Nike Shorts are Good/Bad

I'm SERIOUSLY losing my mind. I think it's the lack of sleep combined with long hours of strenuous activity.

Because downtown is all atwitter with hipsters for #sxsw, we're running to the boathouse for afternoon practices. I didn't want to run with my wallet and car keys in my hand but I also didn't want to leave all of my stuff with the coaches. I am wearing my So-Comfortable-It-Almost-Makes-Sense-To-Pay-$25-Dollars-for-These Nike sorority Shorts. Among their awesome features, they include a built-in lining and a teeny-tiny storage pocket. So, I decide I have a GREAT idea: I take my apartment key and my car key off of the ring and stick them both in the mini-pocket of my shorts.

Now, Kelsey and Erica are in the room while I’m doing this, but Kelsey is mesmerized by our psychedelic cupcakes and Erica by her new favorite movie Sky High, so there is no one around to talk any sense in to me. At first, the logical side of me says, “You can’t even keep track of your shoes on your feet or remember what seat you are in the boat. Surely having two keys NOT on a key ring is just asking for trouble." But, my heart tells me (as it does before every bad decision I make): “This time, of course, will be different!”

Which means, of course, that this time was no different: I lost my apartment key.

I walk to my apartment door and search my mini-pocket for the key. NOT. THERE. I run back down to the car. NOT. THERE. I check the trunk and every little crevice of the car. I check the in ground around my car. I drive back to the parking lot by the Rec Center and check the ground around my parking spot. NOT. THERE.

Skip forward yadayada. No keys. No cell phone. No ID. They’re all in my apartment!! I do not have a spare key. And all three of my roommates are out of town for Spring Break and won’t be back until Sunday. SO SCREWED!

I went to see if I could jump up onto my balcony from the courtyard. After multiple attempts, people started giving me weird looks, so I stopped. I didn’t know where to go! What to do? I had NOTHING. My only form of identification was a handwritten form from the DPS saying that I was not liable for my handicapped ticket. And all that form was good for was to tell me how dumb I was: just three days ago I SAVED three hundred dollars because I got my parking ticket dismissed. Now I was going to have to pay that much to hire a locksmith and get all the locks in my apartments changed. (Surprisingly, I was a lot less upset over this than I was over the parking ticket. I think I’m just numb to my own stupidity now. ☹)

So I go over to Kelsey E.’s place and I tell her the story and she’s all like “Oh NO!” but on her face I can totally see this look of “well I’m not surprised, that seems like something your dumbass would do.” Which is true. Because this is exactly the type of dumbass thing I would do. She lets me use her phone to call the locksmith and he’s like “We’ll be there in 45 minutes.” (Aside: Do you think he’d REALLY open the apartment for me? I didn’t have any ID and I looked like a smelly vagabond off the street! Super Unsafe!)

I’ve pretty much bounced back and I’m ready to go to Sarah’s to wait for the locksmith while eating some Potluck food. Kelsey graciously lends me some clothes AND

When I take off my shorts, MY KEY FALLS TO THE GROUND! YES!

And so my love/hate relationship with Nike Shorts continues -- Curse you, Nike Shorts and your deceptive lining! But also: Thank you, Nike Shorts, and your awesome key-catching lining!


(And then I found five dollars.)

My Car

So it’s a little after 10 am and I’m sitting at Panera Bread on Bee Caves waiting for (my hero) Ross to come give my car a jumpstart. The internet wasn’t working in my apartment when I had to start work* this morning, so I packed up my things and headed out to Panera to take advantage of their free Wi-Fi. I typically have to do this three or four times a month because the internet at the Block is really crappy. The thing is, though, that when you go somewhere to use “free” Wi-Fi, they expect you to BUY something and I’d already eaten breakfast so I was just gonna sit in my car and listen to some music while working. That was a dumb idea because of course I drained the battery and now it won’t start. It isn’t even making that “trying to start” noise. There is just the sound of my turning key and my broken heart. Wait. Ross is on the phone… needs help with directions.
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Ok. So scratch all that. Ross was on his way, so I went out to my car to hold a parking spot open next to it so he could pull in to jump it. Being the optimist** that I am, I tried to start it again AND IT WORKED. Soooo sorry for wasting your time, Ross. (I stole you some equal packets and perhaps I’ll buy you a drink at Serrano’s later for your troubles.)

But, that’s my fickle car for you. I think he (she?... what is the gender of a car?) is acting out because I’ve been kind of a bitch to him lately. This is the first semester I’ve had my car up in Austin and we’ve already been through a lot together.

Turns out I am a terrible driver. I just never knew it because I was surrounded by so many other terrible drivers (ex. My sister, who drives like she is the only one on the road; Sandra, who still asks me which way to go on I-10 to get to Austin; Jacob, who just scares the shit out of me). I might have been okay by comparison, but driving in Katy is a WHOLE different deal than driving in Austin. So, I think my car’s gotten a little pissed at me.

First, I make my car work really hard to get into a parking space. The first time I drove up to Austin, it only took me about five minutes to find a parking spot. It took me 30 minutes to fit into said parking spot. I had NO IDEA what to do! I’d never learned how! So I had to scooch in little, then get out of the car, assess my progress, and repeat. I think both Erica and Sydni can attest to just how terrible my parking was in those first few days. That first night, my car was really mad at me. It only took me a fourth of a tank of gas to make it from Houston to Austin. It took me a fourth of a tank of gas to park.

Second, my car’s a little out of shape. My car is made of plastic (nice experiment, Saturn. Thanks for that!). It’s light as a feather, flimsy as a used condom. (too far?) It does NOT like the potholes in West Campus, but I feel little sympathy for its wants and needs. I fly over those potholes with enthusiasm, determined not to be late to practice (again). As such, my car wheezes and clunks its way down the road. Poor baby. Not only that, but it is covered with three months worth of bird poop and stale beer as a result of being parked on the street in front of a frat house.

Third, my car is probably embarrassed. Since I’ve gotten my car, it’s never been stopped a cop or gotten in any (real) accidents. I set the cruise control at 5-7 mph over the speed limit so that it doesn’t get caught speeding and never forgot to slow down to 55 when I go through that horrible speed trap in Ellinger. I’d like to think my car is pretty proud of itself. Or was. Until this week.

I think it was Saturday morning when Kelsey and I were driving to practice and the light went red a little faster than I thought it would. And then there was a bright flash of light… so I may or may not get a red light ticket in the coming weeks. But the REAL embarrassment for my car was when he was slapped with a $300 ticket for “Blocking Disabled Access” (overlapping a sidewalk ramp) on Monday. THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS. To put that into perspective, blocking a fire hydrant is a $70 ticket. The Americans With Disabilities Act is a powerful piece of legislation, my friends. Don’t mess with it. (Although, I’m not sure who will be having the last laugh when the firemen can’t put out the fire in the handicapped person’s house because someone decided to park by the fire hydrant for a lesser fine… but whatever.)

Given all this, I can’t say I blame my car for teaching me a little lesson and refusing to start this morning. I’d be pissed, too!

So this is an open letter to you, car. From now on, I promise to treat you better. I’m going to take you to get an oil change and maybe even check your tires and axels. I’ll stop running you over curbs and stop making fun of your murky grey plastic exterior. Maybe I’ll even go crazy and wash and vacuum you. Who knows?

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*I work for this company called Bazaarvoice. I read product reviews online. I work from home. Or the parking lots of Panera Breads.
** And by “optimist” I mean “really desperate for SOMETHING to work out the right way”

It seems that ANYONE can blog, so why not me?

Very recently (I’d say about 5 minutes ago), I decided to start keeping a blog. It’s just that sometimes I have something to say and there is no one around to say it to. If my random musing is more than 140 characters, I can’t put it on Twitter. If my current activity isn’t formatted as “Shannon is…” I can’t put it on Facebook. I could call someone, but I really don’t like talking on the phone; it’s exasperating. I could walk to OrangeTree and talk to Sarah, but that is a surprisingly long walk (all uphill) and I’m just not willing to do it. Texting seems to be a viable option, but it makes my fingers hurt and takes a long time.

The great thing about a blog is that I can say whatever I want without necessarily requiring, expecting, or even wanting a response. This is not the case with conversation, phone calls, or Facebook messages. With those forms of communication, I’m going to get a response. And it is normally not what I want to hear. One example of this comes from a recent conversation with my mother. We were discussing Scott McIntyre’s awkwardness on American Idol.

Me: Whatever talent he MAY have is offset by his general awkwardness. Also, given that both he, his sister, and his brother have similar developmental problems, I can only assume that the problems are a result of generations of inbreeding in his Podunk Arkansas hometown.

Expected Response from mother: How insightful! You really see through the surface of a crappy television program like American Idol and use the limited exposition given about each character to create a structured argument about the American family structure.

Actual Response from mother: That’s an awful thing to say about someone! Who taught you it was okay to say things like that?!

Um… you did, Mom.

Anyways, I think you can see where I’m going with this. Actual human interaction is usually a disappointment, so I’m going to try to supplement that disappointment with this self-indulgent blog.

So here are a couple ground rules:

• I estimate that around 45% of things that I say are generally awkward, 25% are offensive, 35% are mundane and not worth your time, 12% are funny, and 3% are quite funny. Perhaps <5%>
• Back in high school, I attempted other forms of “internet self-expression” such as Xanga and Livejournal. Both of these ventures were complete failures. I expect if I write two more entries in this blog in the next two months, it will be considered a success.
• This is designed to be a BLOG. Not a “diary.” If this divulges into some play-by-play of my day-to-day activities, please GOD someone stop me. It’s pathetic enough that my nightly routine consists of watching the Food Network Challenge at 6pm while cooking dinner followed up by whatever Reality Television programming is gracing the TV lineup and ending with me crashing into bed before10pm. Nobody else should be subjected to that. Keep me in check, friends.

That’s about it for now.

Shannon