A Surfer and a Festival.

I know, the "Surfer and..." posts are getting a little tired, but I mean, it's all I've got.
We could talk about school, because that started this week.
We could talk about how a prolonged drunken hookup who I've affectionately named Lavaca
(the town he's from) is in my Psychology class and how the next 16 Wednesday nights are going to be wildly awkward and I'd rather fail out of college (again) than have to sit through another three hour class with him.
We could talk about that, but I'm a little squirmy just thinking about it.
So we won't.

Instead, we'll talk about how we had another last minute couch surfer this weekend.
Another very cool dude.  He came up for Fort Smith's very first River Jam Fest.
The crowd was disappointing in size, but the bands really brought the place down. 

The thing is, I'm a little (very) drunk, so I'm just going to post some pictures,
curl up with my dog, watch The Land Before Time (God bless you, Netflix Instant Play),
and pass out.

I have the cutest dog/roommate ever.

Everyone nurses a hangover.  That's the surfer (Calvin) in the background.

Soaking up the beautiful weather at the riverfront.

Edward Washboard Hands.

Goodnight, folks.

Pointless.

Impossible to get a good family picture.

No, Oliver!  Look at the camera!

Defeated.  It's hard out there for a single dog-mom.

A Surfer and... A Lasagna.

I wish I was starting this post by apologizing for my absence, but:
"I've been climbing Mt. Everest!"
"I've been attending medical school!"
"I've been held captive by an outrageously good looking bunch of Portuguese men!"

But, you know, that's not the case.
What's really happened is that I've gotten this new roommate
(you all knew I couldn't handle living alone)
and we've been busy creating masterpieces in the kitchen.

Yeah, that's not true either.
But we made a lasagna!
And that is the truth!
Proof (photos brought to you via shitty iPhone camera):

Farmer's Market fresh veggies

Those Japanese love their phallic vegetables.  This is Japanese

eggplant.  Obviously we purchased them for really mature
culinary research purposes, and not because they look like Gonzo's

penis.

Wait for it..

Lasagna!

Then this weekend, there was this couchsurfer. 
We played Jenga.
Proof (brought to you by a real camera, but hey, I'm no photographer):

We're pretty certain that this was a record-breaking game of jenga.

Didn't bother to confirm that, but we're pretty sure, anyway.

The surfer (Matt) and the tower.

Building a "giraffe."

Jenga art.

Oh, and then there was Marcy Playground.

Right here in Fort Smith!

A whole night of 1995.  It was a glorious experience.

Proof (brought to you by Coors Light):

and to answer your question, it smelled just like Sex and Candy.

So, but, I've missed you guys dearly.

Let's never be apart again.

Oh, except that school starts back tomorrow and my life is officially over.

See you around Christmas, Blogpals.

                                               

A Surfer and a Flood.

It's been an interesting weekend, you guys.  Really more of an interesting 24 hours. 
The heavens opened up on Fort Smith yesterday and left me and my apartment very, very soggy.

Shitty iPhone picture.  But that's a vacuum.  Sucking water out of my living space.

The kitchen, downstairs bathroom and entryway were covered in about two inches of water.  We were able to keep it (mostly) off the carpet.  The maintenence men came by and said really helpful things like, "Damn.  That's a lot of water."  And then the man with the vacuum van came and saved my life.

But the excitement does not end there! I know!  More excitement? 
But how can I handle it?
Well, I am a professional excitement handler, that's how.

I hosted my first couch surfer yesterday.  He contacted me Friday afternoon and showed up at about six last night, when I was nearing the end of the flooding fiasco.  I was kind of nervous - there's always a risk of being ax murdered with this kind of program, I guess, but he turned out to be a super fun guy.  We took him downtown and drank a lot of beer and did a lot of singing and dancing and had a great time.  It was his first time to surf, so I'm glad that we both had good experiences.

The Surfer - Alex

Tony trying to teach Oliver self control.

But what I want to know, is how was your weekend?

It's a dog-eat-giraffe world out there, folks.

Dog Wins.

i am the captain of this ship - eyes, eyelids and kissing lips.

I am feeling intensely today

Everything

From the super secret scary feelings, to the very average

It all feels so... feel-y.

The problem with being a little crazy is that sometimes emotions

even the most simple

are just overwhelming.

The problem with growing older is that you start running out of excuses to behave erratically. 

and it feels like no matter what i do

the world keeps spinning just a little faster

than i can take.

Christmas in July.

"Just who in the fuck do you think you are?"
I wasn't supposed to answer that, I knew that much.  But as I stood there, watching her face contort, her fat finger wagging in my face, I couldn't help but consider the question.  I mean, just who in the fuck was I?  Her question dug deep into me, a twenty year old college dropout.  By day, I was the Customer Service Manager at a hobby supply store.  By night, a blossoming alcoholic.

I wondered if she'd lower her voice if she knew how bad this hangover was?  Probably not.  She didn't strike me as the sensitive type.

The saddest part of this situation was that this woman had no idea who I was.  She was in my face, in front of a line full of people, screaming at me like I'd sucker-punched her whining child.  I would've liked to - believe me.  But I didn't.  All I did was re-read a very plainly written sale sign to her.  Why no, ma'am, the Christmas ornaments aren't on sale, the sign was for the Christmas ribbon.  No, see, the sign was on the aisle with the ribbon.  There are no signs on the ornament aisle.  More screaming, finger waving, spit flying.  Yes, sure, I'll call my manager.

This is my life.

My manager came.  The woman screamed.  We both knew she'd be getting her way.  He rolled over, and I couldn't blame him.  It was his job.  This was our job.  We sell over-priced, tacky, useless decor to middle aged housewives.  Retail zombies.

The woman looked at me smugly as I re-rang her items at the non existent sale price, and a smirk spread slowly across her face as I wrapped each individual ornament with robot-like precision.  She basked in the glory of her victory and I avoided eye contact. 

What she didn't realize, what no one with that sort of over-developed sense of entitlement realizes, is that the customer isn't always right.  They don't always win.  Every time my hand went into that bag with one of her gaudy, glittery ornaments, I squeezed.  The ornament shattered in my hands without a sound.  Ten, eleven, twelve times.  Transaction finished, I handed her the receipt and her purchase.  She sauntered out, head held high, with her bag full of paper and broken glass.  I smiled.

Tonight I'll leave this place, covered in glitter and pieces of styrofoam, and I'll still have no idea who the fuck I am.  I'll take this smock off and I'll be a real person again, rather than a faceless punching bag to the general public.  I'll surround myself with people I love and who love me the same, and that's good enough for me.

Enjoy that one of a kind flamingo ornament, though, ma'am.  Hope it touches you in all the places your husband won't.

And don't forget to have a nice day.