DMV - Demotivating Mandatory Victimization

Hello all, I hope you have all had weeks that were more fantastic than the thought of steampunk rap (which actually exists).

I'm sorry this post is late! Grad student life has me in its clutches and doesn't want to let go! Despite being buried in countless pages of reading and long papers, I do have this little adventure for all of you.

I have officially decided that the DMV is where dreams go to be crushed like a Hotwheels car under the foot of the Terminator. Florescent lights, long lines, chairs of questionable origin, the DMV is what I imagine dying and getting stuck in Limbo is probably like.

One thing that I've noticed is that every DMV in every county and every state has one thing in common; they all have at least one person waiting with you that will make you contemplate whether you actually need to drive or not. 

In varying DMV lines I've faced the man of incredible flatulence, the woman who brought not one, not two, but three yapping dogs and the guy who kept going outside to make sure his car hadn't caught fire, "I fixed it, but I ain't sure I fixed it right..."

The individual who takes the DMV gold straightjacket, though, graced those waiting with her presence at my most recent visit. The waiting room was crowded that day, twenty to thirty people were crammed in the narrow waiting area like that box of Crayola crayons that Jimmy decided to try and get one extra crayon into. Stupid Jimmy.

I had been sitting on a bench next to another lady who shared my "does not want to be here" expression for about three minutes when she walked in. Well, technically she more pushed her way through the door ramming into an elderly gentleman who was about to take a number so she could grab a number first.

With bits of her oozing from underneath a shirt that was a size or four too small, she wandered up to the bench. Guessing that she wanted to take a seat, I began to scoot over as did the girl next to me in the opposite direction. I only had a chance to scooch myself about a centimeter though before the woman said, "Well, it would be NICE if someone were willing to move over for me instead of just sitting there like dumb cows!"

The other girl and I looked at each other, I rolled my eyes and we continued our journey to make room for our vulgar new bench mate. When we had scooted far enough for her largess, which meant I was nearly sitting in the next person's lap, she thudded herself down and said, "SeeEee? That wasn't so hard now was it?"

Everyone on the long bench looked at her with a similar expression of confusion and disgust as she then scratched her armpit, very close to the other girl's face, and burped.

At this point I went back to counting how many dots were in the ceiling tiles and waiting for my number to be called. The woman next to me let out a series of exasperated sighs and kept saying things like, "I don't understand why this is taking so long!" as if she expected anyone to answer her.

After a couple of minutes, she suddenly started digging around in her purse, a monstrous Nascar Racing decorated affair with a giant Confederate flag pin on it. After elbowing me several times in her frantic search for whatever she was hunting for, she let out a triumphant little grunt and pulled out a toothbrush and toothpaste.

I then watched in horror as she put the toothpaste on the toothbrush, and with great angsty energy, shoved the toothbrush in her mouth. Now she hadn't just caught the attention of the others clustered on the bench, but a majority of those trapped in the lobby as well as the DMV employees. Everyone sat in abject horror for a second as she brushed and slurped her way along, obviously swallowing the toothpaste as she went.

After a few shocked seconds I decided that I did not want my front row seat to the 'Dental Hygiene Show' and got up to go lean against a wall as far away as possible. As I made my retreat the woman gurgled out, "Whore!" behind me.

Funny, she was number 47, but it seems while I was filling out my paperwork, the DMV counter attendants somehow managed to go from 46 directly on to 48. Whoopsie-doodle!

So what lessons from this can be printed on our experience registrations?

1. Peoples' definitions of the word "whore" seem to be vastly different. I always thought it was a derogatory term for someone who likes to sleep with a lot of people. Apparently I'm wrong, it is a term for someone who doesn't wish to be a up-close-and-personal participant in someone else's dental care.

2. You can in fact be so awful that not even DMV employees will want to talk to you. 

For more fun adventures don't forget to check out my stuff on Facebook and Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and check out my books here!

Driving Under the Influence

Hello all! I hope your weeks have been more fantastic than the thought of Swan Lake performed by tu-tu clad mice!

 Well, they weren't kidding about the heat in Arizona. We had two consecutive days that were 115 degrees and I swear I could have grilled chicken on the pavement in front of our building.

They also were not joking about the dust storms. They have haboobs (it's another name for 'really intense dust storm, no really, go look it up and stop laughing) here too. I accidentally stepped outside during the most recent one and am still finding dust on me.

Overall, however, I seem to be surviving the heat and the weird weather.

When I moved away from Spokane people said to me, "Oh, now weird stuff will stop happening to you all the time."

I just shook my head, knowingly, at them. You see, my gravitational field that seems to pull in all of the bizarre parts of the universe is not restricted to a singular location. No, instead it follows me, orbiting the crazy around my head.

Point in case, let's take my trip to the grocery store the other night as proof. My roommate, Karen, and I dropped by to pick up a few necessities (aka ice cream). As we were leaving the store we noticed a rather large gentleman on one of those motorized scooters cutting a swerving path across the parking lot.

 As we watched, he steered one-handed, nearly hitting two parked cars. At least he was nice enough to apologize to each of the cars he nearly hit. I happened to look at what he was holding in his other hand. With just a little bit of the neck of a bottle poking out, it was obvious that the paper bag he gripped tightly in his hand was not full of candy.

I looked over at Karen, "Is he..." just as he took a giant swig from his cleverly hidden bottle.

"Yup!"

We both then watched as he tried to steer the cart into the cart barn, running smack into one of the end poles.

"Well, at least he's not driving a Hummer?"

What lessons can be drunk from the bottle of experience?

1. If you're too plastered to steer a motorized shopping cart, then a motor vehicle is not for you. Good job on your harm reduction, though.

2. Paper bags are the least sneaky way to hide booze, in fact, they are literally the most cliched way ever to disguise drinking. You're not going to fool anyone who has had access to television in the last fifty years.

As always come follow my adventures on Facebook and Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and check out my books here.

Putting All Your Chips On The Table

Well hello all! I hope everyone has had a more marvelous week than the thought of a thousand cacti arranged to form the Millennium Falcon.

This past week I had the awesome chance to go toodle around Arizona for a few days (which is why I have been a tad lax on updates, apologies).

Arizona is an wondrous place, full of sunshine, cacti and really odd street names (Bloody Basin Road and Bee King Road among them).

 
As a resident Spokanite, I haven't really seen sunlight since Tinkerbell was saying, "In color!" before the start of every Disney film. 

Is that an exaggeration? Maybe, but having just survived another bone-chilling winter, I was ready for some sun.

I was also exceedingly ready for a break from work. Don't get me wrong, I love my clients, but you can only say, "Stop licking the walls!" and, "Take those panties off of your head!" so many times before it begins to wear on your little grey cells.

I was finally getting away from it all... or so I thought.

Just because I'm on vacation does not mean that I wish to stop working out, so I was overjoyed to find that the hotel in Arizona my mother, grandmother and I were staying in had a workout area.

I was far less overjoyed when I opened the door to their mini-gym and was met by a wave of body odor and booze. No one was in there at that exact moment, but there was a super-classy box of chardonnay sitting on top of the weight bench with a myriad of potato chips surrounding it like some kind of shrine to gluttony.

Of Course I Took a Picture With A Dinosaur Head

I snagged the box of wine to take up to the front desk, but paused when, from an outside door that had been propped open, a schnockered looking man entered. 

When he saw me holding the box of wine he gave me a shocked look worthy of a daytime soap opera and quickly exited again.

I took the box of wine to the front desk who said they would take care of it. 

The next morning, in an insane rash of optimism, I decided to try the workout room again. I knew I should have just gone running when I opened the door and was slapped in the face by body odor, booze and the additional fragrance of urine.

I peered around the corner and found myself looking at the same individual I had previously spotted. Wolfing down chips with one hand and downing fowl smelling rum and cheap wine as his chasers, the man lounged on the weight equipment staring at the TV screen.

"Hey bud!" I said.

He slowly turned as I continued, "Are you supposed to be in here?"

His mouth full of chips and dank smelling rum he blearily looked at me, looked down at his chips, and then offered them to me.

I just shook my head and headed for the front desk to inform them that they had failed to get rid of their unregistered guest.

What lessons did I learn from my little Arizona adventure?

1. When you are caught breaking into a hotel's weight room to settle in to drink and pee, there is no amount of chips you can use to barter yourself out of that situation.

2. There is no taking a vacation from a bizarre life. 

Quick announcement: Due to the fact that I wish to focus more on my writing projects, this blog will be moving from a weekly format to a bi-weekly format. Of course if you want a more frequently updated way to follow my misadventures, come find me on Facebook and Twitter (@AllisonHawn)!

Driving Me Nuts... In Seattle

Hello everyone! I hope you all had weeks that were more wonderful than the thought of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory reenacted by dragons!

This past week I had the opportunity to go to Seattle. Technically the trip was so I could go to a mandatory training for my job, but that doesn't mean I didn't get to go look at some pretty ocean scenery and hit Pike Place Market.

The Peace and Calm is Deceptive

It has been a very long time since I was last in Seattle (shameful considering I live in Spokane, I know).

Somehow I forgot one major factor: Seattle traffic is a bit like trying to navigate a Salvador Dali painting.

So for those of you who may in the future travel to Seattle by the magical mechanical wonder known as the 'motor vehicle,' I have composed a short manual to help you survive your trip.

The Roads Have More Curves Than Marilyn Monroe

When I first arrived in Seattle I was struck by how few trucks and SUV's I saw, which are basically mainstays everywhere else in the Northwest. Then I had to traverse to my hotel in my Dodge pick-up and quickly realized why.

Whoever planned Seattle's streets apparently was not a fan of using a ruler. In fact I'm pretty sure that Seattle's roads were based off of a plate of spaghetti that someone had thrown against the wall in frustration. I found myself praying that I wouldn't roll my truck just trying to make it off the freeway (which made a u-turn, followed by a turn in the opposite direction, followed by a steep curvy road that ended with a slew of confusing signs).

Seattle Apparently Gives Out Driver's Licenses In Cracker Jack Boxes, No Tests Required!

At least that is my assumption based off the ass-hattery that I witnessed. To be fair there seems to be two distinct kinds of Seattle drivers:

Type 1: The "invincible" driver. This kind of driver believes that no matter which way they jerk the steering wheel at a moment's notice they will somehow emerge unscathed.

Turn signals? Bah! Staying in one lane? Why would one do that!? After all, they are still alive, which proves their point right?"

Type 2: The "I've set my cruise control to a snappy 35 miles per hour" driver.

It does not matter what the speed limit is, you could be in a 70 mile per hour speed zone and this person will be going 35. It could be a 25 mile per hour zone, they will still be going 35. Furthermore, they will change lanes at random intervals, but instead of deciding to change lanes and doing so they just lazily inch over to the next lane, blocking two lanes of traffic for as long as they possibly can.

Put these two types of driver on the road together en masse and you have utter chaos.

Parking? We Don't Need No Stinkin' Parking!

I'm relatively sure that Oompa Loompas driving Smart Cars were the ones who decided how big parking spaces in Seattle should be. In some half-baked effort to squeeze as much real estate out of what space Seattle has for resting vehicles, they decided to aim for the smallest possible parking spots. Forget parking a truck in Seattle, there are spots that make parking a Mini Coop like trying to dock the Titanic at a dock designed for a paddle boat.

The Seattle Residents' Response To Tiny Parking Spots? "We Will Be The Worst At Parking Ever!"

Not only is parking sparse and tiny, but people in Seattle seem to be competing for the "Worst At Parking" Award.

I literally watched one person in a Jetta take a whopping six parking spots at once at a Safeway. At that point you have to be making a conscious effort to be that terrible.

Driving Is A Bit Like Gambling

It is obvious that Seattle's road crews have done their best to keep up with a growing population, expanding the transportation infrastructure to allow for more motorists. However, in expanding and changing a lot of the roadways they forgot one important step: Get rid of the old road lines that used to define which lane was which.

There were points where driving through Seattle I literally had to guess at which lines meant I was in the correct lane and which lines would lead me into a road barrier somewhere down the way. I wasn't the only one who was obviously confused either. On multiple occasions I watched as other drivers, sure that they were following the correct lines, suddenly swerved across traffic in attempt to follow a curve in the road that no longer existed.

Seattle Has Your Strange Road Signs Beat

 Never in my life before have I seen a sign that read, "Caution: Hidden Driveways," much less see it on nearly every other block in some areas.

It made me wonder what the hidden driveways were plotting. Should I be worried about a hidden driveway ambush?

In any case, aside from trying to navigate without losing my mortal life, I quite enjoyed my time in Seattle. Is there another place you know of with fun driving habits? Let me know in the comments below!

As always my adventures can be closely followed on Facebook and Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and you find my books here.

No Room to Judge

Hello all! I hope your weeks have all gone better than the thought of a reenactment of Guardians of the Galaxy performed by cats.

I recently had a moment that reminded me that, while everyone's perceptions of reality are different, mine are probably a little more warped than your average Jill.

It's not that I don't believe that other people have strange occurrences in their lives, I know they do! It's more a matter of frequency.

Having worked in the past as a street outreach worker, a bouncer, a concert house lighting technician and my current job as the head of security for a homeless shelter means that I've been exposed to a myriad of strange experiences. (Need proof? Check out my two books.)

It has gotten to the point where chaos and bizarre circumstances almost feel natural to me. I'm sure that someone else would look at a man dressed in a green, full-body, spandex suit running around screaming, "I'm a leprechaun! I'm a leprechaun!" and find that a rather rare, if not scary, experience. For me, I just call that Tuesday.

I did not realize how much my perceptions of what 'normal' and 'sane' had been skewed until recently, at the end of a work day, when I happened to look up at the television screen that had been flipped on for the clients to watch. On the screen, I found myself looking at a grown woman tap dancing while dressed as a ladybug.

For a brief moment I watched the woman and actually thought to myself, "Wow, TV-land is one weird place."

Then I paused for a second and realized that not five minutes before I had just ended an hour-long battle with a woman who refused to wear pants because they were 'of the devil.' The only way I could get the only-t-shirt-clad woman to put something on her lower half, was to convince her that because this was a Catholic owned shelter, the pants' very presence in this building meant that they were safe from any form of possession.

Before that I had been forced to stop a heated argument between two grown men over whose tattoo was more faded, and earlier that morning I had to tell someone that iguanas were not technically service animals.

I looked back up at the woman on the screen, dancing her heart out in her little red and black costume and realized, I probably was no longer a great judge of what constituted as 'weird.'

You do you ladybug lady, you do you.

Anyone else have any perception revelations of late?

In other news, "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor" has garnered itself another five star review! Reader Brenda writes, "A great escape into the unknown and the funny. This is a quirky, off-beat tale that filled me with delight. The author has unusual voice that had me laughing out loud. A bit on the bizarre side that I took pleasure in."

See the full review here! 

Don't forget to follow me on Facebook and Twitter, and check out my books on Amazon! 

Living Dangerously

Hello everyone! I hope your weeks have been better than the thought of 1920's jazz performed on kazoo's!

So it has become apparent to me that not even the hallowed 'Halls of Justice' are immune from my abilities to attract the bizarre in the world.

This past week I had to go to court to file something for work, which happens on occasion when you're the head of security for a homeless shelter.

All I needed was a judge's signature on one document, and I would have been home free. Knowing that life rarely allows for the simplicity involved with "all you have to do is just..." I had brought my trusty book.

It was a good thing I did so, because getting that one little dash of ink took nearly three hours. For my part, I was just dandy. I had my copy of "The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven" and this was the closest thing to a break I'd had from my crazy life in days.

There was this adorable little, very flamboyantly gay, court assistant who whisked back documents to the judge with flair. He greeted everyone with, "Why, hello there! Isn't today just a peachy day to be in court!?" 

With my book and no clients to tell to stop licking the walls, I thought so.

I was only two pages into my book when I heard a small disruption. By 'small disruption' I mean I watched someone run into a bench, apologize to it, then plunk down on the same bench with all the grace of a pregnant hippo.

There was a cloud of rum that wafted in my direction as the court assistant approached the person, who was suffering from the depressing side effects of living like a Jimmy Buffet song. The attendant almost choked on the smell coming from this man as he asked, "What can we... urp... help you with sir?"

The man blearily looked at him and said, "I's supposed ta come ta this here court room today..."

"What for?"

"I got dis bull DUI charge... I wanna give the jug a piece of my mind..."

Everyone in the room blinked at the inebriated gentleman as the court assistant blinked rapidly, "Well... umm... sir, you're in the wrong place, sweetie. You need to go next door to traffic court, okay?"

The drunk guy narrowed his eyes trying to decipher the words that had been offered to him. Finally something clicked and he shoved himself to his feet and staggered out the door.

The assistant fanned the air that the man had just vacated and went about his business saying, "Good luck with that case."

I returned to reading my book and made it a whole three more pages when the courtroom doors opened again and someone plopped in the chair next to me.

He was sixteen, with a round face and all the acne that an awkward teenage experience could provide. How do I know he was sixteen? Because he had his license out and in his hand and I could read his birth date. 

Now keep in mind I was wearing my security uniform that read, "SECURITY" in giant letters.

I kept reading my book, only acknowledging his sitting right next to me, in a room with thirty other empty chairs, with a slight nod of my head.

"So what are you here for?"

I kept my book open as I replied, "Work."

"What do you do?"

I pointed at the giant lettering on my shirt and said, "I'm the head of security for a homeless shelter."

Now, I'd like to think this would have made most people pause for a second and contemplate their future word choice. Nope, he was obviously too young to have learned that lesson yet. The tyke next to me said, "You're cute. Do you like dangerous men?"

I didn't respond, turning a page in my book and continuing on my Sherman Alexie adventure. Unfazed he blundered on, "Because I'm here for a ticket. I drove 50 in a 35 mile zone."

I blew out a sigh, "Yesterday I had someone at work try to jump over a bench to punch someone in the face. Driving slightly above the speed limit doesn't make you dangerous, that makes you mildly annoying. Also I'm twenty-five."

The court assistant, who had been helping a woman a few chairs down from mine, heard the entire exchange. The kid sitting next to me told the assistant, "I thought she was like, eighteen."

The adorable court assistant smiled and said, "Awwww... Kid, work on your lines. Also, you need to go one courtroom over for traffic court."

So what lessons can be pulled from the docket of experience?

1. Arriving drunk to contest a DUI charge is perhaps not the best plan of action.

 2. If your idea of 'danger' is driving fifteen miles above the speed limit, I might suggest not trying your hand at becoming an international spy.

3. Apparently the guards at the front doors of the court building do not check or care if someone walks in drunk or stupid to their court date, but heaven help you if you're wearing boots with metal lacing holes.

In other news, "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor" received another 5 star review! Reader BookNoseRose writes, "This book is SO FUNNY! I loved Ms. Hawn's first book and this one is just as good! Definitely pick it up if you need a laugh!"

Remember, reviews save authors! 

Don't forget to follow my adventures on Facebook and Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and check out my books on Amazon.

I Broke Mental Health

Hello everyone, I hope you're all having a more splendid week than the thought of "Cats" the musical performed by wallabies.

This week there was another 5* review for "Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus!" Amazon reader Eclectic wrote, "You cannot be in a funk when reading this book! Allison Hawn's deliciously wicked prose will make you laugh until your sides ache."

See the full review here!

For those of you just tuning in, I am the head of security for a very large homeless shelter. How large? We see roughly between 250 to 650 people a day.

My job is basically to keep a round lid of calm on a square box of chaos. A couple weeks back I had to put my lid-fitting skills to the absolute test.

I had just opened the doors to the shelter, letting our usual breakfast crowd in, when one man wandered through, catching my attention. Now keep in mind he was competing for my notice that morning with someone came in dressed as a pony and another one who came in with a pot on his head.

Barefoot, wearing pants that he had most certainly recently peed in, he was wandering through our day room levitating his hands over sleeping peoples' heads and muttering. Worried that he might end up with a fist in his face, I wandered over and said, "Hey! You're a new face, what's your name?"

 "Jesus Christ."

It was at that moment that I knew I wouldn't get a chance to finish my first cup of coffee for the day and I might as well throw out the idea of getting anything else productive done.

I blinked at him a little and said, "Alright Mr. Christ, what are you doing?"

His hands hovered over a sleeping patron, "I'm healing them."

"Can we wait until they're awake to heal them? How about we let them sleep, okay? Let's get you a doughnut."

Eventually I was able to convince him, in all his majestic glory, to go sit down long enough for one of the staff members at the shelter to provide him with a doughnut. He held the doughnut in his hands, looked at us, then held it above his head and said, "I will feed all the hungry with this!"

Our first miracle of the day was that, as he crumbled the doughnut into crumbs and began flinging it everywhere to 'multiply' it, none of our other patrons threw punches back.

The entire day, our visitor was insistent that he was in fact Jesus Christ and refused to respond to anything else. We tried J.C., Buddy, Buckaroo... apparently he was dead set on being our savior, which we soon found out had some odd rituals with it.

Never in my life would I have dreamed that one day I would have to yell things like, "Jesus, you have to wear pants!" and, "No, Jesus, we don't try to lick people!"

Eventually, it got to the point where the staff collectively decided that he was really a danger to himself. Okay, he wasn't a danger to himself, he was a danger to others becoming a danger to himself. This meant that it was time to call on our trusty friends at the local mental health crisis response center.

This is how that conversation went:

Mental Health Crisis Response: "Crisis Response, what can we help you with?"

Me: "Well, we have a guy here who is claiming to be Jesus Christ who is persistently trying to heal people who are sleeping, refuses to put socks or shoes on and has now peed himself twice. We could use an Mental Health Professional."

MHCR: *Silence, that was then broken by uncontrollable laughter* I'm... *snicker* sorry... Can I get the individuals first and last name?"

Me: First name: Jesus, Last name: Christ. He won't give us any other name and this morning he called me a harlot for not allowing him to exorcise a demon from our piano.
 
MHCR: *Laughing* "Can I get a date of birth?"

Me: "I don't know!? 12/25/0 AD-ish? The guy just tried to multiply a doughnut by crumbling it into bits and throwing it into the air, he's not really into giving out useful info right now."
 
MHCR: *THUD-CRASH!*
 
Me: "Are we okay over there?"
 
MHCR: *Absolute belly shaking laughter* "Sorry! I fell out of my chair! We'll send some MHP's to your *snicker snicker snicker* location!"

I officially managed to break mental health crisis response. After a while they came to take him to where he could be analyzed, at which point he tried to start a 'tickle-fight' with the escorting police officers.

So the next time I have people at my apartment door asking if I've heard the good news, I'm going to tell them that the good news is currently being evaluated by professionals for several delusion disorders.

Have you heard any good news lately?

Don't forget to follow my adventures on Facebook and Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and check out my books on Amazon. 

Just Call Me Sherlock

Hello everyone! I hope everyone had a week that was more fantastic than the thought of the Mutant Ninja Turtles performing Prince's "Kiss!"

Well this week I ended up with a bit of a mystery on my hands. Oh if only I had had a group of teen super-sleuths in a psychedelically painted van to help me! 

Sadly, I was Scooby and Shaggy-less.

It all started when I was pinned to my bed over the weekend by a migraine. I was lying there, attempting not to hate life quite as much, when I heard a crash from my kitchen. The sound was quickly followed by a series of frantic sounding thuds and a couple of thumps to boot.

Now, at this point, I have two suspects for you all: Voodoo and Santeria.

Sinister looking, aren't they?

Voodoo and Santeria are the three and seven pound, respectively, balls of fur and claws that currently reside in my apartment. Out of the two of them, Santeria is usually my trouble maker. If you need proof check below:

That is a basket of clean laundry that she is rolling around in making sure that she gets as much of her kitty hair on it as possible. Her other hobbies include: diving head first into bowls of cereal, stealing and hiding my glasses and toilet papering me while I'm asleep.

Therefore, it was my conclusion that whatever had just occurred in my kitchen, probably had something to do with the cat with the serious rap sheet.

But then, plot twist, Voodoo sauntered in and hopped up on my bed dressed like this:

With a Safeway bag flowing behind her like a cape and a look on her little face that said, "Whatever, I'm fabulous!" I began to suspect that Voodoo may have been involved.

In trying to remove the bag (which she was most insistent on wearing) I also found that she smelled like various things I had thrown away in my trash can earlier that day. With my powers of deduction fully employed, I believe I caught my culprit.

Her sentence for her crime? The loss of her cape and the dreaded bath.

This is a cautionary tale for all you young readers. Remember, crime doesn't pay. At the very least, you will lose your cape and have to take a bath.

As always, feel free to follow my adventures on Facebook and Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and don't forget to check out my books on Amazon!

Feeling Very Small

Hello all, I hope you have all had a magical week full of wonderful adventures, or at least managed to not spill coffee on your lap while you're driving (I feel like those two things are tantamount).

This week I made one of those 'I'm really an adult now' decisions: I bought a Costco membership. What can I say, they sell my Kashi granola bars in mass bulk and I can buy 90 pounds of cheese at a time if I want to (now storing that much cheese is another matter entirely).

I hadn't really been Costco shopping since I was much, much younger, and revisiting this magical place of consumerism was kind of like forging forth into a brand new world.

So here are the things I learned about Costco on my maiden shopping voyage with my new membership card in hand.

1. Ever need to feel like a kid again? Just push a Costco shopping cart around for a while. 

Shopping Cart: Juggernaut Edition

No seriously. I am 5' 2" tall and was holding the camera in the picture to the right at about the level of my neck.

That cart came up to my collar bone and could have easily fit two of me in the giant basket. I wanted to test this theory by actually climbing in, but employees were already giving me strange looks, so I decided against it.

2. Every Costco shopping aisle comes with at least one old bickering couple.

Without fail, I would wander down an aisle to see two, obviously married, senior citizens saying something along the lines of, "Ethel, I don't want the raspberry jam, I want the strawberry jam!"

Ethel would then let out a deep sigh and retort with, "Well, I bought the strawberry jam last month, and halfway through you said you were sick of it! So this month we're getting raspberry so that I don't have to listen to you whine about getting bored of the strawberry jam!"

Somehow, the women always seemed to be winning.

3. Shopping at Costco is kind of like getting in touch with nature... because there are birds.

It was actually a little serene to be wandering up and down the concrete floored aisles listening to the very overweight birds chirp happily above. At the same time it was slightly terrifying, though, because there was a chance one of them might bomb you as you walked underneath.

4. Not only do they make bottles of tequila in five gallon sizes, but Costco sells them.

 I feel like if you're buying Costco kegs of tequila, and you don't own a bar, are planning on having a party for a hundred people or live with nineteen roommates, you might want to admit you have a problem. Also, it's a good thing that Costco sells lemons and salt in bulk, because you are going to need it.

5. It is actually okay to go shopping hungry at Costco, because they give out samples.

I have never had so many different types of food provided to me in little plastic shot-glass form, but I definitely approve. I rather wish that this was standard for all food selling stores.

6. Costco is the Mecca of Muffins.

Holy muffin top Batman! Not only have I never seen such a myriad of different muffins, but the muffins were huge!

7. I am now stocked on certain items for the rest of my life.

I needed trash bags. Now I probably have enough trash bags to suit all my trash needs for the foreseeable future and still have enough left over to assist in the disposal of everyone on my 'should not still be walking around on this planet' list.

8. Who needs the gym when you've got a Costco membership!

Seriously, getting those giant bags of cheese up and down the stairs is an intense workout all on its own. They will nicely box your purchases up for you, but then those boxes will weigh about the same amount as Val Kilmer does now, so good luck!  

So, what wonderful Costco revelations have you had?

As always, I can be found on Facebook, Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and Goodreads!

Government Cheese

Hello all! I hope you had a more fantastic week than the thought of a billion fireflies skywriting the lyrics to ZZ Top's 'Sharp Dressed Man!"

A quick reminder I will be at Hyde Park Books in Boise for a book signing and reading this Sunday, January 11th!

Doesn't This Place Just Look Nifty!

If you happen to be in town come on down for just a peachy-keen time!

For those of you who don't know, I have a very... shall we say interesting job. I am author by night, head of security for a large homeless shelter by day.

This means that, along with telling people not to try to stab others with yogurt, I also get to hear every conspiracy theory that our patrons might wish to impart upon me.

After my third day on the job I started a list, that list is now eight pages long with writing sideways in all the margins. So, just so you all know what is really happening in the world, here are a few things my clients have told me:

The head of the Spokane Police Department is in fact in league with aliens to take over the world.

Apparently the road to world domination goes mid-sized city police chief to sovereign world leader. Who knew?

If you close your eyes and see the color black then you probably have a demon infestation in your brain.

*Closes Eyes* Ah crud-muffins! I see black! You too!? Well, that's it, holy water and exorcisms all around then.

Bill Gates is planning on taking over the world using his X-Boxes to send subliminal messages to people playing video games to eat the wrong kind of yogurt.

This one kind of made sense until we hit yogurt. I mean, who doesn't think that Bill Gates is trying to take over the world at least once in their life? What kind of yogurt is the wrong kind of yogurt? (I actually asked what the 'wrong kind of yogurt' would be, but was told, "Oh, you know.")

Fluoride in the water will start the next zombie apocalypse.

What I found interesting is apparently there was a previous zombie apocalypse. Did I nap through that part of history class?

The police will only take me to jail if I stab the wrong people. 

You're right. If you stab imaginary people then the police will not take you in. If you stab a real person, you might be kind of hosed. 

The FBI and the CIA are creating a massive plan to strip Americans of their cheese rights.

I asked what 'cheese rights' were, and apparently Americans have the rights of life, liberty and cheese. That's right, who knew that Tillamook was actually just defending our basic human rights?

Have you guys heard any fun conspiracies lately?

As always you can find me on Facebook, Twitter (@AllisonHawn) and Goodreads.

Christmas Creep

Hello all! I hope everyone had a splendid week full of clear roads, sunshine and warmth.

If you live in the Pacific Northwest, I know that these things are basically a distant memory as we all wake up an extra twenty minutes early to scrape our windshields free of permafrost, take our Vitamin D, since we probably won't see the sun for months, and don our wind-proof parkas.

One Photogenic Cat

Just a quick reminder, half of my profits from Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor and Life is a Circus Run by a Platypus through November and December will be going to help the wonderful efforts of SpokAnimal.

So pick up a book for a gift, or for yourself, and know that you're helping animals like Mz. Boo, here to the right, stay safe and warm this winter. Also, Mz. Boo is available for adoption, so save me from becoming a crazy cat lady and adopt her before I'm tempted to!

Well, it is now officially December, which means that the holiday spirit has gone from being the dull roar that has slowly been building since October, to the full-on maniacal laugh of Christmas crazy.
 
Don't get me wrong, I think Christmas is all fine and dandy. At the point where it starts to invade my every moment for nearly three months, trampling other poor holidays into the dust, it becomes a bit much, though. 

Seriously, every store I walk into looks like it was taken over by Santa's clone army.

There is a house down the street that has so many Christmas lights on it I have actually used it to help give driving instructions to my place.

"Okay, you're going to see a bright glow off to your left. Follow the bright glow for about a mile or so. As you drive by don't look directly at it or you'll blind yourself, then take the next right..."

I honestly have no idea how those people sleep at night since it is probably daytime in their house 24/7 thanks to those lights.

Probably the most disturbing part of this Christmas chaos is the fact that I am currently being stalked.

No, it's not the creepy Santa Claus hanging out in the park with his burlap sack full of... I actually never wanted to know what was in there. I think the cops told him he couldn't hang out there anymore.

I am being persistently followed by "(In Winter It's a) Marshmallow World." 

If you've never heard this glittering little slice of Hell, I have included it here for you:

Sung by the most alcohol soaked member of the Rat Pack, Dean Martin, isn't that just a lovely piece of sugary sweet terribleness? 

This has always been one of my least favorite Christmas songs. With lyrics like "It's a yum-yummy world made for sweethearts," every time I hear it I just want to punt a reindeer. 

Here, just to get that out of your head now, here is my favorite Christmas song:

 

So as the Christmas music began to roll onto the radio, I was chagrined to find that "Marshmallow World" was the first festive tune that graced the airwaves in my truck. I switched to the heavy metal station so fast that I may have broken a pre-set button.

Figuring I had met my "Marshmallow World" quota for the season, I decided to pull up a Pandora Christmas station. Not only was "Marshmallow World" the first song that popped up, out of the first five songs that played, my Marshmallow Nightmare played three times.

I've stopped using Pandora for a bit. 

I don't own a television, but this past week I went to house-sit for a friend who does. I have not flipped on a television in over a year, but the first thing that popped up onto the screen was a commercial for Target with, you guessed it, a pop version of "Marshmallow World" as its background music. 

So when I went grocery shopping and stepped into the store to hear that I was going to be buying celery to the sounds of Dean Martin slurring out, "It's a whipped cream day..." I may have let out an audible whimper. 

There was no way to explain to the concerned store attendant that I was being stalked by Dean Martin, who has been dead for nearly two decades, and his persistent desire to let me know that, "The world is your snowball just for a song." 

If you need me for the next month or so, I will be in my apartment curled up in a ball rocking back and forth and listening to the Twisted Sister Christmas album on repeat.

What Christmas songs are plaguing you this season?

As always, come find my festive self on Facebook, Twitter (@AllisonHawn), and Goodreads!

How Pringles Almost Became the End of the World

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!

I hope everyone enjoys celebrating the best holiday of the year! Still need a costume idea? How about dressing up like this dashing fellow to the right?

In some positive book news, "Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor" did make it to the top of Goodreads' "Chick Lit for the Misfit Girl" list!

So a couple weeks back I was sick.

How sick was I? I had a fever that made me delusional enough to think I was talking to both Agatha Christie and Hugh Jackman over tea (the tea was non-existent as well, mind you).

I spent an entire week in bed unable to move because every time I tried to stand for more than about thirty seconds I had a chance of blacking out and waking up an hour later hugging my coffee table. (I don't know what my coffee table thinks our relationship status is now. I'm just not bringing it up and hoping that it doesn't bring it up either.)

I couldn't eat, could barely drink and spent most of my time sounding like a pug with sleep apnea. 

After three days of a water and two-whole-Saltine-crackers diet, I finally had my first craving for food and it was more powerful than the Death Star's tractor beam. I wanted... No, I NEEDED sour cream and onion flavored Pringles.

 Now keep in mind, this is really a strange craving. I rarely eat potato chips and never buy them for my own consumption. But that day I would have mugged a granny for a can of preservative laden potato crisps.

I couldn't drive. Heck, I could barely walk.

Of course, I had friends who probably would have happily dropped my food craving by, but they were all at work. I was finally hungry for something, and that, in my fevered and exhausted brain, needed to be solved now.

My rather addled mind somehow remembered that there was a convenience store on the first floor of my apartment complex. You know the type of place, they sell random items at a two-hundred percent markup? 

This was day five of my illness, and I had managed to shower twice, change my shirt three times and I had given up entirely on the concept of pants. I did not even have enough energy to try to beat my hair into submission long enough to get it into a ponytail. 

Yet I decided that I was going to get to that convenience store come Hell or high body temperature. Like Hercules tackling his twelve labors I began the task of putting on enough clothing that I wouldn't get arrested for indecent exposure.

First, I put on a shirt that lacked a giant red Gatorade stain from the times I had fallen asleep while trying to drink in the previous days. This took ten minutes as the many holes of the shirt continued to confound me more than German Existentialism confuses a duck.

Then came the pants. I got one leg in all right, but then found I had absolutely no energy left to put my other leg in. I sat there on the edge of my bed staring down at the half on pants, willing myself to just move in the correct order of motions to complete the task at hand.

It was only the thought of sour cream and onion Pringles that made the task doable. After another ten minutes, I had pants on.

I fought my way into a jacket and grabbed my keys and a five dollar bill. Giving up on socks entirely I opted for the commando approach to my skater shoes.

Finally, wearing legally enough clothing, I made it out the door of my apartment.

Technically, I made it out the door and made immediate friends, face first, with the wall across from my apartment door.

That wall and I stayed close buddies as I basically leaned on the wall and walked/slid my way towards my next obstacle; the stairs.

I stood at the edge of the great precipice, looking down the one flight of stairs that on that day seemed about as easy as a trek down the side of Mt. Everest on roller skates. It's really good that the railings in my building were apparently made for gymnastics routines, as I half walked, half lowered myself down one stair at a time.

The convenience store was out the door and around the corner. By the time I entered the small shop, I already felt like I had just fought off the minotaur using nothing more than a box of Cracker Jacks and a Monopoly board.

 Squinting around the small shop I saw a spot that seemed to be the 'salty snacky things' section, and launched myself in a staggering trajectory towards it.

I stood there, swaying like the palm trees in a Jimmy Buffet song, blinking at the chips shelf. There were canisters of Pringles lined up; original, barbeque, cheddar-cheese... No sour cream and onion.

There was a gap on the shelf in between a couple of the flavors, the tag below identifying that this was the spot where once the Holy Grail had rested.

I had faced the struggle of getting clothed and making the journey with the kind of bravery and determination of an Olympic athlete, and now here I was bereft of my gold medal.

My fever had again climbed to a triple-digit number and all four of my remaining brain cells could not comprehend the unfairness of the situation. My eyes began to tear up.

That is when the poor store owner found me, the most pathetic version of Cousin It he had probably ever seen, about to lose my composure and what was left of my mind over a missing can of chips.

"Can I help you find something?"

I looked up at him, the sweat from the fever matting hair to my face, my face pale and gaunt and my bottom lip trembling. I lacked the energy, or in fact the working brain matter, to ask for what I was looking for, I simply pointed.

The store owner looked at me for a second and asking, "You sick?"

I nodded, still pointing.

"Ah," then he looked down at the shelf, "Oh, are you looking for some sour cream and onion Pringles? I might be out. How about one of these other flavors?"

My bottom lip quivers got bigger and he quickly finished with, "You know what, never mind. I might have some in back!"

He dashed off, obviously worried that I was going to die in his shop and he would have to explain to my friends and relatives that it was all because he had failed to produce chips fast enough.

I heard the sounds of boxes being ripped open, things being shifted and even a few thuds. After a few minutes, a dust and sweat covered store owner came out panting, "I found one!"

 I mustered a muttered, "Thank you," as I paid for the last can of Pringles.

The store owner just looked down at me, as I stood there, swaying and holding the chips close to my myself like Linus and his security blanket, "Well... umm... don't die?"

Nodding, I slowly turned, resetting my next trajectory in the general direction of the door.

I hugged the can of Pringles close to my chest the entire return journey, apparently afraid that in my feeble state some hooligan might come and steal them in the ten yards back to my apartment.

I gave up attempting to walk up the stairs, instead half crawling, clutching the can in one hand and using the other to help propel myself upwards.

I don't entirely remember how I made it down the hall back to my apartment. I'm sure walking was involved at some level, but judging by the bruises I found later, it was a safe bet that the wall had to help me at certain points via solid reinforcement.

By the time I got my apartment door open I was way past feeling woozy. I felt like someone had drugged me with chloroform prior to hitting me on the noggin with a sledgehammer. 

I walked out of my shoes, my jacket dropping to the floor behind me in a little trail of victory to my bedroom.

Still fully clothed, I plopped face-first into bed, my arm still holding my precious Pringles out beside me. My epic journey was complete, I had succeeded in my quest.

Lying there on my bed, my tiny feet dangling over the edge of the mattress, I fell asleep.

I woke up some seven hours later, the unopened can of Pringles still clutched in my hand. I slowly turned my head, popped the top of the can, and proceeded to kind of half shovel some of the chips into my mouth.

Indignity never tasted so good.

So what lessons can be wiped from the brow of experience?

1. If you're so sick that pants become too difficult of a puzzle for you, it's probably not a good idea to attempt to leave your home.

2. If you want excellent customer service, make your hair look like you spend much of your time sticking forks into light sockets and start to cry over very small issues like a missing chip flavor. Boy howdy will you get some awesome help then!

3. Sometimes we don't make the greatest decisions when we're sick. It's unfortunate that another side effect of being ill is that we can't judge when we are making those terrible decisions.

If you want to see the kinds of things I do when I'm not sick, come find me on Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads! 

Tattoos, Charity and... Oh My...

Hello! I hope all your weeks have been more marvelous than the thought of "Whistle While I Work It" performed by pugs dressed as the Avengers.

Can you guess what song may have come on my Pandora playlist while writing this post? (And yes, I did the dance.)

You know what also makes me dance? Life is a Pirate Ship Run by a Velociraptor is almost a month old and so far the reviews have been awesome!

If you haven't snagged a copy don't fret can head on over to Amazon to get one.

So anyone who has met me pretty quickly discovers two things about me:

1. I like supporting various non-profits via volunteer work and fundraising.

2. I have a slight addiction to tattoos (and by "slight" I mean I'm up to ten pieces thus far).

Seriously, if you have tats, look up this group!

 Where these two things intersect is The Modified Dolls.

The Modified Dolls is a international organization of tattooed and modified women out to break down the negative stereotypes around body art by volunteering and supporting charities and our communities.

To that end another Spokane Doll, Melissa, and I hopped in a car and went down to the Tri-Cities for the Three Rivers Tattoo Convention to raise money for the Boys and Girls Club of America.

It was absolutely rad. We met some awesome people, watched some people get some excellent artwork done and raised over $250 for the charity.

Of course, my presence there, as the magnet for all things weird in the universe, meant that we got all the bizarre crazy people too!

There was the guy who wandered up to our booth, stared at us, didn't say a word, then just ambled away. We were graced with his silent creepy presence about six or so times.

This is What Nerds do at Tattoo Conventions

Then there was the girl in the parking lot who asked my caffeine delivering savior, Caleb, and I our opinions of Oregon strip clubs, bars and casinos (keep in mind, the convention was in Washington).

The one who takes the cake, however, I met, well kinda met, out in the parking lot when I stepped outside for a quick breather.

Drunk at 11:00 am on a Sunday, this train wreck on heels staggered up to me, said, "Hi," and koala bear attached herself to me.

There were plenty of people in the parking lot from both my convention and the two others that were going on that day, but no, she decided that I was the best person to latch onto.

I stood there, quasi-stunned, as this woman, definitely half a foot taller than I, let all of her sloshed weight hang on me like the most rum-soaked Christmas ornament ever.

I sighed and started to see if I could talk my way out of this, "Can I get my arm back? No? How about my torso? Can I get that back? No? Okay..."

I slowly began to pry her off of me. I got her legs back on the ground, and was working on getting her arms unwrapped from my body when she suddenly said, "We should go to a strip club!"

It was at this point that her friends found us, one of whom asked, "Hey! Who is your new friend!?"

I glared at him and he said, "Oh..." and coaxed her back to her own conference.

What lessons can we learn from our disorderly friend?

1. There are usually several social steps between, "I've just met you," and, "Hey, let's go to a strip club!" that shouldn't be ignored.

2. It's not the people at the tattoo convention you have to worry about... it's those bankers at the banking convention that should make you concerned.

As always, you can follow my adventures on Facebook, Twitter (@Allison Hawn) and Goodreads!

Oh! One last thing! My brothers, Jonathan and Donovan turned 21 yesterday!!! ...And now I feel old. Happy Birthday you two! Just remember, I knew you when you were younger, I remember what you did and I have proof!

And this is pretty much how I'll always remember you: