tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43133820570580401102024-03-05T13:08:12.837-06:00Visions unto myselfJust a girl taking the time to observe basic human behavior that is misunderstood. I hope to be able to take the conflict in daily atmospheres and explain it in a way that is most entertaining to myself.Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.comBlogger149125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-60138752068484927022015-03-17T21:23:00.001-05:002015-03-17T21:23:47.464-05:00How Do I Learn To Let You Go? A few months ago my apartment building was sold to a realtor in Kansas City. I chose this apartment initially because I felt that the company that owned it was genuine, which they were. I have had my doubts about this new company (I do not live in KC, by the way), finding them unorganized. I recently received a letter that made me feel like they were forcing me to go back to a lease instead of month to month. I still need to call them and attempt to work my charm, but I am left with a decision; do I finally pack up and move on like I have wanted to? It feels like the right time, but I am afraid of change, and I am sad about how this may affect my clients that I have worked so hard to gain their trust. Also, I hate moving. I'll have to pack my things and actually clean the damn place. <br />
<br />
I spent so long moving apartments from year to year, and it has felt nice being in the same place for a prolonged period of time. I don't want to give that up, but I don't want to commit to staying here. <br />
<br />
Advice from those who have been in the same situation? Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-40477736153451643322015-03-06T00:44:00.000-06:002015-03-06T00:44:24.083-06:00Sounds Of Silence<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I know it's been a long time since I've
posted. Since I quit Shmupplebees I became conflicted on whether or
not to blog about my other job (stupid HIPPA/mental health case
manager by the way). But after almost almost a year and a half void
of server stories, I definitely have other tales to tell that I
cannot without breaking confidentiality. Do I bitch about my
supervisor? Probably shouldn't. She's in charge of the fact that I
work there and get a paycheck. Do I bitch about the clients? Maybe in
an extremely vague way. Hmmmm. What to complain about.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Giving more soon, but why don't those
of you that think bringing humor into the stress of my job is a wise
decision leave me a comment to motivate (a case management term) me
to bring on the stories.
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
P.S. If you vote for me to stay on the
island extremely offensive jokes may ensue as mental health
professionals need to get all of the crap piled on them out somehow.
</div>
Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-40106370713461261702013-07-16T16:02:00.001-05:002013-07-16T16:02:21.282-05:00Brought To You By The Letter B<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8i0T0kSt1LVkorSuJygtQCzu9H8szHfbwSnpZv2SdfsRvB44aCmlB_0FcvAmzO9kfBfhpHYB1VjkuIAZkjuv4aJ_SlzZvORlj1Z8Q2q-gok8UrG5uMJNHZkXXYTqWdqBORVRiU62IEO_9/s1600/beer-bottle-bank-lid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8i0T0kSt1LVkorSuJygtQCzu9H8szHfbwSnpZv2SdfsRvB44aCmlB_0FcvAmzO9kfBfhpHYB1VjkuIAZkjuv4aJ_SlzZvORlj1Z8Q2q-gok8UrG5uMJNHZkXXYTqWdqBORVRiU62IEO_9/s320/beer-bottle-bank-lid.jpg" width="320" /></a>Yesterday I went in to Shmupplebees and convinced one of my co-workers that I needed money more than she did, so she went home and let me have her shift. My first few tables used credit cards to pay their bills, which is fine with me because it takes less time than if they were to use cash. I would really prefer it if everyone would pay with cards. That way I don't end up with hundreds of dollars in my apron by the end of the night. About my fifth table in, the guy pulls out a fifty and places it on his ticket. Reassuring him that I will be right back with his change, I go up to the bartender to have him break it for me. He is extremely busy and I can see that the managers are in the office doing nothing but looking at porn and texting on their phones, so I asked them for change instead. </div>
<br />
"So you didn't bring a bank, then?" the female manager asks me.<br />
<br />
"I can neither confirm nor deny that statement," I reply. When you're about to get in trouble, always try to make your boss laugh. Then whatever you have done wrong won't be as big of a deal. <br />
<br />
For those of you who don't know, a bank is twenty dollars of your own money that you bring to work with you. It is supposed to be split up into fives, ones, and an assortment of coins. Now, I only go to Shmupplebees when I am poor. If I have a spare twenty dollars I'm going to talk myself into buying beer and enjoying a night off, so needless to say I did not bring a bank. I really don't see the point in it anyway. It doesn't make it more convenient for me. If someone pays with a fifty on a ten dollar check I'm going to need it broken anyway. If a six-top pays separately, each handing me a twenty on their seven dollar tickets, that twenty dollars is not going to help me at all. <br />
<br />
No, Shmupplebees manager, I did not bring a bank. I never bring a bank, and I will continue not bringing a bank. To me the bank is beer money, and I'm just here to get some more of it. Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-56346300300475406812013-07-12T11:31:00.001-05:002013-07-12T11:31:42.647-05:00Skateboards and Hot Dogs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXOqBH3bW679OPSc6o4LguIWQUsACI0rbOtXxgl0Q85C3N7Byj9ZSjHbFICBz4gFsUglnpH7OSZMYS9WFWv2NPPfAsQ7e1Ws-5tQPhlPDyz4bYuUgBemRC8wdwdDnx1nmUQsqdT3p3gEP/s1600/designall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXOqBH3bW679OPSc6o4LguIWQUsACI0rbOtXxgl0Q85C3N7Byj9ZSjHbFICBz4gFsUglnpH7OSZMYS9WFWv2NPPfAsQ7e1Ws-5tQPhlPDyz4bYuUgBemRC8wdwdDnx1nmUQsqdT3p3gEP/s320/designall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
A very late happy Fourth of July to you all. While I have been working my ass off lately, I was able to take the day off and travel to Kansas City to see my family. Would I have rather spent the day playing Mario Kart and drinking beer? Perhaps. Did the multiple guilt trips from various family members help persuade me to make a different decision? Definitely. <br />
<br />
I'm happy that I went. Much like I've been doing with this blog, I've been putting family and friends on a bit of a back burner so that I can spend between fifty and sixty hours a week working at Shmupplebees and for the Mental Health Center. I haven't seen most of them since February, and I haven't spent time with my grandparents since Christmas. <br />
<br />
The person that I was the most excited to see was my niece, and she was outside when my oldest sister and I pulled up to my aunt's house. I got out of the car and walked closer to see her holding her wrist with large silent tears running down her face. She had been riding a skateboard and fell off, breaking her wrist. She went with my sister and my mom to the emergency room where they had to perform surgery on her. The poor girl missed the whole day. <br />
<br />
We continued to eat, drink, and be merry at my aunt's house, getting updates through snapchat and text messages about my niece's status. At one point my grandpa stated that he hoped the poor thing was doing okay. <br />
<br />
"She's drugged out," I replied. "She's having a better time than the rest of us are."<br />
<br />
Thanks to the miracle of medicine, my niece was asleep the entire time she was in the emergency room. When they returned to my aunt's home around eleven, she was, in fact, drugged out. And quite adorable I may add. My sister said that when she woke up she yawned, blinked a couple times, and lazily said, "How long was I sleeping?" as if she was just taking an afternoon nap. <br />
<br />
We stopped setting off fireworks as soon as they let us know they were returning from the hospital, so even though she had missed the entire afternoon, my niece ended up getting her own personal fireworks show. Everyone signed her cast, and she was filled up with food and attention. <br />
<br />
So happy <strike>Twelfth</strike> Fourth everybody, and to the kid with the skateboard who let my niece ride it; you're on our list. <br />
<br />
Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-29166504354786490772013-04-18T01:45:00.000-05:002013-04-18T01:45:13.784-05:00Why I Won't Return To NashvilleWell, blogger friends, the time has come...again. After a failed attempt to have a bachelorette party for Shmishelle due to the flu making us feel like we were dying for two days, we are hitting the road a short month later for some classy drunken fun. <br />
<br />
Just in time, too. my last few weeks have included a funeral, in which I drove to Nashville and back with my family in three days, and tons of hours to make up for the road trip sponsored by my grandmother's not-so-untimely death. <br />
<br />
My mental stability has not returned enough yet to go through the entire trip with you but let's look at some highlights just for some <strike>classy</strike> drunken fun. <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
My sister singing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEBEK-etXrM">Thrift Shop</a> the entire trip. I'm not even going to describe this one to you. Just click on the link and listen to it thirty times in a row. Then imagine you have listened to it thirty-five more. I'm listening to it right now and am starting to have flashbacks. </div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
My 10 year old niece was the only one that actually behaved herself on the trip, and didn't throw some sort of tantrum. She was also the only one who was actually a child and would've had the only excuse you should to throw a tantrum. Being a child. </div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
We found out about the death and the funeral through a mass text. I also found out more information from facebook than I did through the text. My grandma died at 3am Tuesday, and the funeral was held at 1pm on Wednesday. The rest of my dad's family were already there so no one was inconvenienced. But us. </div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
Due to the sudden increase in quality time with my family I recharged my laptop every night and spent the car ride listening to my old cd's from high school. </div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
My computer was actually dead the last three hours of the trip. I just kept the earphones in and pretended like I was still listening to music so that no one would talk to me. </div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
Don't judge me, my sister was in the front seat pretending to be asleep. </div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
My niece is a tattletale. She told my mom that my sister and I were making fun of her on the way back from Kansas City. Just wait until the next time you stay at my apartment, little girl. </div>
</li>
<li><div style="text-align: left;">
When my mom told me about my niece tattling on us I simply replied, "You didn't make fun of us too? You know that's a good way to relieve pent up aggression, right?" As a side note, there may still be some social concepts that I don't understand. </div>
</li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So there you have it. My list of reasons why I am never returning to Nashville as long as I can help it. May your weekend be filled with family free fun, and lots of booze. I know mine will! </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-36974397506571790192013-03-31T17:22:00.000-05:002013-03-31T17:22:41.851-05:00 How Would Jesus Smell?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgky9htBsUmlkQrHSXNtsTJzKcSXYjq2Q2VOYXdypJRzl-cOPZnTMlPYZL2-3-z6cqmFsHFIjZlfyX7RLlaow6jmbL4dlcCLNP9Bilzj2TryAQU8DykzX4-hb0bW7crUodT7ewoJMeXmLR8/s1600/400px_JesusBunny_xlarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgky9htBsUmlkQrHSXNtsTJzKcSXYjq2Q2VOYXdypJRzl-cOPZnTMlPYZL2-3-z6cqmFsHFIjZlfyX7RLlaow6jmbL4dlcCLNP9Bilzj2TryAQU8DykzX4-hb0bW7crUodT7ewoJMeXmLR8/s320/400px_JesusBunny_xlarge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Well folks, the time of year to celebrate Jesus rising from the dead has come. Personally, I think it was a little inconsiderate of Jesus to rise up after three days of rotting away in a tomb. You know that he didn't bathe in the nearest river right away. No, he had a conversation with Mary Magdalene with his three-morning breath and let her kneel at his unwashed decaying feet. When he came to his followers none of them could even recognize him. That goes to show that not even the son of God can look good after a three day death nap. And Lazarus? He was dead for four days before Jesus decided that he could live a little longer. Don't know what kind of life that could have been afterwards. I've never tried to wash the smell of rotting flesh from myself, but I don't think that shit goes away. <br />
<br />
I have difficulty connecting with the Easter story, because it just doesn't make sense to me. I understand the meaning behind it, and I grew up hearing it over and over again. As an adult, though, I have a tougher time believing in people just up and rising from the dead after days and being perfectly fine. I'd rather believe that the zombie apocalypse (which I slightly blame Jesus for starting) is going to occur than believe that people are randomly going to be able to die for three days, walk out of their sealed tomb, and go visit their friends like nothing happened. <br />
<br />
<em>"I don't remember the last time I've felt this rested! Praise my father!" </em><br />
<br />
When it comes down to it I wasn't there so I can't say it didn't actually go down the way a bunch of old men who may or may not have been directly involved wrote it forty years after it happened. Maybe it did. If a seven foot tall bunny can break into my house and leave me a neon colored plastic basket filled with candy in the middle of the night without me noticing then maybe a guy can get sealed inside a tomb then rise up smelling like springtime and purity. <br />
<br />Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-18895749018675938452013-03-25T10:25:00.001-05:002013-03-25T10:25:38.737-05:00The Flu Cancelled My PlansWell, my days in a row of lying on my couch watching Community non-stop have come to an end. I was supposed to go to a bachelorette party this weekend for Shmishelle, but she woke up with the flu on Friday and it had to be cancelled. Good thing, too, because when I woke up on Saturday I thought that I was on the brink of death. <br />
<br />
I don't become sick that often so I am a huge baby when illness even thinks about walking past my door. This time I had the works; fever, runny nose, sneezing, coughing, and whining. Unfortunately, I live by myself and my cat really did not care, so I just complained to myself.<br />
<br />
Since the maid of honor ended up getting sick on Saturday as well as Shmishelle and I, it is probably a good thing that we did not go out of town and pay just under a hundred dollars to sit around in a hotel room for two nights and hate the world. I am disappointed that the weekend did not turn out the way it was supposed to, but also am happy that when we do go it will be many degrees warmer and there will be no snow. Since we will be going to a winery, along with going to a dinner theatre and out for drinks afterwards, the warmer weather will make the trip much more enjoyable, although I do think we could have had a blast with a few bottles of wine and our friends in the hotel room if we had needed to. Plus, what better way is there to pretend you aren't sick than by getting just a wee bit tipsy? <br />
<br />
What are some things that you did for your bachelor/ette party that were different than the norm? Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-15692119033687839382013-03-24T15:49:00.000-05:002013-03-24T15:49:27.658-05:00Can I Bum One Of Those? Well, it's that magical time of year again. Time for the birds to start chirping sweet sweet nothings into my window at ridiculous hours of the morning. Time for the trees to start blooming. Time for the grass to start giving those lonely lawn mowers something to live for again. <br />
<br />
I am a little late wishing everyone a happy first day of spring, but I have spent the first part of it battling what felt like death but what I assume to be the flu, and staring out my windows wondering why Kansas is covered in something that belongs to the season that should have ended four days ago. <br />
<br />
Since I have voluntarily stuck myself inside for the day, I decided to use it to be miserable without cigarettes. Unfortunately, I have some, I just don't want...that's not right. I don't <em>need</em> to smoke one. I would very much like to, so I keep telling myself that I will have one in an 'hour from now' knowing that the hour I am waiting for will copy the concept of 'tomorrow never actually arrives.' <br />
<br />
So happy spring, readers. I hope that somewhere you are enjoying warm weather, cold daiquiris, and as much nicotine as your little heart desires. Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-35690628644105315022012-12-12T21:19:00.000-06:002012-12-12T21:19:01.348-06:00I've Been Robbed!My client cancelled on me due to a family emergency today, so I went in to Shmupplebees and picked up a serving shift. I had a decent section including two tables that seat four, and two tables that seat six down the ramp from my first two tables. I knew I wouldn't be at work that long but held hope through the two six-tops, since they are in the bar area and usually attract drinkers and large tippers. I was not disappointed, or so I thought.<br />
<br />
My first table that got sat was a five-top of middle-aged men. Two of them had drinks, and a couple others ordered appetizers and desert. Their ticket came to about $120.00. My second table was also a group of five older men who had a couple drinks between them, an appetizer, and deserts all around. Their ticket came to $149.97. I had one other table with a $37.00 ticket that left me a little over two dollars, but I wasn't worried. Both of my other tables were joking around with me, knew how to act in a restaurant, and appeared to know how to tip. The second table that got sat left and I eagerly skipped over to find the thirty dollars that I was sure they left me. I picked up the credit card slip and stared, and stared, and stared. I couldn't believe my eyes. Could they really have left me this amount? Sitting on the tip line was a scribbled $10.00. I knew it wasn't a mistake because the total added up to 159.99. What did I do wrong, gentlemen? I thought we liked each other. I thought you found my jokes amusing and my demeanor adorable.<br />
<br />
The other table left me about twenty-six dollars, and with tip-out I made thirty overall, which isn't bad for two hours, but I still want my twenty dollars. That is the thing about serving. No matter how much money you make, you will always feel robbed by the couple of assholes that gave you less then you thought you deserved.<br />
<br />
Another dilemma I faced tonight that is quite common among servers was what to do with the money. I didn't make what I wanted to, so should I put it in my bank account or spend it on beer to help me forget the night? Who knows what the real answer to that is. I am late in opening an ice cold Miller Light, however, so I bid you good evening and sweet dreams.Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-74569444529810350672012-12-06T18:51:00.003-06:002012-12-06T18:54:10.212-06:00And Your Little Dog TooEven though yesterday found me frustrated at Shmupplebees, I am quite attached to the working electricity in my apartment so I went in to try and pick up another shift tonight. My client at the Mental Health Center cancelled our session, so I curled my hair, drove to Shmupplebees, and put on some make-up using my rearview mirror expecting someone to go home and let me work for them. I want you to know that I am quite opposed to curling my hair and putting on make-up most of the time, but I am desperate for money and the tips are better if I look pretty.<br />
<br />
After a point, all but one server had told me no, and the remaining server was not there yet. I was told that if she did not arrive within five minutes I could have her shift since she was already late and had not called to inform the management that she wouldn't be there on time. I went outside to smoke a cigarette in anticipation while I waited to find out if she would show up. I was excited not only because I needed a shift, but because I view this girl as one of the few people I would seriously think about running over with my car (I wouldn't actually do it), and it would feel oh so good to see her face after I was allowed to steal her section right out from under her judgmental smaller-than-average nose.<br />
<br />
Look, don't judge me. Let me tell you a little bit about this person I have named Shmody. Imagine you are having a conversation with someone. I don't care what the conversation is about or who it is with. I am giving you creative license on that one because it doesn't matter. It can be. any. conversation. Now imagine that someone who doesn't have anything to do with what you are talking about comes up and says things like, "who?" "what's the problem?" "what happened?" "Robert from accounting?" or "who's boyfriend did that?". She will come up to any conversation or situation and attempt to micromanage it when she has no idea what is going on. She walks around the restaurant telling employees in stations that she has never worked how to do their jobs. I literally cannot speak to Shmody because words won't come out of my mouth without sounding like a death threat when they are directed at her.<br />
<br />
Alas, and woe is me, she showed up with a minute to spare so I am free to sit at home and tell internet strangers about her. Will she ever see it? I sure hope not because this shit will get me fired. Would it have an effect on her anyway? Doubtful. Does it make me feel good? Of course! That's why I'm doing it. So enjoy the money you make tonight, Shmody. I'll get you next time my pretty.<br />
<br />
<br />Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-52502672705843613882012-12-06T02:00:00.004-06:002012-12-06T18:53:00.194-06:00Frustrated In Kansas<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Tonight I picked
up a shift at Shmupplebees. Ten months ago I had them stop scheduling me so
that I would be available anytime I was needed at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mental</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Health</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>, where I had just
started working as an attendant care worker. I pick up serving shifts when I am
available, which usually consists of me walking in between five and six and
asking if anyone wants the night off, or me covering for someone that has too
much homework or is sick. Because I haven’t been there as much, and I don’t
solely need Shmupplebees to live off of, I was actually starting to enjoy my
job there again. I remembered that I do like serving. Days are rarely like the
last. I get to meet new people every night. They tell me where they have been
in life and bring something fresh and new with them when they come into my section.
They give me ideas for blog posts which have been severely lacking since even
before I started as an AC worker (sorry..). But tonight I received a reminder why I do not
want to work in a restaurant for the rest of my life. The employees; or, for
this purpose, the management. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Working at the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mental</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Health</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>, I have found
something that I had lost a long time ago. Pride in my work and a hunger to do
my job well. I even tried to bring this mentality to Shmupplebees but tonight I
was sorely disappointed to find out that I am not as invested as other
employees to do my job correctly since I am not scheduled. At least this is
what I was told (by someone other that the person who said it) tonight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: medium;">It began when I asked the manager on
duty if she thought that my closing duties were less than what they needed to
be. I had a bad close a few weeks ago, in which everything was fixed before I
left, and have been punished, so to speak, for it ever since. The manager that
was working the night of the bad close told Smichelle that I could close for
her, but if I did a bad job then Shmishelle, not me, would not be allowed to
close again. Come to find out, it was not because I had been performing poorly
consistently, it was because I wasn't as ‘invested’ in doing a good job. The
manager working tonight said that my job performance was excellent, by the way.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Shmichelle, the manager, and I were
talking in the office after the restaurant was cleaned up this evening, and
that is where I found this information out. I was also told by the manager that
I had the most guest complaints than any other server that worked there. The
manager said that she had never seen a complaint on me, and I have never been
told of any at all by any of the managers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: medium;">None of this should bother me. It’s
just Shmupplebees and I don’t want to rely on it to survive anymore. I’m just
upset that I am hearing these things through other people. Wouldn't it be
easier to talk to me directly so that the problem can be fixed? Unfortunately
the people in charge of running the restaurant can’t simply sit down with the
person and talk to them about how to fix the problems that are occurring, so
that the employees creating said problems can do better at their job performance.
It would make sense to, but why deal with confrontation when you can just sit
in a manager’s meeting and never do anything to actually solve issues. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It does bother me, though. It makes me
feel bad about myself. I have no proof that I have the most customer
complaints, but in my mind tonight there is a plethora of people out there
hating my guts for ruining their dining experience, and that doesn’t make me
feel great about myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I will probably have let it go by the
morning, but for tonight I remain frustrated in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Kansas</st1:place></st1:state>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-41695909431363962482012-06-15T12:49:00.002-05:002012-06-15T13:06:11.869-05:00It Could Have Been True Love<div>Dear 503-457-1003, </div><div><br />
</div><div>I really appreciate you calling me again today. I'm sorry I haven't answered, but you must understand that you really are a strange number, and it just didn't seem like I would enjoy talking to you. I have looked you up on Google, and have seen the error of my ways. Why, you're just a harmless number, aren't you 503-457-1003? I shouldn't have called back and pressed one after your automated message said that you were a preferred marketing company and I could press a button to be taken off of your list. Now I'm afraid I'll never get the chance to talk to you again. Please give me another chance, 503-457-1003. I think I could really learn to love you.</div><div><br />
</div><div>A lot of people online agree that you just call and call but don't leave a message. This gives the impression that your call cannot really be that important, but we know better 503-457-1003, don't we? Carolyn, Karen, Mona, and many others have been brave enough to answer when your mysterious number shows up, and they found you to be quite rude. I personally thought you were very helpful, however, when Mona asked you how to get off the calling list. You politely told her that the way she could be removed was to suck your dick. Very original, 503-457-1003, very original. You're not like those other boring companies that simply make you press a button, or ask three times before you remove them. You really do have a business that works hard at setting itself apart from the rest, and really standing out and shining. </div><div><br />
</div><div>We really must know where you are located, though, so that we can make sure to send more customers your way for, what is it that you do? You seem to be really expanding into different areas such as trying to collect fake debts, selling home security systems, and selling air conditioners. Bob D. was nice enough to tell us that these calls were coming from Tillamook, Oregon, where, as he so eloquently put it, "I can only guess must be a hotbed of mental illness. And if your reading this and you are Tillimook well, I'd say something insulting but you've got it bad enough being from someplace called Tillamook."<br />
<br />
Uh-oh, 503-457-1003, looks like <i>your</i> giving Tillamook a bad name.<br />
<br />
Well, I would love to stay and write more about you, 503-457-1003, but I simply must go sit by my phone in hopes that you will forgive me for taking myself off of your calling list. Thank you again for calling me so many times a day. It really makes me feel better knowing that you care.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
Kara<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
To see the other lies people have been spreading about this wonderful, innovative company, go <a href="http://whocallsme.com/Phone-Number.aspx/5034571003">here</a>. <span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; text-align: justify;"> </span></div>Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-13054949652440798072012-04-02T18:07:00.001-05:002012-06-15T13:08:38.747-05:00Not Every Man Can Be A Hero AND A Vampire Slayer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://spinoff.comicbookresources.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/abraham-lincoln-new-poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" dea="true" height="320" src="http://spinoff.comicbookresources.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/abraham-lincoln-new-poster.jpg" width="215" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Four score and seven years ago our father brought forth on the continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, that would eventually be taken over and ravaged by vampires. <br />
<br />
Confused? So was I since I never learned this part of history when in school. I have recently come to find out that everything I learned was a lie, and wanted to share my new found knowledge with my blogger friends. Before I start, though, I need you to find your nearest window. You may also want to store this location in your memory for when you want to jump to your death at the end of this blog post. Open the window. Now, take everything you have ever learned about Abraham Lincoln and throw it out. Just toss it on out into the free open air never to be heard of again, because the truth is about to take our known history and bang its head on the pavement until it stops trying to spread these awful, awful lies. <br />
<br />
Now that you have cleared your head you are ready to hear the truth. Lincoln was not the great man we thought he was. He was better. This baddass of history not only ended slavery and brought the nation back together, but he was also a killer of those pesky little blood-suckers we call Vampires. <br />
<br />
According to the novel, Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Slayer, by Seth Grahame-Smith, Lincoln found out at age eleven that Vampires do exist, and they killed both his grandfather and mother. Being the all-mighty future president/hero that he is, Lincoln began killing Vampires, including the one that killed his mother. <br />
<br />
If that plot line isn't awesome enough, you find out through the book that the Vampires who were leaving Europe (those damn English causing problems for us Americans again) to come to the United States had been using the slave trade to find humans on which to feed. Well Lincoln couldn't just stand by and let that happen, especially when he found out that these Vampires were planning on starting a Civil War and enslaving the entire country. And what do you do when white people are about to be enslaved along with black people? Well you finally actually do something about it of course. Good job Smith for incorporating that into your plot. <br />
The book ends with Lincoln being killed by a Vampire version of John Wilkes Booth, who is surprised that the other Vampires aren't rallying around him, finds himself alone, and is supposedly killed by one of the good Vampires in the story. This Civil-War-Meets-Twilight novel ends with the good Vampire and Abraham Lincoln attending Martin Luther King Jr.'s I Have a Dream speech, because 'some people are just too interesting to die.' <br />
<br />
Don't feel like reading the book? You don't have to. Tim Burton is helping produce the film which, contrary to my opinion of it being a comedy, is under the genre or horror and thriller.<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/34x6m-ahGIo?fs=1" width="480"></iframe>Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-2982273213765611182012-01-16T23:32:00.000-06:002012-01-16T23:32:13.677-06:00Good Riddance to Bad RubbishOh Drama. Don't we all just hate to love it? <br />
<br />
I know that my posting has lacked a little something lately. Mainly it has lacked....well...posting. <br />
<br />
Let me catch you up a bit. My boyfriend got a new roommate towards the beginning of the fall semester. Let's just call him Shmel. <br />
<br />
Shmel was not my favorite person in the world. My best guess was that he is in his fifties, even though he looks closer to his eighties. Shmel has also done a lot of drugs in his life. Way too many drugs. Shmel was a little creepy. He was upwards of 300 pounds and had bad teeth and a wheezing laugh that inserted itself into my life at awkward unexplainable times. <br />
<br />
Also, Shmel liked to dumpster dive. If you don't know what dumpster diving is, it is where mentally insane people and/or hoarders peek their heads into dumpsters hoping to find that one item that will change their lives forever. One man's trash is another man's treasure, right? With the exception of a few novel trinkets, what they mainly end up with is a bunch of useless shit that should end up in the dumpster. <br />
<br />
One day Shmel came home from work. He was carrying a blue box that I didn't really give a shit about. Unfortunately he told me all about it anyway. This box had been in the dumpster behind their apartment complex. And what wonderful marvels did it reveal upon opening? I know because Shmel also told me this. He liked to talk, that Shmel. It contained a computer monitor, a laptop, a journal, a music pedal, cassette tapes, some receipts, and shoes. I didn't pay much attention to him, mainly because I was ignoring him, until the name that was on the stuff was said aloud. I went to take a closer look, and sure enough it belonged to a friend from high school. <br />
<br />
I told Shmel that I would like to get a hold of this guy on facebook, and helped him put the items back in the box. I still wasn't listening to him that closely because I don't enjoy listening to people I hold a large amount of disdain for, but he gave at least three sentences that included the phrase, "Well, finders keepers in my mind." <br />
<br />
Mainly he was complying for the moment because he either didn't want to stand up to me, or he didn't think I would actually do anything about it. <br />
<br />
I got a hold of my friend and discovered that it was some stuff that he found in his parents' house that he was trying to get rid of. He gave me his number and asked me to retrieve the box so that he could dispose of it properly. The next day, I went over to my boyfriend's apartment and picked up the box so that I could give it back to my friend. When he came and picked it up I asked for the computer moniter as a consolation prize, since that is what Shmel had verbally expressed the most interest in. I also asked about the laptop but was informed that it was royally fucked and there was no point. <br />
<br />
The next day my boyfriend joined me at the bar for a shot because of his terrible day. He told me that on top of other things going on, Shmel had yelled at him when he was told that I had taken the box. I later found out that he had yelled at him in the middle of the open kitchen of the restaurant they both work in, and had chosen to scream like a five year old without any consolation from the truth that the laptop did not work. He refused to speak to my boyfriend after that, either at work or at home.<br />
<br />
About a week and a half ago I got a phone call at work. It was from my boyfriend. "You know how I told you I had a funny feeling about Shmel lately?" he said. "Well, I came home and all of his stuff is gone."<br />
<br />
Yes, Shmel upped his piece-of-shit-ness by just moving all of his stuff out of the apartment without any warning other that being a shady bastard. He then had the balls to tell my boyfriend at work that he had left some things of his at the apartment and would like them back. The response? "The apartment is now considered abandoned by you. Legally that shit is mine."<br />
<br />
You may think you won, Shmel. But I won, you piece of shit. I won.Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-66501173703119628682011-11-07T17:22:00.000-06:002011-11-07T17:22:09.368-06:00Hitting? Nah, I'll Just Screw With Your Mind Instead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://blogs.dailymail.com/mommyhood/files/2011/09/sick-kid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ida="true" src="http://blogs.dailymail.com/mommyhood/files/2011/09/sick-kid.jpg" width="269" /></a></div>I was having a conversation with my boyfriend a couple weeks ago that travelled to the subject of hitting or spanking kids. He posed the question to me:<br />
<br />
<em>Well what if the kid stares you straight in the face and calls you a bitch?</em><br />
<br />
Yes, I'd probably be upset, but I stand firm that there is never a need to hit a child. My dad used to use a belt on us, and I would say that there are only negative impacts from that. It literally did nothing to curb my behavior except that I started putting books in the back of my pants when it was time for punishment. I am actually still a bit angry about it, and find that I take the approach that this sort of punishment is wrong rather than saying, <em>Oh, well, I was spanked as a child and I turned out just fine. </em>Any form of physical abuse is not an excuse to pass the behavior on. <br />
<br />
To answer his question I told him the approach I took, and still take, with my niece. To best portray how I got her to behave I will tell a small tale of manipulation and annoyance.<br />
<br />
I don't remember what she had lied about. If I remember correctly, and it is very possible that I don't, she was around three or four. The important thing is that this tiny person looked into our eyes and blatantly told us something that we all knew was untrue. I took her into the living room of my mom's house so that I could demand her full attention without distraction. I sat her down on a kid-sized bench and asked her why she had lied. She, being the stubborn little shit that I love, would not make eye-contact or answer my question. <br />
<br />
<em>You need to tell me why you lied,</em> I said for the thirty-thousandth time. <br />
<br />
Finally my niece burst into tears. Through dramatic and unnecessary sobs she told me, <em>Because, *sob*, I just like lying!!!</em><br />
<br />
Did I continue the conversation after this? No. I immediately made eye contact with my sister who was hiding on the other side of the wall and had to expend all of my energy not laughing in front of my niece so that she would not think that her behavior should continue because I thought it was funny. <br />
<br />
I don't know if you have ever giving a small child a lecture, but they do not like it. Their little faces look like they are going through the most excruciating event they will ever experience in their lives. Mainly, it works magic. <br />
<br />
So will I hit my children if I ever choose to have them? I hope not. I would rather morph their psyche and their behavioral patterns by making them hate the repercussions so much that they would rather do things differently next time than ever have to go through that experience again.Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-21559291387871563182011-08-07T00:07:00.000-05:002011-08-07T00:07:34.567-05:00Welcome Back To ShmupplebeesAfter a summer of working in a lonely, empty restaurant, I have almost forgotten what it is like to be busy at Shmupplebees. The fair is in town and school is about to start back up, so the customers are returning to make our restaurant their home away from home. ...because at home you toss food on the floor and yell at the person who cooked because he/she did not put enough Alfredo on your pasta. Right?<br />
<br />
My favorite part of tonight? <br />
<br />
Oh how can I choose. <br />
<br />
Was it the table who insisted that I sing to their friend even though it was physically impossible for any of the six people on to do so? <br />
<br />
Or the table that racked up a seventy dollar bill and conveniently took both of their merchant copies so they didn't have to tip me?<br />
<br />
Maybe the table that walked up to the bar to collect their own drinks because they had been waiting too long even though I warned them prior to ordering that it would be awhile because we were busy as shit?<br />
<br />
At least I will have my expendable income back. Being poor during the summer makes for a very sad Kara.Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-19836846861948419742011-08-04T00:04:00.000-05:002011-08-04T00:04:38.644-05:00Thank You Again, Facebook<span data-jsid="text">An actual post on a facebook status. It was one that a mutual friend posted on, so it showed up on my feed.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span data-jsid="text">"Y do u do this to ur self??? i no u have a good heart n all n u always mean well but u have to stop n this looks like the purfect time just get a job get ur own place n do ur own thing n mayb not worry bout others so much n worry bout u a little more! I seriously believe if u wood do that u wood keep a gf n eventually have a much happier life its ok to care bout sum1 just not so much. U r a good guy n a girl wood b lucky to have u if u get ur priorites strait! plz i dnt like to c hurt n confused!!!"</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span data-jsid="text">What. The. Hell.</span><br />
<br />
<span data-jsid="text">Oh, and thanks for the easy blog post. </span>Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-27205298488788682722011-07-23T12:48:00.000-05:002011-07-23T12:48:20.506-05:00She Should Have Gone To RehabToo soon?<br />
<br />
I was told that if you make a joke about it being too soon, then it's not too soon. However, I feel like I find humor in things way before anyone else can even think to humanly and morally find it funny. <br />
<br />
Let's start over. <br />
<br />
When I clicked on MSN.com about fifteen minutes ago, I was shocked to see that Amy Winehouse was found dead in her London home. If you don't know who she is, she sings the very annoying and catchy song, 'Rehab'. If you want to read the details for yourself you can click <a href="http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/43866337?gt1=43001">here</a>. I don't want to talk about the details of her life. <br />
<br />
I want to talk about the invasive sadness that surrounds the fact that every detail of her life is now being displayed all over the internet. It is sad that she died, I find it sad when anyone's life is taken at an early age, but that does not give us the right to sop up the dirty gossip that is to be had about the problems that drove them to their fatal habits in the first place. <br />
<br />
So all I have to say on her is this: I hope that her friends and family are able to deal with this appropriately so that none of them have lasting trauma and end up down the same path she travelled. I hope that they are able to find happiness within their lives again even though someone they loved is gone, and I hope that they will be able to remember her for her talents, both personally and musically. Rest in peace. <br />
<br />
<br />
*As a disclaimer, I am not an Amy Winehouse fan. That could make a difference on how interested I am in her personal life, so if you absolutely feel that her lyrics made her your best friend and that you will mourn her for the rest of your life then please ignore this blog post.Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-61390185200683598212011-06-09T13:36:00.001-05:002011-06-09T21:46:01.474-05:00That Was Close!Well, I have officially returned from the rapture. I know that some of you were worried that I was just being lazy and not posting on here. No way. I would never do that to you all. Keeping my clever words to myself is like not sharing the last bits of moldy plum jelly on stale bread with your well-fed neighbor. It's just rude. <br />
<br />
My excuse is that Jesus descended from heaven, took me into a loving and caressing embrace, and lifted me up to my own personal castle in the sky. When I got there, though, I realized that it was very lonely. As I've found out since escaping the clutches of eternal happiness, no one else was taken. I just had to sit around with the beautiful Victoria's Secret model-esque angels and eat bagels with cream cheese on them all day. Those angels aren't ones for interesting conversations. All they wanted to talk about was the glory of God and how they don't really mind that they don't have free will because the cream cheese now comes with jelly mixed into it. I kept trying to talk about my favorite subject, sex, but the only response I got was that I wasn't married so I shouldn't know anything about that. Talk about frustrating. <br />
<br />
Even worse than the lonely atmosphere was the fact that there was no internet in heaven. When Shmishelle took her internet with her she must have accidentally unhooked the holy webs as well. I asked the angels who their service provider was but all they cared about was whether I wanted grape or strawberry on my bagel. <br />
<br />
So, a couple days ago I escaped. It was much simpler than you would imagine. I simply began breaking the ten commandments one by one until God became so fed up that he had one of his angels pack a bag and send me back to my tiny apartment in Kansas. She packed me a lunchbox but by that time I was so sick of eating those damn bagels that I purposely dropped it on cloud six or seven during my decent back to earth. <br />
<br />
So now things are back to normal. I restored the internet back to its proper place in my home and returned to hang out with my blogger friends who don't have problems with conversations surrounding immorality and all-around bad behavior. <br />
<br />
Now I have to go find a homeless person to give the boxes of cream cheese and blueberry bagels that keep mysteriously appearing outside my door.Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-62663965325612272972011-05-17T15:59:00.002-05:002012-06-28T18:31:19.261-05:00Slow Claps Are For Amateurs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.ladybirdcrossing.com/graduation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" j8="true" src="http://www.ladybirdcrossing.com/graduation.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Out of everything I saw in Texas last weekend, one incident stands out the most. It happened at my boyfriend's sister's nursing school graduation. The graduation itself was pretty unorganized and boring, so I'll save you the details of that and go straight to what I now refer to as the greatest moment of my life. <br />
<br />
The graduates were split up into two columns with three rows each. If I remember correctly, there were about seven women in each row. At some point in the ceremony, one of these women went up to accept an award for being awesome in some nature or other. When she did the other students began to clap because they were so proud of her. In fact, the superb feelings they had for this student were so great that they tried to give her a standing ovation.<br />
<br />
As soon as her name was called and she joyfully sauntered up to the podium, the clapping began. With the very first congratulatory hand thrust, one of the graduates in the back row shot up like she had been strapped to an amusement park ride. Unfortunately, this ride only had one turn because it slowly brought her back into a sitting position after she realized that no one else was standing with her. The clapping continued and eventually, after what seemed like hours to my attention span at this point, a few people in the back row of the left column began to stand. Slowly, oh slowly, other students sitting in the left column began to rise into the standing ovation as well. Only after everyone on that side of the stage had stood did the right column of students begin to join in as well. It started in the back row again, and made it to the middle of the second row before the appropriate time allotted for congratulating their fellow graduate ran out. The girl sitting in the middle of the second row must not have known if she had time to join, because she kind of squatted up and down like she was bobbing on a pool floatie for a few seconds until everyone sat back down.<br />
<br />
I sat there laughing inappropriately the entire time, and finally leaned over and whispered into my boyfriend's ear:<br />
<br />
<em>You know how you've always wanted to start a slow clap? I think we've just witnessed the slow clap version of the standing ovation. I'm not sure if there's any way to ever top this.</em>Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-8198679560150944962011-05-16T14:15:00.002-05:002011-05-16T17:03:29.375-05:00Need Answers? Go To Texas.Oh Texas. Land of love, land of friendship, land of God. The christian God; not the other ones. At least that's what one of the billboards I passed said. <br />
<br />
<em>Jesus is the only way for America.</em><br />
<br />
Really? Because I'm pretty sure we have freedom of religion somewhere in that pesky constitution of ours. And what about South America? Or Mexico? Or Canada? You know that the United States isn't <em>America</em>, right? Well, I do get your point. Only those that believe in Jesus can be true Americans. And all of you other countries in America? Suck it. <br />
<br />
This was only one of the inspirational <em>and </em>educational billboards my boyfriend and I passed while driving though Texas last weekend. My other favorite was:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://avatar.politico.com/profile/0108%5CCB21CA96-1C23-CEB9-14A63DECCB66FDCD.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" j8="true" src="http://avatar.politico.com/profile/0108%5CCB21CA96-1C23-CEB9-14A63DECCB66FDCD.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I couldn't find the picture of the actual billboard. This was the same picture that I saw, though,</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">only this was just a headshot. My boyfriend, after reading this post, felt like that should be</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">clarified.</span></div><br />
<br />
I mean, I'm not a huge Obama fan either, but was it really necessary to make him look that evil? I feel like he's just biding his time until we're all fattened up enough to feed the poor and starving population of his home planet. Is that why <strike>America</strike> the United States has such an obesity problem? <br />
<br />
For now, I'm going to go work out and starve myself so that I'll be left behind when the UFO's hover over this country and make the rapture look like child's play.Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-32577496255850857332011-05-09T18:48:00.000-05:002011-05-09T18:48:33.553-05:00Home Sweet HomeWell, fellow bloggers and unfortunate people who accidentally ended up here by searching 'Klondike Bar,' I made it back to Kansas alive. And have I got some stories for you. So many stories that I can blog for at least a week or two without going over to Google and looking up 'ideas for posting on my blog because my life isn't really that interesting.' Not that I would ever do that. <br />
<br />
Today, however, I choose to keep my life uninteresting because I am still completely exhausted from the trip. I promise to give you entertaining and inappropriate stories in exchange for your patience. <br />
<br />
Now, I rest and drink beer.Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-43598067749749920702011-05-04T18:30:00.000-05:002011-05-04T18:30:22.531-05:00The Flaming Sedan-O-Death!I almost died today.<br />
<br />
Okay, that may be a little melodramatic, but I could have been seriously injured. There is a street in the city I live in that goes through a small underpass. Right on the other side of the underpass lies a small side street containing a stop sign. Remember the fact that it has a stop sign; it's important. I was driving along at the safe speed of thirty-ish miles an hour when a green sedan zoomed into the space directly in front of my car. That was my space. I didn't have a stop sign. This guy did but apparently didn't feel like paying attention to it. He slammed on his brakes and I did the same, jerking my car to the left, which was, coincidentally, the lane that he was supposed to be in. With a pounding heart, I slowly veered around his sedan-o-death and shakily continued on my way. I fear I will forever have flashes of his snarling face as he tried to turn my poor Ford Taurus into a flaming trap for my mangled body; similar to those that served in Vietnam suffer. Oh God! I'm having one right now! Nooooooooooooooo!...<br />
<br />
Better. Sorry about that. <br />
<br />
I'm not much for religion, but after my real life Mario Kart experience I think is an appropriate time to say, 'Thank you Jesus for saving my car. It was made in '03 after all, and I don't think running head on into a stranger's asshole...I mean face is a good idea. Also, sorry for cussing. Church taught me that you don't like that. I probably won't give up smoking or stop cussing because you saved my life, but I really am grateful. Also, this prayer is just for humor purposes so please don't let me die this weekend either. Thank you. In Jes....your name, Amen.'<br />
<br />
It's a good thing I didn't get in a wreck. Not just for the obvious reason that I prefer my car to run, but I am travelling to Texas this weekend. My boyfriend's sister is graduating on Friday, and I am going with him to attend that and meet his family. I don't think my car would have made it if it looked like this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.onset.freedom.com/ocregister/article/lc3ga3-lc3g4m03.carfire.csuf.111910.bbc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="http://images.onset.freedom.com/ocregister/article/lc3ga3-lc3g4m03.carfire.csuf.111910.bbc.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Or this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.themorningsun.com/content/articles/2010/08/14/news/doc4c65ff316dd9b6456570131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" j8="true" src="http://www.themorningsun.com/content/articles/2010/08/14/news/doc4c65ff316dd9b6456570131.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
And probably not this:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://ericpetersautos.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/Yugo-JPEG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" j8="true" src="http://ericpetersautos.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/Yugo-JPEG.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
As it is, my car is still intact, so we are good to go. <br />
<br />
Now all that's left to do is pack and send up a real prayer to Jesus so that he knows I was joking. <br />
Have a great weekend you guys!Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-60197154953769653302011-04-25T13:52:00.000-05:002011-04-25T13:52:35.057-05:00Don't Mess With My EggYou know what I wish I could do when my niece acts up? I wish I could just call the cops and have her handcuffed and hauled away. I mean, who wants to deal with a tantrum-having-child? I certainly don't. What do you do to calm them down? Sure, you could scold them and put them in time-out until they calm down enough to hear what you're saying, but who wants to deal with that. <br />
<br />
That's why I applaud the police and school staff in Queens who put handcuffs on <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/04/21/joseph-anderson-handcuffed_n_851942.html">this seven year old</a> child when he began throwing a tantrum because he wasn't able to paint his egg the way he wanted it to be. Nevermind that the mother was already on her way to pick the child up. Why should they wait. This angry child was a threat to the joyous spirit of easter. That is just unacceptable. Didn't he know that other kids were trying to paint their eggs in peace? Didn't he know that the staff may not be able to deal with the fact that a seven year old doesn't rationally think out his actions? What an inconsiderate child. Obviously the only answer is to take him to the hospital like he's hopped up on drugs and training to be the next BTK serial killer. <br />
<br />
The moral of the story to me? Maybe you'll think twice next time you want to cut the art department out of the curriculum.Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4313382057058040110.post-272093292566521242011-04-20T15:09:00.000-05:002011-04-20T15:09:41.732-05:00Isn't It Ironic<a href="http://www.insidesocal.com/tomhoffarth/irony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" i8="true" src="http://www.insidesocal.com/tomhoffarth/irony.jpg" width="200" /></a>In high school I had a conversation with one of my <br />
classmates about the meaning of irony. She just didn't get it. I tried everything I could think of to explain it to her. <br />
<br />
Me: <em>You know when something bad happens but the way it happened/the end result of it makes it a tad bit funny? </em><br />
<br />
Idiot girl: <em>I have no idea what you mean...</em><br />
<br />
Me: <em>*sigh* Okay, you know when something happens to someone and they tell you about it, and you kind of chuckle and say 'ha, man that sucks..'</em><br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Idiot girl: <em>Why would I laugh when something bad happens to someone else?</em></div><br />
Me:<em> Because sometimes it's funny. </em><br />
<br />
Idiotic overly empathetic girl: <em>But it's not funny.</em><br />
<br />
Me: <em>You know the Alanis Morissette song? </em>(Yes, I went there. I had no choice by this point.)<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I then went on to go through the song lyric by lyric, stanza by stanza, word by annoying word, and explain to her why these things described irony. </div><br />
I wish I knew her today because I have finally found the answer to her question.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It's like forgetting to put a quarter in the meter and coming back after ten minutes to find out that you have a five dollar ticket on your windshield. </div><br />
Isn't it ironic?<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Don't you think?</div>Kara Hoaghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08377041200096389115noreply@blogger.com7