Quiche, Grindhouse, and Gaijin at the Noodle Shop

There’s a little known law of science. It goes something like this:

If Rachael (when Rachael = a) cooks an elaborate meal (when Elaborate Meal = b) comes into direct contact with houseguests/moving objects (when Moving Object = H)
Then A multiplied by B divided by the speed of H = No Fucking Leftovers in my fridge.

Above mentioned visitors did bring a chocolate cream pie with them, of which half is still in the reefer. I won’t actually eat that though. Now if there were quiche left that would’ve served for another two night’s meals.
It was rich.
Tasty.
Bad for you.
In other words it came out perfectly. A full pound of cooked bacon. Lots of half and half. Gruyere, Swiss and Mozzarella. Sautéed mushrooms and onions. Flaky crust.
Yep. Good and good for you.

After consuming this feast we went over to Harrah’s for an hour or so then stopped at Blockbuster to rent Grindhouse, the Quentin Tarantino ‘drive-in double feature’ released last summer.

It was fun. Straight-ahead Tarantino fare. Lots of over the top violence and a perfect homage to the ’70’s fast cars/tits and ass/chock-full-o-violence B flicks.
I should know. My formative years were spent immersed in those films. Gah. I lived for (and at) B movies as a pre-teen and teen.

Both films were enjoyable fun and the first one, Planet Terror, had a zombie plot. It was directed by Robert Rodriguez (of Sin City).
You all know I have a soft spot in my heart (and brains) for Zombies.
As an added bonus what’s not to love about a peg-legged stripper heroine?
The second piece is Death Proof and was directed by Tarantino. Nice work by Kurt Russell playing a total psychopathic stuntman killer.
You see, there’s always that quirkiness that makes any Tarantino flick amusing.
Still…. There was the lingering feeling of ‘move along nothing (new) to see here.’

Damn Quentin. Enjoyed the movie but was hoping you’d push some new button, if not boundary.

This logically (in Reno) brings us to the eternal question of white people eating in Asian restaurants.
We visited a Vietnamese place for lunch. Just a little family run place.

I tasted something which sounds fairly vile but was actually quite tasty. This soup contained everything from tendon to tripe to brisket but I always try something new given a chance.
I ordered something that sounded quite tasty and was quite tasty.
The food was delicious.
The cleaning bill will be stupendous.

What is it about the inability of white people to eat Asian food in public?
Here’s a test I’ve devised. It’s called

Find the Gaijin!

FIRST: pick out an Asian restaurant. Any type will do. Korean, Vietnamese, Chinese, a Sushi Bar, whatever.
NEXT: put a bag over the head of all the patrons.
Sure they’ll struggle momentarily but explain it’s all for science. Or hit them over the the head with a Sapporo bottle.
Now you’re ready to play!

Q: How do you discern the white people in the crowd?
A: Count the number of noodle bits, soy sauce/rooster sauce blotches on their shirts.

I Guarantee you’ll Find The White People.

Fuck. I had actually left the house in a gray shirt as opposed to my requisite black. You know what happened don’t you.
This is why I wear black.
No. It’s not just a fashion thing.
It’s because I can’t use chopsticks or big-ass ceramic spoons for shit.

Thankfully this white girl cooks a mean quiche.
Hai!

~Miss R

Currently listening:
Eyes Open
By: Snow Patrol
Release date: 09 May, 2006

Why the Germans Will Always Lose the War

It’s the cars.
No not the cars specifically.
To be more precise it’s the engineering tunnel vision.
I ditched the Zamboni (image 1) for a ‘94 Audi (image 2) . Finally.

Love the new ride. Handles like a sports car, even though it’s a hatchback with AWD. I can make it up the mountain and ski again. Thank goddess.
It also has 230,000 miles on it.
Said Teutonic-Mobile is in pristine condition. Meticulously maintained and not a dent on it. If you look under the hood -as with all German cars- it’s spotless and appears virtually free from mechanical devices or wiring. Weird.

Okay this is why the Germans are fucked forever:
I’d been out all day getting the thing smogged, registered, insured yadda yadda. I’d finally gotten to the gym and it was dark out.
I couldn’t figure out how to use the headlights. I’m parked in front of the gym and it’s pitch dark and I gotta get home.

Oh sure I appear the total cretin but it’s just an act.
Stop laughing right now.

I’ve had a bevy of cars over the years. New and Used. Foreign and Domestic. Just like the men in my life. So, what’s a girl to do? Why, grab the owner’s manual from the glove box; where by the way I DO keep a pair of gloves.

I peruse the glossary for anything resembling:
Headlights, operation of headlights, turning on headlights, headlamps, so you wanna use your headlights, where are the fucking headlight controls, headlamps R us… anything.
I find a single brief page on lights.
It explains in explicit detail the method in which to change the bulb in your headlight.

What I do find is more than 20 pages PLUS a full chapter on the ski bag feature.

Not that this is a bad thing. Especially since I ski. Hell I didn’t know that there was a ski bag feature. It’s just that all I wanted was to turn on the headlights.

I finally figure how to turn on the headlights. Accidentally. Despite the worthless manual.
Operation is totally counter-intuitive and involves two levers on the steering column.

I’m thinking of a ski trip tomorrow afternoon so maybe I’ll relax tonight. Grab a glass of something yummy and that hot spicy Audi owner’s manual.

And that’s why the Germans will never win a war.

They’re too concerned with the big picture. The options. The Fourth Reich.
Hey Shultz. What about a little fucking light in here? I can’t concentrate.

~Miss R

Currently listening:
Seconds of Pleasure
By: Rockpile

I’ve been up since 3:30 this morning. Kill me now.

Been up since 3:30 this morning.
A result of an unexpected (and foolish) descent into sleep sometime between 11:00 and 11:30 p.m. last night.
No sleeping pills either.
Doesn’t seem to matter.
Sleep pills = 4.5 to 5 hours of sleep.
No sleeping pills = 2 to 4 hours of sleep.

When I’m awake it’s all over. Can’t sleep no more no how.
So I sit in bed watching a show on History entitled The States. Actually caught the one on Nevada. The writers seemed to deem the correct pronunciation of our state of major importance.
This has been an ongoing sore spot for native Nevadans for years.
You know what I say? Who the hell cares.
Tomato tomaaaato. Let the inflectives fall where they may.
Was a bit suspicious about the seeming importance of Vegas that was put in the piece.
Oh c’mon. Reno was first with legal gambling casinos, 24 hour liquor, 60 day divorces with no criteria required and legal prostitution.
Vegas? Ha. Newcomers. Poseurs.

Okay. I didn’t really care all that much. It wasn’t even 4:00 am yet.
Think I’ll spend the next week purposely pronouncing Nevada with the long ‘a’ as in ‘ah’ opposed to Nevada with the ‘a’ pronounced as in cat.
Just to agitate people.
Oh shit. I already do that. Agitate people I mean.

So, I had coffee about 4:00 and decided that vacuuming was out of the question. Wouldn’t want to wake the Cock Sucker Elephant Family upstairs.
Oh didn’t you know? They’ve been upgraded! No comps yet but soon. Maybe I should send them to Vegas. They’re the folks formerly known simply as The Elephant Family.

On Saturday morning said elephants were vacuuming and moving around 50 gallon barrels (filled with cinder blocks) at 7:38 in the morning.
Yes kids. These are the same swine who complained about my music two weeks ago.
The music from the speakers on my computer. Not my stereo.
At 9:00 in the evening.

Must not kill neighbors. Bad for the Karma doncha know.
So about 6:00 the coffee kicks in and I decide that the time has come to clear out the Demon Seed’s room. The Room Of Doom, Storage, and Un-navigable, Unmitigated Fear.
Waited until 10:00 to run the vacuum. That’s the kind of responsible and stylin’ neighbor I am.

Finished the entire room at 3:00 this afternoon.
Tell ‘em what they’ve accomplished!

1. Compacted six boxes of antique china, daughter’s no-long-prized-possessions and holiday decorations into 2 extant holiday boxes and two extant other boxes-o-crap-that-cannot-be discarded.
2. Completely emptied the bedroom out into the hallway and living room. Vacuumed, dusted and then re-stacked every last box, bin, storage rack and piece of furniture in there. There are a lot of them. I currently live in a tiny two bedroom apartment but have lived in large homes up until 2 years ago.
3. Re-arranged the shelving units and re-stacked the boxes. Broke down the boxes I didn’t need anymore and hauled them to the dumpster out back.
4. Re-assembled my daughter’s bed and made it up. Manhandled the frame, mattress, box springs and dressers. They are now accessible.
5. Drank an entire pot of coffee
6. Took a xanax.
7. Listened to some great new tunes by The New Pornographers. I highly recommend their tune Letter From An Occupant. The lead singer reminds me of Little Nell from Rocky Horror, who played Columbia.
8. Vacuumed again.
9. Yelled at Lizzie Borden to stay the fuck out of the newly clean and cleared out room

Yeah sure, it’s still cramped. I need a basement or a storage unit or a garage or a friggin house thank you very much. In the interim I DO have my daughter’s room into a semblance of order and she can sleep in her own bed on the next visit.
Sure she’s surrounded by towering plastic shelving units of boxes, a bicycle, several enormous plastic bins, enough suitcases for the Partridge Family, two floor lamps and miscellaneous computer peripherals.
The point is: she can get through the damned door, open the dresser drawers and get into her closet.
My work here is done.

I’m taking some of the back benefits from social security and buying her a ticket out here for Spring Break. She’ll be here with me all summer but damn I miss her and don’t want to wait that long. The evil little thing.
A chip off the old blockette.

Party on Garth.
Oh yeah, and pass the ibuprofen. My fucking back and wrists are killing me.
I need a hot relaxing bath but I’ll be fucked if I’m gonna scrub out the tub after nine hours of hauling around heavy boxes and furniture.
Oh Garcon! More Xanax please. Did you say one of tonight’s specials was the vicodin? I’ll also have two of those please.
Shaken not stirred.

~Miss R

What Happens in Reno…

sure as hell doesn’t stay in reno. …not with this blog.

When we last saw our heroine she was busy making plans, but not for Nigel.
In the intervening week things have just gotten funny. Yeah both ways.

I’m not gonna say things have become weird or strange. The last time I typed those words –at the New Year- my dad died, the debacle with the family occurred and life generally went fucking sideways.
We’re gonna try the adjective funny today.
Oh hell. What if I’ve just cursed Mom?
Well at least I wouldn’t have suffer through the nightly 20 questions over the phone.

Anyway, last Saturday brought a visit from Washington State’s own Dave and Lisa. The last time they were in town we peeked into a swinger’s club, pole danced, and generally wrecked havoc throughout Reno. That was also the infamous weekend of Turn Down The Stereo Immediately Or You Will Be Evicted Tomorrow.

This time my friends had a room at the Peppermill. I thought ‘what could possibly go wrong and if it does it won’t be at my place.’
Being a genius I decided to take a cab over there; no chance of the decrepit Zamboni being used as multi-passenger transportation.

It took 20 minutes to get ahold of them after I’d walked into the casino. The casino/hotel switchboard wouldn’t put me though on the phone without the last name, even though I had the room number. So I called back to get a different operator but she told me that there was something wrong with Dave and Lisa’s room voicemail.
Alright Plan C.
I sashay over to the hotel concierge, bat my eyelashes, lean my cleavage into his direct line of sight and sweetly ask how to find room 3121.
Presto!

Hugs all around and then back downstairs to the casino for the three of us.
Now, Dave is a serious blackjack player but neither Lisa nor I do much gambling. I don’t gamble because I suck at it.
We go into one of the lounges, play some video poker and then head back out into the neon monstrosity that is the Peppermill. Here we bump into Dave’s old Reno roommate and friend Mike.
Mike is a professional gambler. For real. For years. Poker. He especially loves going out on Friday and Saturday nights to play cards because the tourists are in town. Heh.

Lisa and I are then schooled on the salient points of poker. Somehow I managed to leave the friggin casino 35 cents richer than when I’d come in four hours before.
We’re hungry at this point. It’s around midnight.
Sushi!
Where better than The Men’s Club. Yes kids it’s a sushi bar on one side and a strip bar on the other. Gotta love Reno.
We went into the restaurant and spent an obscene amount on all manner of delicacies. This is not an All You Can Eat place. Even though it adjoins the strippers and lap dancers.

Our restaurant bill was high enough to merit non-payment of the cover charge upon entering the strip club.
I will say that the girls at the Men’s Club look a bit finer than their counterparts at the Wild Orchid. Don’t push me on the point since it’s been a long time since visiting the latter platter ‘o boobies.
Here’s a bottle of water I ordered:

Yep. A tit bar with their own privately labeled water. As well it should be since I paid $3.00 or $4.00 for the stuff. Boobylicious. I’m sure.

My friends dropped me off at home somewhere around 3:00 am. The next morning I was up at 7:00 feeling dehydrated from smoking an entire pack of ciggies in one evening.

Dave and Lisa made their flight the next day and back to Washington. My apartment was noise and litter-free. I’m thinking that a fine time was had by all.
Haven’t had but one cigarette in the past week though. Back on the Nicorette/Commit and club soda diet. It’s a goddamned good thing that those two only come into town every month or so. Fuck me.

The seven days since have been a slow-motion blur of getting new glasses, avoiding the computer, avoiding people, reading, isolating, screening phone calls, contemplating which caliber bullet would have the best taste, and going to doctor’s appointments.

This morning has been spent pirating music for my collection and burning CD’s into iTunes.
I’m on an 80’s Big Beat/Power Pop jag:  Graham Parker, Nick Lowe, The Plimsouls, Dave Edmunds, Phil Seymour, The Romantics, 20/20 etc.
Good stuff.

Oh yeah, and waiting for my ‘94 Audi to show up. The Zamboni is going bye-bye. So long ‘ya bastard.

I’ll now bid you all a fond adieu. Been up since 4:20 this morning (fucking sleeping pill at midnight gives me a grand total of almost four and a half hours of sleep) and need a cup of coffee and some toast.

Do I live the life or what.
The correct answer is Or What.

~Miss R

I Just Can’t Seem to Get it Right

Since the debacle with my family (over one of my blogs for chrissake) I’ve been unable to write. Or play the piano. Or catch up on any of the other blogs that I normally love to read.
Nothing seems to shake out.
My depression over dad’s death and the fall-out afterwards have stricken my heart and mind.
Apathy has taken hold and creativity has fled screaming into the night.

Hell I can barely read a book. Have a great one going too: Wait Until Spring Bandini by John Fante.

Anyway, it feels like everything is going sideways. For example:
Yesterday I couldn’t leave the house. Or my bedroom.
Today….

Got up early (as I do) and went to a local property management place called Action Properties.
There is this great duplex for rent. It’s a funky weird-ass 1930’s building with lots of defects, tons of storage, a leaky ancient basement and (supposedly) a ghost.
Best parts:
The other side of the building is occupied by a wonderful musician and friend (playing my music would not be a problem here)
The grand piano would fit in the living room
It’s much larger than my current apartment
It has a back yard
The rent is $110.00 LESS a month than I pay now.

Here’s what happened after I took a looksee at the duplex…

Went back with all of my documentation, completed application, $45.00 app fee, social security cards, copy of current lease, blah blah blah.
The receptionist immediately looks at my income verification and says that they cannot rent the duplex to me because their ‘formula’ requires that the rent expenditure be no more than 30% of my income.
Wait. I know that this is the optimal percentage used in determining credit approval for mortgages (didn’t spend all of that time in NYC finance for nothing) but this is Reno. It’s a duplex. It’s in a ‘transitional neighborhood’ (bwahahaha).
Not to mention (oh hell I am) that I overlooked the 30% rule when approving mortgages and credit…. a LOT.
My rent and previous mortgages have always been paid on time or early.
Every fucking month for years and years.

She didn’t care that I’m currently paying $100.00 MORE a month right now and all of my payments have been on time or early.
Told her that I would be willing to set up a direct deposit for the rent check.
She still didn’t care.

According to Action Properties I need to make $351.00 more a month to qualify for this duplex.
She asked if I had additional income.
Uhhhhh no. (I’m on disability you dumbasses)

Then I burst into tears.
As you do.

Absurdity Notice: I was told that I would qualify for a $525.00 a month rental but not the one I wanted which is $575.00
This means that according to their cretinous reasoning I need to have an income of $351.00 more a month to make a rental payment of $50.00 more a month.
Is it me?

So, I’m stuck here in tiny apartment hell with a herd of elephants upstairs, crazy managers next door, and nowhere for my dad’s piano (or any other possessions).
Thanks Action Properties of Reno. You fucking eeeediot bastards.

Whew.
I feel a bit better.
It’s not real writing but it is a small vent in the surface of my soul.

~Miss R

Currently listening:
Singles
By: Deacon Blue
Release date: 23 October, 2006

Division Day

My sister just called. Seems that someone sent her a link to my wordpress blog. A blog in which I spoke of our family, including her.
The problem is this: The characterization I portrayed in that piece was in no way flattering to my sister.
She is very hurt and very pissed. When we got off the phone she was incoherent in her tears.

Goddamn this. I write to write. I make additions and observations about the people in my stories to (hopefully) give them a life of their own.
I never craft a piece in an attempt to hurt anyone. Only to amuse myself and hopefully my readers.

I apologized to my sister and tried to explain that I never write anything to intentionally distress anyone. The idea that anyone in my family would see these pieces was ludicrous.
Was.
I’m a writer. I like characters. I like stories. I love to write.
Creativity and exaggeration seem to dance hand in hand. At least for me.

What do I do now? Change names? Situations? Edit every word which flows from this keyboard? Allow the people in my stories to be two dimensional? Stifle my own madness and literary aspirations?

I’ve now accomplished the complete division of what was left of our nuclear family. Chances are good that I will never see my sister or niece or nephew again. I’ve no idea what other repercussions will rain down through the family branches.
I’m pretty sure an umbrella will not help.

I’m torn, hurt, humiliated, filled with sorrow and confused. I can only hope that someday my sister understands that I am only a narrator and window. Nothing more. Not a biographer or newspaper editorialist.

I only want to make other people laugh and think.
I just want to write.

Fuck.

~Miss R

ps thanks for the words of encouragement donna

I am my favorite Ken Kesey Novel!

Found this fine quiz from via the awesome High Desert Girl.
Another day. Another laugh. Another Randomly Generated Yet Close to the Bone Observation.
What’s that Chief..?

You’re One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest!
by Ken Kesey
You’re crazy. This has led people to attempt to confine you to a safeplace so that you don’t pose a danger to yourself or others. You may pose a great danger to the man (or maybe the woman) or whatever else is keeping you down. But most of the time, you just end up being observed. Were you crazy before you were confined?

Take the Book Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.

***FYI: No. I was not this crazy prior to marriage number one. Or two. Or running a retail business. Or having a kid. They all take their toll don’t they.

Hell, I felt an immediate bond with Randle McMurphy the first time I read this book. Think I’ll save that tidbit for my therapist too. Cool. New fodder for shrinkage. Mercifully this guy is literate and interested in literature.

Off to the shock treatment.

 

~Miss R

Currently listening:
The Bens
By: Ben Folds
Release date: 31 December, 2003

“You Can’t Make This Shit Up Part Two: The High Price of Vibrators in Reno”

I have a running joke with a few of my close friends (of which there are three).
To Wit: Do vibrators die due to planned obsolescence ala Detroit car makers and Microsoft, or due to simple (yet stimulating) over-use?

My favorite vibe died a few weeks ago and I’ve been bitching about it and making amusing jokes ever since.
As you do.

So early last night I’m on the phone with ~S in Long Beach. Told him about the errands I’d run during the afternoon. One of which was a trip to Chocolate Walrus to buy a new vibrator.

Jesusmaryandjoseph. When did the price of toys go up and through the roof? The one item I really wanted was $60.00
Hell. I could go out to a bar or club, find a good looking guy and have real sex for free. With all that cash left over in the morning to send his ass home in a cab.
Being a misanthropic romantic this just ain’t gonna happen though.
But I digress.

I returned home dejected and sans new toy. While I’m talking to ~S about this debacle on the phone he gets another call from his friend Scott here in Reno. Well. Sparks actually.
Says he’ll call me right back.

~S calls back cackling and tells me that there will be a delivery to my door within the next hour. He won’t tell me what or why. I have a bad feeling about this.
We finish our conversation and I settle back into my book and tunes.

About 30 minutes later he calls back and tells me to go to the door. There is a box propped up against the door jamb, as well as a white SUV driving away. ~S tells me to wave at the SUV. I oblige.
I take the box inside and open it. It’s not just a vibrator.
Oh no.
This thing is called the Power Bullet. I begin laughing hysterically into the phone.
You have got to see this thing. It is practically obscene, which is saying a lot coming from me.

Now, ladies (and gentleman) I own a regular ‘bullet’. Sometimes called an ‘egg’.
You know the ones; small, silver, about the size of a thumb, connects to the battery pack with a cord.

Well this thing is as wide as my wrist and at least 6″ long. It’s wireless as well. According to the packaging it is ‘waterproof and requires 4 AAA batteries’.

It’s not a bullet it’s a fucking shotgun shell. For hunting dinosaur.

~S tells me the back story:
Sparks Scott received a package yesterday. Right address but wrong name. He opens it without checking the shipping label. He opens it to find the Super Bullet. At that point he actually checks the address on the box. He happens to vaguely know the name. It’s a 60-something year old woman who lives a street over.
He is opening the box while talking to ~S, who is coincidentally telling him about my adventures in Toyland that afternoon.

You know the rest.
I’m still laughing. A friend in Southern California gets his friend in Sparks to drive to the far side of Reno through ice and snow –with a vibrator- to get a laugh out of me.
It worked.

~Miss R

Currently listening:
It’s Mister Fathead
By: David Newman
Release date: 24 February, 1998

From the ‘You Can’t Make This Shit Up’ Department

January 20, 2008 Reno, NV (AP)

Drunken Neighbor Number One has moved out. Drunken Neighbor Number Two really is a Prostitute.
FYI it’s snowing and freezing. Again.

Been marveling about the irony of getting my (first tier = cheap!) Burning Man ticket on Wednesday. This is so I can run around nakie trying to stay cool in the blistering desert heat of summer….while currently freezing my ass off in the winter.

Anyway, I started up the zamboni earlier and dashed over to Save-Mart.
Had to cook some chicken before it went south for the winter and you can’t make a white wine sauce without white wine. Or so I’ve been told.
Oh sure, I’m all stocked up on chicken, mushrooms, garlic, the accouterments (and crazy) but am out of the main ingredient for the Marsala sauce.

-singing-
Oh the weather outside is frightful
There’s no fire in here delightful
I have to leave home for the store
Should’ve moved to Vegas and become
A whore

Thank you. Thank you very much. I’ll be here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waitress.

Which brings me to the most amusing thing over the last week…

I’m elbow deep in raw chicken, flour, egg whites, meat mallet and a perfectly heated skillet with olive oil.
There’s a knock on the door.
Fuck. No one ever comes to visit me. Particularly uninvited. I make sure of it.

Valiantly attempt to wipe flour, eggs and raw chicken from my hands and open the door.
It’s Female Drunken Neighbor aka Drunken Neighbor Number Two.
She wants to use my computer to fill out an application for the Peppermill (a large local Reno casino). Her internet connection is unavailable.
Yeah no shit. It’s my wireless.
I’m sick of the fuckers in this complex stepping on my connection so I unplugged the router. The connection to the living room PC is rarely used anyway.

Chicken Marsala is one of those dishes where all the prep and cooking takes place at once. You can’t stop in the middle. So I tell Drunken Female Neighbor (hereafter known as DFM) to just use my computer. She promises to be quick. I occasionally glance in on her to make sure she’s stays out of my porn. Bitch needs to find her own.

Anyway, I’m almost done with the sautéing and DFM rushes into the kitchen saying that she’ll be right back. Okay. Don’t let the door hit you in ass. I’m busy here.

The cooking is finished, the kitchen cleaned up and she never returns. Goodie for me.

I go into my room and what do I find open on the web browser:

1. The Pepper Mill website employee application page?
2. Any casino’s employee application page?
3. Craigslist and a half-finished posting under the Erotic Services category?

If you picked Number 3 you win.

I began to giggle. Had a feeling that she was a hooker but this pretty much gives it away.
She has not been back and has now moved out of the building next door. I’m really glad about disinfecting the couch.

In a way it will be quiet around here. No more ‘Drunken Neighbor’ blogs. No easy amusement watching the absurd lives of other people, thereby granting me immunity over my own lack of a life.

At least there’s still the potential of follow-up amusement.

Next time you’re perusing Craigslist Reno click on the Erotic Services category.
Look for the Headline “Are they’re any real gentleman out there…”
-cringe-
Her name’s Amy by the way.

Happy Hunting!

~Miss R

Currently listening:
Jools Holland’s Big Band Rhythm & Blues
By: Jools Holland
Release date: 08 January, 2002

First Truly Surreal Moment of 2008

Hello Dali.

So I’m doing some shopping at Save-Mart (Albertson’s) this afternoon. It is snowing like a bitch outside.
Inside I realize that this is what’s playing over the store speakers….
On the Dark Side by Eddie and the Cruisers.

Weird. This is gonna be a fucking weird year. Does anyone else but me even remember that movie?

Was accosted by one of the fucking neighbors (yeah the literal fuckers) in the parking lot this morning. Was attempting to figure out how to put the Zamboni into 4 wheel drive. It has an automatic transmission but the 4×4 is a stick shift on the floor. With no clutch.
What. The. Fuck.

You know, if I’m gonna get down on my hands and knees in the snow I can think of a far more pleasurable reason to do so than turning hubs on the truck.

Strange year already. So yeah. There you have it.
Donner Pass is totally closed to traffic today, due to this storm. Guess we’ll be having left-overs tonight instead of Small Daughter ala Rachael. Maybe Stiletto has a recipe.
Oh well.
You can’t always get what you want.

I may have plagiarized that last thought.
Naw.

~Miss R

Currently listening to:
Citizen Steely Dan: 1972-1980
By: Steely Dan
Release date: 14 December, 1993

Return of the Drunken Neighbors

This should really be Part Two: Return of the Drunken Neighbors. Unfortunately I never did get around to writing part one.
So, I sum up…..

Two weeks ago there’s a knock at my door. It’s about 11:30 at night so naturally I’m wide awake. I open the door and see Jenn and Adam, my neighbors. They are pretty close to plowed condition. I let them in.
I’m easily amused at the expense of others and it had been a boring evening.

The next thing I know they’ve found my stash of two (count ‘em two) wine glasses and produce a bottle of wine. Yeppers they surely needed more to drink.
It was delightful watching someone else make total asses of themselves, after all.

Things quickly went downhill. Adam and Jenn finished the bottle off, broke one of my wine glasses, listened to every Prince CD I own at maximum volume, found the on switch to my Peavey amps (which they cranked to 11) and sang along with aforementioned Prince songs.
I have tenure in this building so no one ever complains about the music. Heh. Fucking Plebes.

Anyway, by 2:00 am I’m as amused as I’m gonna be. Particularly after Jenn finds my toy box (the bedroom is where the computer is) and asks about the accoutrements and why do I have all that rope?
I make a witty comment and maneuver their asses to the front door, not letting it hit them in the ass on the way out.
At 3:00 a.m. there’s a knock on the door. Yes I’m still awake. Yes it is Jenn and Adam again. I let them in and get them back OUT within 30 minutes.
So that would be Part One.

Part Two: Return of the Drunken Neighbors

Last night I was contemplating walking over to XOXO to hear Mark and Mister Vague. Had already done the traditional Annual Solstice Celebration with TK and was dressed to hit the town. Instead I thought “aw screw it staying inside where it’s warm sounds pretty good”.
A foolish mistake.

Now mind you, I blog with one main credo:
Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
In this case every damned word is true. You cannot make this shit up.

There’s a knock on the door last night. It’s…. just Jenn;  asking if she could borrow my phone because her cell was dead.
Me, being an idiot, says okay. She calls her boyfriend and tells me he’ll be there in a few, can she hang out till then.
‘Okay’ says the idiot.
Oh wait, she AND her 8 year old daughter.

So, I find out that Adam is not Jenn’s one and only. Not to mention that she has a daughter who lives with her. Apparently the management company doesn’t know about the kid and Jenn is afraid they’ll find out.
Maybe she’ll have to pay a $100.00 deposit for having an ankle biter in her apartment. I had to do the same for the cat so I feel her pain.

After her inebriated boyfriend arrives I go in to check my email -because I have no fucking life- then come back out to the living room.
To witness those morons going to town on my couch. My formerly pristine couch. The kid is dead asleep on the floor.

Finally got the fuckers (literally) out of the house before midnight.

The finale took place this morning.
There’s a knock at the door (this is getting old isn’t it) and it is ‘the boyfriend.’ I’m sure he told me his name last night but since I didn’t care it was not stored in the memory banks.
“I need to get Jenn’s shoes.” says boyfriend
“Whaaaaa?” say I.
“She left her shoes here last night” he says
“Whaaaaa?” say I.

There on the floor by the couch are a pair of tennies, that are not mine.
WTF?!
I can only surmise that she and boyfriend and small child walked home across the frozen icy snow covered parking lot barefoot.
That’s some serious drinking there Lou.

Tonight I’m putting a sign on the door:
Rachael’s Home for Wayward Neighbors
Now please get the fuck away

Talk about the Surreal Life. Sheesh.
What did I tell you? You just can’t make this shit up.

~Miss R

Currently listening:
Gustav Holst: The Planets, Op 32
By: Gustav Holst
Release date: 25 October, 1990

Corporate Dress, Magic and Drunken Santas: Part 2

Well it’s time for Saturday’s Part Deux Debacle of Debauchery.

The magicians were amazing at Magic Underground. This is coming directly to you via a woman culled from the crowd and placed on a stage as a ‘participant’ in several magical tricks.
Said woman was adorned (or rather not) in all her boob and leg revealing glory.
When the magician pointed at me I immediately looked to the area behind my ass. No one there. Grrrrr.

So I got my tush up on this little stage and attempted to keep the girls from popping out and making an unexpected appearance in front of the crowd.
All went well, including a trick where the magician made two bottles of Corona appear from nowhere and handed one to yours truly.
~J was impressed. Not with the trick so much as the free beer.

The only scary part was when I was asked to kneel.
Normally this isn’t scary and in fact I kinda like it but that’s another story for another day.

Anyway, I’m kneeling on the stage in a skirt shorter than my cat’s attention span. After the magician finishes his bit I raise my hand for him to help me up.
I can only guess this is where the Movado was snagged. Swear to Goddess I do not know how he did that.

I’m thinking that my daughter would love Magic Underground. They’re having a New Year’s show. If I win the lottery I’ll take her over there.

So, after the show we all emerge into the world of the ballet audience from the Pioneer Center and thousands of drunken Santas.
I fucking love Reno.

The owners of this IT company then invited all of us across the street to Wild Rivers Grille. It’s next door to Dreamers on the Truckee River.

We make it over there and listen to some great live jazz and are comped for whatever we’d like to drink and/or eat. There was much sipping of $9.00 Cosmos (made with pomegranate juice) and Gray Goose Martinis. Most importantly…
I got my fucking cheeseburger. With bacon. On a home-made ciabatta bun.
‘Cause who’s it all about right?

So, this IT company has some very hip employees. I fell in platonic love with one of them. Her name is Kristina and she is their head programmer. She loved my outfit and threatened to beat me down and steal it.
The impressive part is her personal site www.glamguns.com

Yes! Home of the Hello Kitty AK-47, My Little Carbine, and the EZ-Boom Oven. I’d seen this site on Fark a few months ago and loved it. Little realizing that the genius behind it was another Reno denizen.
We were singing The Vatican Rag together by midnight. Much to the distress of the other company employees and restaurant staff. Oh wait. Neither of us cared.

So by 1:00 am the restaurant was trying to kick our asses out. The suits paid the bill, we all scattered to find cabs home, and another evening was called to an end.
Naturally we were on Virginia Street which is the main drag through Reno. This ensures no cabs. Anywhere.
After a walkabout, seeing drunken Santas, speaking with drunken Mrs. Clauses, laughing at sloppy Reindeer, and throwing rocks at tipsy Elves I found a cab by Harrah’s and got my ass home.
Safe and Unsound.
As it should be.

Your Roving Reporter,

~Miss R

Currently listening:
Wig in a Box
By: Various Artists
Release date: 28 October, 2003

What Tarot Card Are You?

You are The Moon

Hope, expectation, Bright promises.

The Moon is a card of magic and mystery - when prominent you know that nothing is as it seems, particularly when it concerns relationships. All logic is thrown out the window.

The Moon is all about visions and illusions, madness, genius and poetry. This is a card that has to do with sleep, and so with both dreams and nightmares. It is a scary card in that it warns that there might be hidden enemies, tricks and falsehoods. But it should also be remembered that this is a card of great creativity, of powerful magic, primal feelings and intuition. You may be going through a time of emotional and mental trial; if you have any past mental problems, you must be vigilant in taking your medication but avoid drugs or alcohol, as abuse of either will cause them irreparable damage. This time however, can also result in great creativity, psychic powers, visions and insight. You can and should trust your intuition.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

 

This is actually pretty damned accurate for me right now. Weird.

As an aside I used to read tarot cards for a living, amongst other strange and exotic occupations. Fucking liberal arts degree.

I also put exactly zero stock in tarot readings, mediums, psychics, Ouija boards and the National Weather Service.

 

~Miss R

Rachael’s Guide: How to Tell if you are Nocturnal

Here are some definitions to use as a primer for this blog.
Have fun kiddies!

Nocturnal – active and feels better at night
Diurnal – active and feels better during the day
Repuscular - active and feels better primarily during twilight, i.e., at dusk and dawn (freaks)

Rachael’s Guide to How to Tell if you are Nocturnal

1.   You feel half alive until close to 7:00 p.m.
2.   You believe that ‘morning people’ should be lined up and summarily executed
3.   You can’t figure out why the only place to get a burger after 2:00 am in Reno is The Little Nugget or the slimy Denny’s over on Wells
4.   Music sounds better, and should be played louder, at night
5.   You’re :
a)  musician b) police officer c) graveyard shift worker and you LIKE the hours
6.   The cat gets more sleep at night than you do
7.   Going to bed a 2:00 am seems pretty damned early
8.   Waking up to sunshine and birds singing makes you want to vomit
9.   Even prescription sleeping pills have little or no effect
10.   You’re sick of being told that you have a ’sleep disorder’
11.   Your great tan during the summer months confuses your friends.   This amuses you and you continue to visit the tanning salon. After dark.
12.   Your best work is done at night.
13.   When you do try to sleep you’re constantly thinking of ideas, getting out of bed, and typing them into Word.
14.   You spend an inordinate amount of money on high-end concealer for your eyes.
15.   Your sunglasses cost more than your first car
16.   It’s not insomnia asshat, it’s my period of waking hours
17.   You know every free porn site on the net

During ‘normal’ evening hours I watched a new episode of Numbers Friday night. You know how exciting my Friday nights are.
Anyway, what music is playing as it opens? “The Underdog” by Spoon.
Heh. I listed their album on my Top 10 Albums of the Year blog and the song itself as my fave from the CD.
Being Nocturnal has benefits. Such as finding lots of new music while searching through all of that porn.

Blondes may have more fun but insomniac brunettes are far more amused.

~Miss R

Currently listening:
Lagrimas Negras
By: Bebo & Cigala
Release date: 22 June, 2004

—- image courtesy of Pavlovs Blog —-

Corporate Dress, Magic and Drunken Santas: Part 1

 

Just another night in Reno. Move along nothing to see here.

I was invited to the Magic Underground last night to see Kalin and Jinger. Astounding show.  If you live here in Reno get tickets, and if you’re in Vegas you can also catch them. Close-up magician Jacques Simard boosted my Movado without my so much as noticing.
Here’s the weird part: That afternoon I’d taken the watch to a jeweler and had the band repaired. To say I was cognizant of that watch last night is an understatement.

Anyway, yesterday afternoon my friend ~J invites me to this show, the tickets are courtesy of his company. I couldn’t decide what the hell to do last night so I said ‘sure, sounds interesting.’
It was my understanding that we’d see the show then wander around downtown checking out the thousands of Drunken Santas, reindeer, elves and Slutty Mrs. Clauses. I thought that the tickets were a perk of ~J’s job and perhaps one of the owners couldn’t make the show and passed the tickets along. Cool.

Here’s what happened: I got dressed as usual for a night out with friends in Reno. You know; real corset, skirt so short that when I lean over to say ‘hi’ you can see my ass cheeks, garter belt, stockings and heels. Oh, and of course my Fab 1950’s black cashmere coat with the huge fox collar. It’s fucking cold outside.

So I get to Magic Underground, it’s dark outside and cold, and have a smoke waiting for my friend to arrive. He shows up and I find that this is not actually a ‘left-over ticket’ evening. It’s the fucking Corporate Christmas Party.

You know that recurring dream? The one in which you show up to school but forgot your underwear? It was just like that except all I was wearing WAS my underwear.

Luckily these people are all geeks (it’s an IT company) and didn’t seem that phased. We all got along great. Oddly I’ve been trying to get a job there.
This seems to be a fine first impression wouldn’t you agree?

~Miss R