Life smells like burned french fries
(double-posted from Myspace url http://www.myspace.com/yaaaaarr)
About a week ago I got tired of sitting around on my ass and waiting for prospective employers to realize how fabulous I am. So I answered an ad on craigslist and climbed a mountain. With 4 complete strangers. Some 40 y.o. guy was in town on business and wanted to tackle Long's peak (which is about 150ft shorter than Mt. Rainier). So, 5 complete strangers, we hiked up to 13,000 feet carrying 50+ pounds of gear a piece and spent the most miserable, cold and windy night EVER in a boulder field. We summited in the morning, and it was BEAUTIFUL. We hiked down that same day and I spent the next two days so stiff, windburned and chapped I could hardly move, but it was worth it. I can't wait to tackle my next "14-er", as they call them here. There are like 40 mountains over 14,000 feet in Colorado.
Charlie and I have spent the last few days looking for a car to buy. We currently only have one (mine) and I'm tired of driving his ass to the airport at ungodly hours. I am no longer used to 4am consciousness. I have entered the realm of the thoroughly unemployed. I rouse from sleep only when my phone rings (is that a job?? Is it?? Is it??) or when I realize that the house is filled with smoke because after deciding the night before (at 2am) that french fries would be fucking awesome, I fell asleep, leaving the oven at 425 F. ONLY THEN will I get up, put pants on, dispose of the would-be french fries-turned-charcoal, and maybe open a door or a window. Maybe hyperventilate a little bit in anticipation of the forthcoming power bill. ANYWAY so we're looking for a car, right? And the first place we go, I'm totally uncomfortable. First of all, it's a shitty lot. Some of the cars have been sitting for a long time, and they've let a tire or two go flat. The salesman who shuffles out of the office looks like Steve Miller with a serious hangover. He slumps, won't make eye contact, and agrees with everything we say. He tells us his partner went to pick up his kids and took the only keys to the car we're interested in test driving. Would we mind waiting? An hour and a half later, we test drive it. No parking brake. 4 completely bald, just-short-of killing us tires. A clutch that smells like charcoal french fries. We pull back into the parking lot and tell the man sternly that we are not interested. He looks a little sheepish and insists he didn't know about the clutch (yeah. Okay.), and says the parking brake "ain't no big deal, (we) just can't park on hills is all".
That same day, some kid threw a rock and hit my car. He left a sizeable dent and removed some paint. So Charlie flagged down a cop, and we pulled over to survey the damage. The kid started shitting his pants. He was maybe 12 or 13 years old, but he was curled up in the fetal position at the cop's feet, wracked with almost screaming sobs. Turns out it was an accident. He was waiting for his dad, tossing rocks on the sidewalk when one bounced at the worst possible time. I surveyed the damage to my car and had to admit to myself that I would most likely never bother getting it fixed. The cop gave me his card anyway, just in case. Charlie and the cop had a good laugh while I tried to cheer the kid up, maybe let him know it wasn't that big a deal. He managed to choke out the words "You don't know my dad". All I could think of as we drove away was that I just got this poor kid's ass kicked.
Anyway, those of you who didn't get texted or called or grapevined (and care), Stephanie just had a kid. Her name is Gabrielle. I don't know about you guys, but I'm already stocking up on gum.
About a week ago I got tired of sitting around on my ass and waiting for prospective employers to realize how fabulous I am. So I answered an ad on craigslist and climbed a mountain. With 4 complete strangers. Some 40 y.o. guy was in town on business and wanted to tackle Long's peak (which is about 150ft shorter than Mt. Rainier). So, 5 complete strangers, we hiked up to 13,000 feet carrying 50+ pounds of gear a piece and spent the most miserable, cold and windy night EVER in a boulder field. We summited in the morning, and it was BEAUTIFUL. We hiked down that same day and I spent the next two days so stiff, windburned and chapped I could hardly move, but it was worth it. I can't wait to tackle my next "14-er", as they call them here. There are like 40 mountains over 14,000 feet in Colorado.
Charlie and I have spent the last few days looking for a car to buy. We currently only have one (mine) and I'm tired of driving his ass to the airport at ungodly hours. I am no longer used to 4am consciousness. I have entered the realm of the thoroughly unemployed. I rouse from sleep only when my phone rings (is that a job?? Is it?? Is it??) or when I realize that the house is filled with smoke because after deciding the night before (at 2am) that french fries would be fucking awesome, I fell asleep, leaving the oven at 425 F. ONLY THEN will I get up, put pants on, dispose of the would-be french fries-turned-charcoal, and maybe open a door or a window. Maybe hyperventilate a little bit in anticipation of the forthcoming power bill. ANYWAY so we're looking for a car, right? And the first place we go, I'm totally uncomfortable. First of all, it's a shitty lot. Some of the cars have been sitting for a long time, and they've let a tire or two go flat. The salesman who shuffles out of the office looks like Steve Miller with a serious hangover. He slumps, won't make eye contact, and agrees with everything we say. He tells us his partner went to pick up his kids and took the only keys to the car we're interested in test driving. Would we mind waiting? An hour and a half later, we test drive it. No parking brake. 4 completely bald, just-short-of killing us tires. A clutch that smells like charcoal french fries. We pull back into the parking lot and tell the man sternly that we are not interested. He looks a little sheepish and insists he didn't know about the clutch (yeah. Okay.), and says the parking brake "ain't no big deal, (we) just can't park on hills is all".
That same day, some kid threw a rock and hit my car. He left a sizeable dent and removed some paint. So Charlie flagged down a cop, and we pulled over to survey the damage. The kid started shitting his pants. He was maybe 12 or 13 years old, but he was curled up in the fetal position at the cop's feet, wracked with almost screaming sobs. Turns out it was an accident. He was waiting for his dad, tossing rocks on the sidewalk when one bounced at the worst possible time. I surveyed the damage to my car and had to admit to myself that I would most likely never bother getting it fixed. The cop gave me his card anyway, just in case. Charlie and the cop had a good laugh while I tried to cheer the kid up, maybe let him know it wasn't that big a deal. He managed to choke out the words "You don't know my dad". All I could think of as we drove away was that I just got this poor kid's ass kicked.
Anyway, those of you who didn't get texted or called or grapevined (and care), Stephanie just had a kid. Her name is Gabrielle. I don't know about you guys, but I'm already stocking up on gum.