Blondes are generally disastrous for me

She wore a blue dress and knee-high socks and orthopedic shoes and as she ran her fingers through my hair, I could feel my face turning bright red.

“You’re sweating. Are you nervous?” she asked. She was blonde and pretty. Who wouldn’t be nervous?

I nodded with a what-can-you-do? smile and she laughed.

And everyone laughed.

Her voice had a country twang and a small price tag ($1.98) hung from her hat and as she walked on to the next man down, was gone in the blink of an eye. Typical.

That’s what you get for being a reporter in the front row at a women’s health fair when they’ve hired a Minnie Pearl impersonator.

Jokes aside, Minnie Pearl impersonator Cindy Moore (fifth one down) actually did put me in the hot-seat, but it’s only fair. See, my press contact at the local hospital (whom I deal with daily, and get along pretty well with) was the first guy she tormented. Being that it was a women’s health fair, of course all the shirts they gave out were pink, and of course I’d teased him about it when I saw him. Nothing against the color pink, it’s just that a guy wearing it is probably just the tiniest bit weird about wearing it and of course, it’s fun to tease about that.

Anyway, she, at the beginning of her show, did her little “M-A-N” song act where she hit on all the guys, and she went straight for him, rubbing on his head and even playfully giving his shaved-bald head (a good move for him, and one I will emulate when I too lose my hair to a significant enough degree) a nice shine. The poor man was about as pink as his shirt and I was laughing and enjoying every minute of it. The only thing I was enjoying more was the thought of how much I was going to rib him about it when it was over.

And then she turned and zeroes in on me!

Needless to say, I did not tease him afterward.

In other news, has it really been 12 days since my last post? Sorry. It’s not like I lack for content.

- The guest of a neighbor got arrested. The fact that she apparently (also allegedly) stole someone’s phone and was a batcrap insane crackhead (personal opinion) might have had something to do with it.

- I got a couch.

- I got new shoes (which I designed myself and plan on posting photos of later).

That’s really about it. I’m trying to decide how I’m going to motivate myself to post more often. Any ideas? Maybe a little audience participation might rally me back to total awesomeness as opposed to the present partial awesomeness…

I had a good day

Tonight, I found myself in the arms of another man. A man I did not know. I still don’t know him. I may never know him. But for a brief, perfect second, as we awkwardly high-fived with our free hands, our arms locked in the ever-awkward one-armed hug, I experienced a moment of clarity.

I had a good day.

I woke up this morning without the help of my alarm clock.

When I stepped outside I was actually cold (and oh, how this is a good thing, as heat is my natural enemy).

I was assigned to work the weekend on the most perfect day of late summer. I wore a suit and tie, though I went without the coat for most of the day. I’ll explain the suit later.

My first assignment of the day was at the local botanical garden, which is exquisite. I adore outdoor assignments on pretty days, and oh how I was paid in full today. I also saw a pretty girl dressed as Dorothy from “The Wizard of Oz” and heard the laughter of children and saw lots of scarecrows and got seen wearing a tie on assignment by my boss.

I made the regular rounds to the police station, the jail, the sheriff’s office. Everyone was nice, happy to see me, eager to have some idle chitchat, if only for a few moments, because today was relatively quiet.

My second assignment of the day was by accident, and while I can’t tell you about it, I can tell you that it might be one of the more important stories I’ve ever worked on. It could make one great big difference in the life of one young man, and he isn’t me.

I went to see one of my coworker’s get married. I cried. All was well with the universe.

I went back to work. I wrote two more stories. I was forced to endure the almost-unbearable torment of being forced to work while Kentucky played Louisville, and I was forced to report on people enjoying the action while I was stuck in the newsroom, one ear listening to the radio and me occasionally slamming my fist on the desk and cheering at appropriate moments. My only glimmers of hope were the half-hours I spent in two sports bars, reporting and trying desperately not to pay any attention to the TV, and almost completely succeeding. Inbetween the bars and the paper, I listened to the radio and took out more frustration on the steering wheel and cheered out loud for no one in particular to hear. At one point I was getting a score update from a firefighter when I called him to ask if there was anything of interest going on as part of the routine “late check” calls to the local emergency agencies.

I got my work done. I went to a bar. I arrived just as the fourth quarter began. I cheered and clapped and chanted. I booed and worried and hoped. I jumped for joy when Kentucky won (40-36, the first victory over Louisville since 2002, the year I was a freshman, and the first victory over a top-10 ranked team since 1977, when I wasn’t yet a real possibility) and shared a victory hug with a complete stranger. We laughed. We cheered. We high-fived. I felt alive.

It was a good day.

Story-telling on myself

It’s time to tell you all about:

My new job.

My new apartment.

The strange effects that this has had on my mind.

I love my job. I’m not just saying that because about an hour after I posted the last post, someone from work (Hi, Patrick) commented on the blog, having been notified of its presence by another coworker. I really enjoy my job. It’s been a little tough getting off the ground, but I think I’ve had a good start. I like the people I work with, the things I’m asked to do and I know I’m living my dream: I’m happy with work.

I like my new apartment. Sure, it has its flaws.

- It has a showerhead that makes a God-awful noise (which will be taken care of this weekend).

- The hot water heater runs overtime and burns my hands when I do the dishes, if I’m not careful.

- It has 13 light fixtures, which I am slowly filling with CFLs (look it up here) so as to save money and spend less.

- It still has too many boxes in it, which I’ve promised to rid myself of once I get some bookshelves.

- It has a dishwasher I still haven’t figured out and don’t intend to, since I find washing dishes by hand relaxing after a difficult day (if you ask me to come to your house and wash your dishes, you are a fop).

- It has linoleum tile which I accidentally spilled boiling hot water on last week while cooking pasta.

- It has a refrigerator, which had four ice trays left behind by the previous tenant. She also left a roll of single-ply toilet paper in the bathroom. Did I mention she’s a convicted sex offender? That’s why she was evicted, anyway, and yes, her address has been re-registered so nobody will come scrawl anything evil on my door or try to kill me.

- It has a nice washer and dryer hookup, though the door to the laundry room prohibits me from opening the dryer door up all the way. The hookups took a little figuring out though, especially that first night when the draining hose came loose and spewed about six gallons of water on the floor. I need more towels. Oops.

- The carpet is new in most parts, except for my closet. That’s ok. No stains there.

- My neighbors are all pretty nice, even the weird guy. That doesn’t keep me from hating the neighbors who I refer to as “the six pack.” They’re all ‘cans. Mexicans. I’m one too, cause I’m Puerto Ri-can. See? I’m not racist. They constantly blast their music all day. Someone else squeals their tires at night. It reminds me of Detroit, where every night there was plenty of noise. I sleep very well here.

- I need a couch, three bookshelves, a kitchen table a TV and DVD player, and a desk. I’m working on it. I think Dr. Mom found me a desk.

Since I moved in, things have been different.

- I pick up after myself, to a limited extent. It may take a day or six to get to that shirt or pair of underdrawers on the floor, but I do. And then I launder them. I even use fabric softener when I help my clothes make the weekly washer-dryer migration.

- I regularly do the dishes. Like I said, it relaxes me. I even neatly arrange them.

- I make myself lunch four days a week to save money. I spend a little extra for the stuff on the sammiches, but otherwise I’m a pretty decent shopping cheapskate. I shop at Wal-Mart.

- I’m planning to make a few major purchases soon. I’m going to get a bike, because it’s good for me and I can ride to work, since it’s not far. I’m going to get a cat, so I don’t feel quite so alone and I have someone to talk to without punching buttons. That’ll be a little farther off in the future though.

I live in Apartment 3. Above my door, on the wooden underside of the decking that makes up the way to the second floor, are four stickers, which spell out 1977. I don’t know what it means, but I like it. There’s also a doll in black outside my door, and it’s been there four three days. Someone will claim it eventually.

I’ve come to the conclusion that this is some kind of an exile. I’m away from home, shoved into the real world, made to pave my own way and come up with my own solutions. I can’t run to Dr. Mom or Dr. Dad whenever I need something, though if it were serious enough I could call them. Dr. Dad seems proud of me, that I’m making my own way. Dr. Mom too, though she seems to be losing her mind a little bit, because she calls me every three days before I can call her. I miss her. I miss my house. I miss my dog, whom I couldn’t have live here, and who wouldn’t be happy anyway because she needs a yard to run in. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss a lot of things.

This exile is changing my life.

And this is a good thing.

p.s. – No, no pictures until my apartment looks presentable and appropriately furnished. This means you, Dr. Mom.

Relocation hell (the i’m-tired-of-writing-cliffhangers-part)

OWENSBORO, Ky. — Last week when I came home, I had one thought on my mind most of the time.

How am I going to get all of this useless crap to a place 200 miles away?

But I did it. I boxed up my belongings, rented a U-Haul, had a friend help me load up my junk, put my car on a trailer, arranged for help once I got here and drove 200-some miles to Owensboro, Ky.

That makes it sound way easier than it really was. Like the never-ending hunt for boxes (which finally was fulfilled by some really nice people working the graveyard shift at Wal-Mart), the titanic struggle I had with a 100-pound box that contained most of my books and the epic battle that is driving a U-Haul with a trailer on the back carrying your car.

On the way to Owensboro, about halfway there, I called the landlady to make sure everything was still good for my move in. Turns out it wasn’t. The office was closing at 1 and I wouldn’t be there until 3. Now, this is the lady who asked me if I was a terrorist, so I was kinda scared that I wouldn’t get any help, but to my surprise, she did. She drove out on her own time, soccer gear-clad daughter in tow, opened the apartment up and let me and my help put all my junk inside.

“They stole your air conditioner,” she remarked, as she walked into the apartment while the unloading process was underway. Sure enough, there was a giant hole where my A/C was supposed to be.

Dear God, how ghetto is this place? I started wondering to myself, suddenly afraid that I had made a huge mistake.

“Yeah, the maintenance men. Sometimes they rob Peter to pay Paul. There was another tenant who moved into a unit upstairs before you and they must have taken your unit to put in hers.”

So after the moving in of my stuff, which didn’t take very long at all, I returned the U-Haul and got myself checked into a hotel which cost waaaay too much and holed myself up for the rest of the weekend. There, on Saturday while I was flipping through the channels, I somehow ended up on the public access station where I witnessed my boss, the publisher of the paper, wearing a shirt that made it seem as though he was both shirtless and excessively muscular. He was one of several “Museum Chippendales” dancing for a museum fundraiser. Now, while this was at first very surreal and slightly scary, it was also funny and encouraging, since a boss who cares about the community is a great thing to have when you work at a newspaper.

Monday: Go to work. Get assigned to cover the governor’s visit to town in the afternoon. Spend two hours on lunch break getting water hooked up (No paying of $50 deposit because I have good credit! Yippee!), paying landlady rest of month’s rent plus next month’s rent. Go to U-Haul place to find out I owe them nothing (also, yippee!). Talk to governor at length. Write good story. Come home tired, rearrange some stuff, cook macaroni and cheese, go to sleep.

Tuesday: Go to work. Take an hour and 15 minute lunch to go to the electric company, make them re-run credit check since the lady wouldn’t do it over the phone. Find out the lady on the phone was WRONG, get $150 deposit refunded (Yippee!).

Wednesday: Go to work. Go to DMV because as one of my coworkers puts it, if I break the law “They’ll deport your carcass.” (Ok, he didn’t say carcass, I’m keeping it family friendly) Wonder if Detroit has an extradition treaty with Kentucky. Get license renewed, get car registration renewed. Go to post office, get mail forwarded, new key for mailbox.

Thursday: Go to work. On lunch break, go to bank and get address changed and arrange for direct deposit of my paycheck. Come home slightly early to let cable hook-up guys install my Internets.

Friday: First day with a calm lunch break. Get Subway. Enjoy life.

Weekly story total: 8. 1. Apartments moved into: 1. Dariushes content: 1.

Editor’s note: Pictures of said apartment will be forthcoming once it doesn’t look like a box storage facility.