sneak downstairs and try to catch a few extra z's. Really I blame the hot tub. It was dehydrating, I would have felt just fine otherwise. (Yeah, right.) It didn't take long for her to sleuth me out.

The light didn't stun my eyes immediately, as I'd pulled a blanket over my head, but after she whipped it back I can't say I was entirely surprised. As I turned over to meet her glare, she smacked me on the leg and snapped, "Get up. No more sleeping. You wouldn't be so tired if you weren't out all night whoring around."

Speechlessness ensues.

I am not sure if she was in cahoots with the waitress, however I hope they both know one can't get pregnant in a hot tub with another female. Otherwise someone gave them a very skewed version of the birds and the bees.