Dating online is not how it appears in this picture

So for the last month I have had my profile online, trying to get my meat hooks into some unsuspecting man for rollicking good times. Thus far it hasn't really worked. I met an Australian guy for coffee who said lots of things like "I took the hospital pass on that one" and "My wife thought her career was more important so she took off and went to Asia". Only it sounded more like "Asiure". What the hell is a hospital pass? I asked him but I don't remember the answer. I think I stopped paying attention after he told me he went to see the movie Jumper with Hans Christian Andersen. No, Hayden Christensen. Yes, that's it. Anyway, even though I am a die hard sci-fi fan, even I knew that that movie was going to be crap. If only he has said, "Now there's a knife," like Crocodile Dundee, maybe things would have worked.

The next guy I met for actual cocktails. I thought ok, this will be better, the alcohol will loosen things up a bit, and I can always say "Hey, sorry but I forgot that I have to get this abscess lanced," if I needed to escape. I was pleasantly surprised! What a nice normal guy, and tall! I likes em tall. So we hung out for three hours - THREE hours, and we had a nice time. We talked and there were the normal lulls in the conversation, but really, we seemed to have enough in common and got along well enough to go out again. At the end of the night he walked me to my car and told me how great it was to meet me, and that we would have to do it again. Then you know what happened? NOTHING. He never called me again. What the hell? Why spend three hours with me if you thought I smelled like soup or that I my ass was the size of a small European car? I was completely willing to overlook the fact that his nose shot off to the left, or that he had an incredibly tiny and sharp K-9 tooth that snaggled its way out when he smiled, or that he was is originally from South Dakota. Totally willing. But no. Men are fickle creatures. Fickle, stinky, macho boobs. Is it any wonder that I can't get a date? I know, I am partly to blame. I guess I'll just have to take the hospital pass on this one.

Elevator Guy, Hippie Gatherings, and Flights to South America

So I just remembered that I promised Kara that I would blog tonight, so while I wait for the first coat of my toenail polish to dry, let's talk about some topics shall we? Here are you choices for tonight's ramblings, they are as follows:
1) The guy that works in my building that wears a newsboy cap and has perfect teeth, and subsequently makes my teeth sweat;
2) The "I love the earth so damn much that I am turning off the lights for an hour and getting drunk in the dark" gathering that I am having; or
3) Trying to figure out the best way to get to Ecuador in October -- three connecting flights or two and a five hour layover?
Well? Tick tock Clarisse... I thought you'd see it my way. Elevator Guy it is.

I have seen this guy in my building and in the elevator for over a year now. He's tall, handsome and his teeth - his teeth! O' were they to bitest me, my life would be complete! Uh, sorry.

The only thing I knew until recently was that he always wears a kick ass hat, works on a floor above me, and has a little boy. Either that or he repeatedly abducts the same child over and over for the sake of appearances. Every once in a while we'd say hi, how are you, the niceties of those who secretly wish ravish one another within the confines of Otis. As of late I have seen him more and more, which I think is the baby Jesus trying to tell me to get it on with Elevator Guy... because that's how baby Jesus talks when he means business.

The other day I was walking to Rite Aid to get some Nerds - the sugar nugget elixir of life - and as I am walking along someone comes up behind me and says, "Hey I know you." It's Elevator Guy, wearing the worst wig I have ever seen. I was taken aback by the hair hat, and I didn't say anything about it - you know - in case it was for a purpose, like he has cancer and very poor taste in head coverage. As it turns out he was on his way to Rite Aid as well, to get some ice for a party at his work. Hence the wig. Hence the wig that looked like Javier Bardem's No Country for Old Men hair. So not only is Elevator Guy hot, he's hilarious and has no problem wearing synthetic hair in public. He also loves to karaoke, and that my friends is the clincher. I must have this man. The baby Jesus wants it. I want it. My friends want it for me. That's like 7 cubic feet of want. So we'll see. Maybe the baby Jesus will orchestrate a few more meetings on Otis. And if he doesn't, I am borrowing the wig and flipping a quarter in his direction. Call it, friendo.

Enchanté

Have you ever met crazy? The kind of crazy that simultaneously makes your mouth gape and fear for your life? The kind of crazy that should be tranquilized and put into a straight jacket? The kind of crazy that if prompted would tear your head off with its bare hands and eat your soft fleshy cheeks? Well I met that kind of crazy Saturday night, and its name is Brenda.

I met crazy at my friend Brandon's birthday party. Now Brandon is a character is his own right, so as you might imagine, the people that come to his parties are... interesting. Interesting is the word my mother uses when she doesn't know what to say. Oh that movie was... interesting. Well that sounds... interesting. Well I met the mother of all interesting at this party. Perhaps the incarnation of psychotic is the better term. Now I heard tell of Brenda before, and I'll admit, I thought the stories that Brandon told were a bit exaggerated, a bit overblown. But after seeing Brenda in action, I believe she can do anything, from slaughtering cattle with karate kicks to levitating a 747 with nothing more than the sheer power of her schizophrenic mind.

Brenda went to Quantico and trained to be a C.I.A. agent. She is an expert in martial arts and can speak seven languages. But Brenda flunked the psyche test. Because Brenda is crazy. When Brenda got back from Quantico, she decided to get drunk and do spy-type forward rolls in the middle of Powell St., even though she had a broken wrist from training. When the cops came they had no idea what they were in for.
"Uh, miss, you need to stop what you're doing and come with us," said cop #1.
"Leave me alone, I may be drunk but I know what I'm doing," said real life but mentally screwed Alias's Jennifer Garner. It was at this point that the cop grabbed Brenda by the wrists. Newsflash-bing bong, bad idea. Four cops later, she was finally hog tied and in the back of a police cruiser, which she promptly broke the back windows out of with her stiletto heels.

Now fast forward to Brandon's party. I have never seen a human being act the way she did. She spoke in an affected manner, like some New England matron millionaire. "Enchan-tay. I've heard soooo much about you Jen, I feel like I already know youuuu." Whaaa?

During the course of the evening she:
a) threatened to beat up Brandon, the person who invited her to the party;
b) threatened me with her dead shark eyes and an ominous, "Ummmm, yeah.";
c) Took her shirt off
d) Sashayed to the end of the dining room table, stopped, pivoted, stuck her arm in the air a la Saturday night fever; and
e) runway-model walked out the back door.

She also informed us that her new girlfriend uses chew and swallows it, which she thought was "friggin hot." In between the runway walking and threats of bodily harm, Brenda gyrated, gesticulated, thrust her girl parts at any and every one. And I honestly believe she thinks she's acting perfectly normal. I want to know, what it's like inside her head? Do you suppose it's like a TV that is constantly changing channels? Does she see people in an altered state, much like the poor people in Batman Begins did after getting a snootful of that magic Scarecrow dust? And would meds temper the insanity? Not sure. I told Brandon that I'd be game to have Brenda at one of his parties again... if she was in a cage. Enchanté.

Cigarette anyone?

Dear god lord jesus in heaven above, I am at work and I am sooooooo booooored. It was busy this morning, because a co-worker was out trying to stave off the Portland Authorities from towing his van. A) A van? and b) where the hell did he park it to incur the wrath of said Portland Authorities? I don't know, and I don't care. What I'd really like to do is shake him until his retinas detach and he can longer work here. "Gee what happened to so-and-so?" "His eyes fell out." Yeah, that's what I want. I'm sure he's a lovely fellow outside the workplace, but once he crosses the occupational thresh hold, he becomes giant imcompetant dipwad. That's right, dipwad. He came in this morning looking like he just got shot out of a cannon and landed in a peat bog. We discussed what was currently being worked on; not even 5 minutes later, he asks me something that related directly to the former convo. I look at him in amazement and awe, a sideshow freak holding me enrapt with his limbless body and cigarette rolling lips. A blank stare. A blank slate. A 90-year-old man in the last stages of alzheimer's. I came to the conclusion at that moment that he was trying to push me into having a psychotic break, but he's not doing it all at once. He's doing it slowly, day by day, minute by minute. And therein lies the genius of the plan. I will continue thwarting his scheme however, this van-driving, non-decision making, thrombosis-enducing maniac will not win this battle. No matter how many cigarettes he rolls.

Hallelujah!

Yeah, that's right, it's me again. Can you believe it? I started reading some of my old blogs and damn it, they made me laugh. So I have vowed to start writing snappy copy once again. Because the people deserve it. Actually the people would probably be fine with my continued hiatus, but I feel the spirit. I Feeeeeeeeeel it-ah!

Neighbors be Damned!

Dear Jesus, is it wrong to want your neighbor dead? WWYD Jesus? I am having a problem with my newest neighbor. She is a God-fearing, cigarette-smoking, player-piano-having, manipulative passive-aggressive be-yotch that needs to be smote forthwith. I have lived in my complex for almost 5 years and not until this serpent of doom moved in did I ever have a problem with anyone. It started with the tromping. Back and forth, day in and day out, her footfall was indistiguishable from a small herd of migrating water buffalo. My apartments are old and all movement is transferred through the wood flooring. So I complained to her, I wrote her a note and told her of the tromping situation. She complied for a while, but now she's at it again. If I cut her feet off, do you suppose that would help? Or would I have just introduced another equally annoying component into the equation, namely the whirring of an electric wheelchair buzzing through the walls? Well, since I can't cut her feet off with much ado I'll never know. Now she is not so surrepticiously jockeying for half of my storage unit. She asked my land lord if she could have half. I told him if it was all the same to him, I wanted it for myself. And I don't feel bad about that. I have lived in that place for almost 5 years, and have just recently gotten the storage unit all to myself. How long has she been here? Two months tops. I have what my mother calls "Squatter's Rights". I have been there the longest, therefore, the shit is mine. So I didn't here anything back from my landlord; I assumed all was well. Well I assumed wrong. The other night I go outside to find my cat and here she comes, "Jennifer, Jennifer, can I ask you a question???" Oh dear Jesus no I don't want to talk to you. "I sure was hoping to get a hold of your storage unit. Jim said you wanted it all to yourself. It sure would be nice though to have a place to put my fan and my luggage and my..." It is here dear reader that I just blanked out with rage. What a twat. If you had been told no, would keep asking anyway? And now if I don't give her half of my storage unit, I am a bitch. Well bitch I shall be. Screw that wench. She can whine and kvetch all she wants. Even if I stack only lint in my storage unit, she gets none of it. NONE. God I hate neighbors. I need a house. Does anyone have one to sell for cheap? Otherwise she'll get to use the storage unit all right, only she'll be on the inside and I'll be the only one with the key. Blurgh.

Blurgh

Has it really been that long since I've been away? Really? Well I suck shoes. Really, you ought to just stop reading now because you'll get all sucked in and then I won't type another thing for 4 months. Blurgh. I stole blurgh from what is possibly the world's funniest sitcom, 30 Rock. Well, maybe not the world's, they may have some sort of Indian-language Maude somewhere. But blurgh fits most everything in my life right about now. I am the size of a small armada. Blurgh. My new next door neighbor is a smoking christian with a player piano that pounds out The Sting. Blurgh. I just ate a croissant and I am sure I have flakes of it on my face and in my hair. Blurgh. I'm not sure why I give the blurgh an "h" on the end, but it seems appropos.

In the 9th grade (about 17,000 years ago) I had a group of friends that would say the word "dart" in response to something stupid or something obvious. That was a lame movie. Dart. Her pants are retarded. Dart. Only it was more like Da-aaarrrrt. I never knew how the useage of dart came about, but it felt right at 14, as blurgh does now. I think in the near future I shall compile a lexicon of the words and catch phrases that I used to say back in the day, and perhaps if the words' meanings have morphed over time, or become obsolete. I have too much time on my hands. Blurgh.