Wednesday, April 18, 2012

At least I'm not a horse?

Its an age old tale, horse is injured? Shoot it. But what happens when it happens to you? I mean no one is going to shoot me, never, not little ol me. And ya, so maybe I didnt break my racing leg. The kentucky derby wont be lost on my account, but hey, a sprained ankle is no laughing matter.
As girls we hear it time and time again, from our Mothers, our Grandmothers, our Aunts, our lesbian friends, "HOW CAN YOU WEAR SHOES THAT TALL?!" And as girls, we brush off their comments to old age, different generations, and butch like tendencies. And really its fine, I mean what's it to them what shoes I wear, how tall I am, how rediculous it is that my heel height is the same as my shoe length. Its all fun and games . . .
until someone gets hurt.

Case and Point: Moi
Lets do some math- Im 29 years old (hold for the gasp, I know, I dont look a day over 17) I started wearing heels roughly in about the 6th grade, which makes about 12 or 13. So lets round it out and say I have been wearing heels for roughly 17 years. More than half my life. Now in this time I havent so much as scraped my knees due to a sky high heel injury. Granted in some cases, my face may have hit the ground first. But thats neither here nor there. All in all, in my 17 fashionable years, I havent so much as got a hang nail due to the height of my shoes.

On April 4th 2012, that all changed . . .




I feel your pain buddy

After a lovely dinner celebrating a good friends 30th bday (SEE!! IM NOT THE OLDEST WOMAN ALIVE!) we headed out for a night cap. Of course one night cap turned into 3 but nevertheless we paid our tab and decided we would hit the town, I mean it was Wednesday after all, and the Lakers had just beat the Clippers, reason enough to celebrate right? We exited the restaurant got to the corner and waited for the light to change . . .GREEN LIGHT, and 6 babes step off the curb and strut across the street, 5 girls make it.

im the sixth girl

As I stepped up onto the curb only 35 feet from the curb I had just stepped off, my right shoe decided to take a break, and snap crackle pop, just like that, my first scabbed knee, scabbed hand, scabbed foot, SPRAINED ANKLE

I have never felt such pain in my life, and I wasnt even sure what had happened! Whats this pain?! A kidney stone? A migraine? Have I been shot? Who's the culprit!!??



Okay, okay, so maybe this wasnt the shoe, a girl can dream cant she? Besides admit it, it sparked a hint of jealousy in some of you . . . ANYWAYS at the time this blog went to post, all photos of the alleged shoe had been removed from their website . . . this may or may not be directly related to my hate mail post accident, but I guess we'll never know.

I had to be carried home that night
I had to be drugged that night
I cried till my eyes swoll themselves shut that night- Im not sure if I was crying due to the pain, or at the thought that I clearly misjudged these shoes. I trusted them! and they let me down. Literally.

Over the next week, I would hop around my house, fitting that it was easter weekend. I visited my sick grandmother in the hospital and nearly sent her over to the other side when I wheeled on through in a wheelchair (thank you Torrance Memorial)
I developed disgusting rashes under my arms from crutches, I had to expose un pedicured feet because I couldnt bare Peter, my nail tech, even looking at my deformed foot, and worst of all, I couldnt work, so I couldnt make money, so I couldnt shop. AND I JUST BOUGHT AN IMAC PEOPLE! I had all day to lay around shopping online, shopbop, nastygirl, nordstrom,urban, netapoter, all just to look at, with no funds . . .meanwhile, my bar shifts that I was forced to get covered were two of the best shifts ever. I believe this is where the saying FUCK. MY. LIFE. comes from. No?

But now, 2 weeks later I can disable my service bell app on my phone, http://smokinapps.com/app/dinner-bell/ - ladies get this if youre ever injured, and sit here, on my new IMAC, and blog about my misfortune, while wearing a walking boot, YAY FOR THE WALKING BOOT! My 86 year old grandmother could beat me in a foot race, but alas, I can walk. Therefore I can work. Therefore I can shop. Therefore, dont shoot me

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

I HATE MY HAIR

Theres a documentary by some black guy Chris Rock called Bad Hair its basically about the evolution of the black women and the lengths and costs they go through to get managable pretty hair. It follows a few famous divas, as well as your local neighborhood hoodrat and examines the day to day struggle these women go through trying to achieve what the white woman apparently was born and blessed with.
FUCK YOU CHRIS ROCK
Okay so Im not "white" persay . . . but my moms as irish/scottish/annoying as they come and she was blessed with an amazing set of stick straight auburn perfectly balanced thick and managable locks. My father, a smooth blend of spanish and mexi has a solid black* perfectly coifed (on a good day) could be an elvis wig head of hair.
Im short - like my mom
im tan - like my dad
im annoying- like my mom
im chatty- like my dad
im addicted to love- like my mom
i flirt too much- like my dad
Im a valley girl-MUCH like my mom
i think im cooler than i am- ALMOST as much as my dad
MY HAIR?- a corpse?
where in gods name did my genetics get so screwed up. There are times i look in the mirror and i shed a small tear at the face in the mirror. cause it aint mine, its my mothers. but then I glance 3 inches above my eyes, and I stare, and i stare, and i shed ten more tears. what the fuck is wrong with my hair?!
When I was younger, it was cute, kind of wavy, a beautiful brown that lightened in the summer as my skin leathered by the age of 6 (apparently sunscreen was new to the baby boomers) I had a thick set of bangs, could wear slicked back ponies with out looking Kareem Abdul Jabaar. I really had it made
Flash forward 20 something years, 15 perms, 300 sets of highlights, 2 irons, like actualy irons, 80 bottles of sun in, and few stints of goth. And Im left with the most fragile, sad, split to high hell, hair. . . .
I guess i deserve it. I blame myself, and my mother. Lord knows I didnt have the budget for a perm and highlight at 11 but she did. and oh did she ever. so here i am.
If you dared to run your fingers through my hair at this moment. I would first lay you out with my right hook, but not before you felt a hundred grains of rice in your grip.
Because, just like the black ladies of Bad Hair. I too go through all ends to be pretty. I have also spent one weeks pay to feel like a girl. And I too, will NOT get my hair wet on any occasion unless theres a body of water between me and weave comb.
So it is what it is. Like a fat girl who knows she must ALWAYS wear flowy tops. I will always have an extension or two, up in my head.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

the face. aka. the devils spawn

I have good looking friends. i mean obviously, like attracts like. sexual boys, pretty girls. when we are all together, say, shootin pool on a saturday night, we are a good looking crowd. id check us out. boys in chucks and band shirts, girls in heels and snug tops, tattoos, jukebox killing it. like for reals. its pretty sexual. but then something happens. something so terrible i cant even believe im dedicating a blog to it. something comes over this crowd, something awful, god awful and disgusting. something i call . . . THE FACE
Now the face is a tricky thing. Its origin is unknown. theres many a tall tale as to where it started. and theres the eminent fear that it will never die. so for now i deal with it. even if it makes me want to puke.
It comes in many forms. theres the "just got out of bed face"



the "im only 21 but i now look 87 face"

the "im actually really hot but now im a troll face"

the "hey you look like a cabbage patch kid face"

the "group face"

the "you should never make that face again face"

the "lets try to make it sexual face"

and my new personal fav "the unintentional face!"

this face.
this fucking disgusting face
not a day goes by that i dont see it. not just in my dreams but amongst my friends. dinner parties. the face. bbqs. the face. beer pong tourneys. the face. at home all alone. phone chimes. text message: scott barrett. the face.
beware you guys
its like waking up next to someone after a night of too much whiskey and realizing they arent as pretty as you thought, in fact maybe you thought they resembled beckham and turns out its a 35 year old black man with a pick left on your pillow. this is the face. one second youre laughing and joking the next second youre puking. the face . . .

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Clear heels shoved in a hiking backpack shoved into an overhead bin . . .

Las Vegas Nevada. Land of gold, glitter and in this event, SILVER. 21st birthdays are always exciting. Legalized gambling, drinking, and if youre lucky enough to escape the confines of your small town and get to vegas, a complete loss of inhibition. This was my weekend.
ok ok, i know im not 21, but a girl can dream, or remember? whatever.
the darling little sister of my best friend turned 21 last friday, so her even more darling of a mother treated her, her two sisters, and me (substitute sister) to a little getaway to the HARD ROCK HOTEL!!!!
As the question always goes when you live in Santa Barbara and you mention youre going to vegas . . . "are you flying or driving?" good lord on numerous occassions ive had to answer the awful answer of "driiiiiiiivvvvviiinnnnnggggg" i cringe at the thought of it now. Hung as shit in the backseat of whoevers car, deep breaths, window up, window down, window up, window down, pull over im gonna yak. its hot. im hungry. how much longer? why is there so much traffic? WHY DIDNT WE JUST FLY!?So yes. this time. We flew.
The four us piled in with our luggage. One with a bag big enough to cart Napoleon and Nostradomus, one with a pink polka dot story telling if only that suitcase had ears bag, one with look at me i have matching shiny i think im a kardashian bags and one with a backpack. yes folks just your typical northface, jansport, generic oversize, looks like im carrying a suitcase on my back, but its just a pack, backpack.
As we drive we talk.
"what are you wearing tonight"
"what shoes did you bring"
"are you gonna wear your extensions"
"hell yes im wearing that weave" oh wait, thats an answer ;)
"how are you gonna do your makeup"
"will you do my hair"
so in a nutshell, just your basic girl on her way to vegas talk.
but not all girls are the same.
not all girls pack backpacks
as i start rambling on about how i forgot to repaint my nails or get a pedicure, Sister one interjects.
"i cant stand painted toe nails!"
I take huge offense to this. Since the time i could use my thumbs (which im sure the only reason we have those midget fingers is to grasp the brush of an OPI bottle) I have painted my toe nails.
"thats weird, I cant stand when girls DONT paint their toe nails"
her being the sweetest kindest soul of a person, " oh no kami, not everyone, just me, I just dont like when my toe nails are painted."
WHAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTT?! is she joking?
" what do you mean?"

*what im about to say is not exaggerated, it is not a joke, these are actual events.

"its not that i dont like it, its just that it makes me feel slutty"
silence


I look down at her toes. But you just painted your toes at the house.
again, this is a real conversation

"i know but i painted them silver"
laughter
"SILVER IS THE SLUTTIEST COLOR< ITS WHAT STRIPPERS WEAR!!!"

as i type this i still laugh. this girl. this little girl from Carp. and her silver toes. sounds like the makings of a jack and the beanstalk sequal.


and after a day at the sandy beaches of rehab . . . shes not only slutty, but dirty.

love you rose! you just go ahead and keep bein you ;)

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Water into wine. or beer, and margaritas

So much of what I write about seems to stem from the smallness of this world. Whether it be me in Utah and meeting boys from SB, then meeting another boy who turns out to be the best friend of your boy in SB, yada yada yada. oops! Ripping off someones shirt when your drunk and having to wait on them the next night, or ripping out someones hair via wax and realizing the guy they are talking about is the same guy another one of your clients has been talking about. Its a small world, and a dingy of a town. But in then end, somehow, in some magical Santa Barbara way, everything works out.
Case in point.
The Water Fight
Just a little over a year ago, my girlfriends and I became friends with a group of guys. Instant connections on a friendship level. We drink the same drinks, we like the same bands, and we are all just really good looking. Matches made in heaven. We hit up the bars, go to shows, get tipsy, have an occassional makeout sesh. You know, just standard state street shennanagins. Everythings hunky dory. But just like on TV, theres that one girl. The girl thats already friends with these boys, she dates one. Theyve been friends forever, shes cute, shes rad, she drinks and thinks shes a little too tough. And on one special occassion, she really was.
Now maybe its my fault. I mean Im at a show wearing 4 inch BCBGs and a pearl necklace. shes in chucks. i have butterfly tattoos she has skulls. she has blunt bangs, im basically in an updo. i like a boy, hes her best friend. whatever it might have been, i was about to get hit with it. right in the kisser.
so we dance, we sing, we jump around, we take shots. im just hangin by the bar. puttin out the vibes. mid sentence with this boy . . .
okay maybe thats a little dramatic. but as a drunk girl, it sobered me up. girlfriend takes her bottle of water and THROWS IT IN MY FACE!!!!!
like WTF! i dont wear waterproof mascara.
needless to say theres an instant scuffle of boys trying to defend us both. and within minutes. i leave. commercial break.
Over the next few weeks i see her. she says nothing does nothing. so finally one night i take two shots and march my ghettoness up.
"HI!"
is she joking?
"hi"
"HOW ARE YOU?! "
im so confused
"im good . . . . do you remember throwing water in my face a couple weeks ago"
oh god please dont let this get awkward.
"OMG!! WHAT?!?!?!"
followed by a hundred sorrys and two shots of jameson. this girls alright.
i suppose im not the only blackout in this crowd. after that we were cordial. for the next year.
Now its a full year and some months later and I get a call to have some beers, oddly enough with that same boy and her. I go, and next to the studded sandals i purchased at ross for 12 bucks last week, it turns out to be the best decision of the summer.
after a few drinks and stories. The three of us come up with a million dollar idea. An idea thats gonna change the way girls look at themselves, change the way boys look at girls. And definitly have you reconsider the amount of money you tip your esthetician :)
Such a small world.
With such a Santa Barbara ending.
now if i could just get my paws on her associate . . .
Jaime. youre rad
Matt, your okay :)

Saturday, July 24, 2010

I should prolly learn to keep my mouth shut


Working at the spa today. Always a good time. i love love love my job. Our owner has been in a lot more lately. Shes 8 months preggers and we are all so excited for the birth! Her and her boyfriend decided to not know the sex of the baby until the big day. so there has been lots of talk of baby names going on. I love her boyfriend. Englishman with a scottish accent. He and i joke around a lot. We have talked a lot about names for the child. From Reemus to Sadaf. Nigel to Levi. all kinds. Today he walks in wearing a shirt that says "DONINGTON" I say "whats donington?" he replies in a scotts accent "its what were gonna name the bebe" ME- "BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAA"
HIM- SILENCE
MY HEAD - omg FUCK SHIT BALLS IS HE SERIOUS!!
HIM- "you cant say that kami, what if i was serious!?"
WHEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
dodged a bullet with that one. but none the less it got me thinking of all the stupid foot in mouth moments ive experienced in the past months. starting with "OMG and your little nugget friend thats a virgin!?"

story goes like this
Wednesday night. Just your typical humpday. Worked in the lounge it was crazy busy so of course i needed a drink and a dance to cool my jets. Kelly and Rosalyn come in. we have some drinks and head to whiskeys. *sidenote* Whiskey Richards is no longer a lair for trolls and fix speed riding nazis. its actually a pretty hip little joint with sexuals and a photobooth.
Back to the grind. So we have a few drinks at whiskeys and by a few, i mean a lot. too much. a FEW too many. we get over it head to sandbar. $3 dollar cover. cross the street and stroll into Statemynt. Teds bartending and there are 3 characters at the bar. we down a couple hornitos and hit the dance floor. Shakin and struttin our stuff, the littlest guy of the group at the bar gets up and starts dancing with us. we freak nasty all over him in a bubble of laughter and his friends yell out "AY YO LADIES HES A VIRGIN!!
In typical Kami fashion i strut straight up to him, work my thickness down his body and come up and grab his striped white button down and RIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP. Buttons flying, girls laughing, boys jaws dropping. and then, just as quick as we came in . . .we left!
Flashfoward 24 hours. Im working in the lounge once again hangin by the bar chattin with john thomas downey. theres 3 guys at the bar that keep staring at me. again in typical kami fashion my bubbies are out to get so i dont really question why they are staring.
finally one of the guys says "hey where do i know you from" after throwing around some places we might have met, he yells out "STATEMYNT!!!" and i say " oh ya!!! we were dancing and i ripped your little nugget virgin friends shirt off"

the guy next to him looks up "HEY THAT WAS ME! I aint no virgin!"

insert foot, in mouth

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Sex Hugs Punk Rock and Trolls - in other words. Home Sweet Home

Theres this little town located somewhere between San Diego and San Francisco. Its small. Sandy. Beautiful. Breezy. Its my home. I have been back here for just about 4 weeks now. I left a place that wasnt for me. And found my heart still here, still beating. It was a small adjustment getting here and getting settled. But in typical santa barbara fashion everything fell right into place. everyone lent out a hand to help me out. everyone smiled at me and for me from the day my plane set down.
It as well has been a hilarious adventure of the old kind. A group of perfect best friends living there lives in stride, up to no good and all good at the same time. boyfriends to hookups, breakups to what the fucks. new friends. new homes. the passing of energies. the annoyance of the loss of my mojo. the finding of my mojo. traveling soldiers. foreigners sleeping like sardines. pillow rooms. troll lairs. good friends reliving there glory days. beautiful men reliving them with me. family dinners. beach days. bronzing goddesses. laughter so loud the neighbors could complain. smiling till your cheeks feel like they might break off. strolling state street. warm embraces from old friends. cant go a block in this town with out meeting new boys or catching up with the old. date nights. happy hours. lesbian jokes. jokes on the lesbians. cats outta the bag chatter. and all of this in a days work. Its just the begining of summer.

and im home