Shit Got Weird in Costa Rica

25 Aug

Disclaimer: Have a seat. This will take a minute.

A few weeks ago my Traveling Buddy and I decided to visit Costa Rica. We bought our tickets and found a place to stay on Craigslist which may have been mistake number one. Everything was planned out, we flew into the San Jose airport and had to take a seven hour bus ride to arrive in Cabuya which was a tiny village containing about 100 people. The “property” was more of a treehouse totally surrounded by jungle and howler monkeys waking me up every morning, which I had dubbed Jungle Monsters. They’re way more terrifying than their name implies. Proof:

When we arrived at the property our landlord showed us around. He explained that his brother lived in the property behind us and his parents lived next to us. It was essentially a family plot of land. The landlord then told us that his brother was “kind of crazy” and showed us the three rows of barbed wire he had installed surrounding our property to keep his brother out. I didn’t think much of it and figured he was a bit of a scrapper that got into bar fights. Possibly mistake number two. My Traveling Buddy and I hung out and kept ourselves busy for a few days with no complaints.

On Saturday we decided to head to Montezuma which was a tourist spot and see some hippies. It was the landlord’s birthday so homeboy got drunk and we didn’t see him for the rest of the night. Traveling Buddy and I made it home after catching a “taxi” and fell asleep pretty early. The following morning, Landlord’s Brother came over and said the landlord called him to come over and “fix the electricity”. I didn’t think much of it (possibly mistake number three) and Traveling Buddy helped him out by flipping a few switches and confirming everything was working a-okay. Problem was, the electricity was working fine. There were absolutely no problems. After Traveling Buddy was ordered to go downstairs twice, he figured something was awry but played along.

Landlord’s Brother “fixed the electricity” by wrapping a piece of tape over an already existing piece of tape and going back to his place. Traveling Buddy went upstairs immediately afterward and noticed that his wallet, phone and phone charger were missing. About twenty minutes later Landlord’s Brother came back and when Traveling Buddy told him what was missing, he started flailing about saying that his phone was also missing. 100% bullshit. When Traveling Buddy told him about his wallet also missing, Landlord’s Brother said it must be at his place because they hung out there the night before. Landlord’s Brother goes running back and magically returns with his wallet, although nothing was missing. Why? Because the night before, when Traveling Buddy tried to hit the ATM, it was empty so there was zero cash inside. Landlord’s Brother had no need for an empty wallet so he returned it, looking like a hero. At this point, he’s played on the tourist’s fears and knew that as long as we got the wallet back, we wouldn’t really be concerned with the phone. The wallet was most important.

A few hours passed and we decided to head to the beach. As we’re walking out, Landlord’s Brother and some friends as if they can talk to us. They have good news. His friend found the phone three days ago and will deliver it to us for $60. Also 100% bullshit. Traveling Buddy doesn’t want to accuse anybody and is maintaining composure. He tells the group that he’s not going to pay for the phone a second time and that it didn’t go missing three days ago. It disappeared this morning. I had enough. I said, “Here’s the problem: the phone was here, you showed up and it’s missing. I didn’t steal it. He didn’t steal his own phone. You were here and now it’s gone. That’s the situation.” Landlord’s Brother got angry that I had officially accused him and vehemently denied it.

Smashcut to the next morning. I’m awake entirely too early thanks to the howler monkeys. Within a few minutes, Landlord’s Brother is screaming at me to wake up Traveling Buddy. He wants to fight. He’s calling us “stupid Americans,” calling Traveling Buddy a “pussy,” telling him to “fight like a man” and then throws out the Trump Card of Fear saying, “I’LL PUT YOUR HEAD ON A STICK.” Yeah. That happened. I tell him that I’m not going to wake him up and he’s out of luck. Landlord’s Brother leaves when he realizes he’s not going to convince me to wake anyone up. Then, in standard bipolar fashion, he returns twenty minutes later and apologizes for yelling.

...but younger and angrier.

Later that same evening, Landlord’s Brother returns and has begun yelling at us again because he thinks Traveling Buddy and I have informed the landlord of the situation and that a police report has been filed. None of that happened. We haven’t seen the landlord for a couple of days. At the same time, the landlord walks up to us and he is angry. For seven seconds I couldn’t decipher if he was mad at us or mad at his brother. After that seven seconds he starts ripping into his brother saying that he’s garbage, doesn’t deserve to be his brother, he’s worthless, and to “get the fuck off the property”. Well okay. The landlord asks us what happened and wants every detail. We explain what has happened and he believes us. He gets increasingly livid and after an hour of talking he says, “Well, there’s only one thing to do. I’m going to beat his ass. I can’t do it now but I’ll get him. I’ll catch him on the street. Street rules. It has to be done.” Lawlessness.

A few hours pass and Traveling Buddy and I are wasting time on our gadgets downstairs when I hear some commotion next door. Gut feeling said to get out of there. I tell him that something is going down and we gather everything up that’s of any importance, including two fucking machetes (one of which was hidden behind the refrigerator) and bolt up the haphazardly put together stairs.

our place. in the jungle.

The situation escalates. By now Traveling Buddy and I have locked ourselves in our room with two machetes and are peeking through the wood slats to make sure nobody is coming over to murder us. He’s laying down maintaining his cool but visibly uneasy while I’m sitting in the corner emailing my boyfriend the entire story. Soon a mother is crying, a child is screaming, two men are doing something not cool, then Traveling Buddy and I hear BAM! BAM! BAM!

Oh my god. He’s beat the shit out of his brother. Street rules? Nope. Now rules? Yep.

After five minutes we hear Landlord’s Brother wailing, screaming in Spanish and running back to his place. We come out of our panic room and go downstairs when the landlord shows up. He’s shirtless, out of breath and apologizes for beating the shit out of his brother but that “it had to be done” and “it couldn’t wait”. He apologizes profusely and pleads for us to stay the rest of the week. Traveling Buddy and I head upstairs and post up in the panic room for the rest of the night, sleeping with machetes.

also used for cutting the tops off coconuts

In the morning we decided to leave. Obvious decision. We find the landlord and tell him that we’re going to Mal Pais just to see a different part of Costa Rica and because we don’t want to get murdered. We wait for the bus and head to another beach about an hour away. Traveling Buddy and I find a hostel, pay for a few days, put our stuff down and head to a local spot to get some breakfast. We sit down and check out the menu. Traveling Buddy says, “Look outside.” I peek around the corner and who is sitting there but LANDLORD’S BROTHER and his girlfriend. An hour away. At the same spot. At the same time. My eyes start to water and I don’t know what to do. Later his girlfriend comes inside, plays nice, attempts to clear his name and tells us, awesomely, that Landlord’s Brother is being denied jobs in the village because word has spread that he’s a thief. Karma.

I was hoping that was the only time I’d have a coincidental run-in with our bipolar neighbors but we managed to see them two more times, passing by our hostel in a dark alley. So far, so good.

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Out Of Shame.

19 Jul

Last week I attended a friend’s wedding. I’ve known this guy for ten years and he’s always proven to be a stand-up friend and a damn good father. I was excited about seeing some old friends and being able to witness him and his bride start their life together.

pictured: the bride and groom, in my head

I arrive at the wedding and walk inside the banquet hall. The bride and groom have a happy picture of them on the table with a large border around it for the guests to sign. It’s my turn, so I sign the picture frame and find a seat. A bunch of my friends were in one area so I took a seat and started catching up. The vows are exchanged, food and drinks are served, and the music has begun playing.

I stepped outside and ran into my friend. We started chatting and a Third Guy steps outside and says, “Hey, are you Kristin?” Caught off guard, I said, “…Yeah.” Third Guy says, “You might want to go check out that book inside.” I have no idea what he could be referencing, but my friend and I go back inside and start heading all the way across the opposite side of the banquet hall.

We get to the table. I see it. I have inadvertently wished happy matrimonial vows and a long life together to the groom and his EX-WIFE’S NAME. In pen. On the picture frame border. Forever. Adrenaline murdered my psyche and I start shaking. I cannot believe I’ve done this. I mean, really, who does this? What’s worse, if you had asked me his ex-wife’s name upon entering the wedding I would’ve had no idea. None. I put the pen down and it just came out of my hand. It just happened.

I’m maintaining composure but having a mild meltdown in my head. My friend says, “Don’t worry. We got this.” I said, “What do you mean we have this? What does that even mean?” He proceeds to take a pen and draw a banner and some stars for distraction over the ex-wife’s name. It couldn’t be more obvious. Did I mention that he used a TOTALLY DIFFERENT PEN than what all the guests had used? No? Because that happened. Then I had to barely fit his ACTUAL wife’s name, like, on the edge of the frame border, barely making room.

pictured: left, me. right, my friend fixing everything.

We step outside again. After a few minutes, two people whom I’ve never seen before join us. They ask how we’re doing and my friend says, “We’re having a good time. Handling something, but we’re enjoying ourselves.” Without skipping a beat the two others say, “Ohhh. Is this about the picture situation?” EVERYBODY KNOWS.

My friend says, “It will be fine. Just man-up and go back inside. Own it.” I had a twelve second lapse in judgment and decided that was a totally feasible idea. We open the door and the bride is having her first dance with her dad. Nope. I’m out. I leave the wedding, all my friends, my food, everything.

An hour later I get a Facebook message from a dear friend who was at the wedding only saying, “Smooth.” I replied, “Shit. Everybody knows don’t they?” His response confirming my fear: “I’ll be honest. A lot of people know.” I’ve never felt more confident in my decision to leave a wedding in all my life.

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Dayton’s CW.

15 Mar

A while ago my mom DVR’d a commercial about ‘Dayton’s Next CW Star’ and their requirements were something I thought I could totally fill. So I went to the audition and upon arrival I still felt like I had a decent chance considering some of the hot messes walking around. Now, I don’t think I’m TV material per se, but I thought I could handle the position. It consisted of being a “TV, online, and print personality” so in my head I’d have to say some things, take some pictures, and tell people to watch the CW. Easy.

Well, that didn’t pan out and I met a kid one weekend who told me that he already gotten a call-back as a finalist. It was at that moment that I realized I HADN’T gotten a call so I was out of the running. Sure, I was bummed. Then The Finalist told me a few of the things he had to participate in to win the spot. It included:

>> going to a college basketball game and “pumping up the crowd” by lots of clapping

>> singing and dancing at the local mall to showcase god-knows-what

all of them

>> constantly wearing CW t-shirts

>> convincing your friends constantly wearing CW t-shirts

>> doing radio interviews and HOPING they air your material

>> bombing your friends’ Facebook walls pressuring them to vote for you

>> cutting your hair and dressing as they see fit, and

>> waking up at the crack of dawn for, again, god-knows-what

It was after hearing the first requirement, PUMPING UP A CROWD, that I realized THAT was not my gig. There are pictures online of these dudes singing and dancing on a tiny bootleg stage set-up in front of a Bath & Body Works with the CW printed on every surface possible. There are videos and profiles online of these kids plugging their name to be the next CW Star. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I feel like within 4 minutes at the college basketball game, I’d be like, “Nope. I’m out.” Shit, one finalist has an unkempt flat-top. The one girl I saw neurotically practicing lines for her 1 minute plea to be the next star? She’s in the running. They’ve changed the way all of them look and mildly depressing.

Not to mention that I couldn’t feign interest in the next installment of the Vampire Dairies or The Real Housewives of Orange County.

The only possible upside? Talking about how awesome Charlie Sheen is on Two and a Half Men. TIGER BLOOD.

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Can You Go With Me?

9 Mar

I worked at a coffeeshop over the summer. One day, I saw a man on the patio doing some corporate robblerobble work on his laptop. I went outside to talk to him. There was no reason to, it’s just something I have a tendency TO DO. Within ten minutes we were Facebook friends, right then and there, and he regailed me with tales of being a contractor for the NBA. Seemingly out of nowhere, we notice an apoclapytic-style thunderstorm rolling in so my new stranger friend gathered his things quickly and set out. He rushes out the front door, crosses the street, and BAM – dude gets hit by a car.

NBA Contractor goes flying onto other side of the street, HIS SHOES COME OFF, his BlackBerry becomes plastic shrapnel, and he has no idea what has happened. Now its pouring buckets. I’m soaking wet, and have blood on my shirt and shoes. He’s soaking wet, laying in the street and oblivious as to what just happened. I ran and grabbed his shoes, BlackBerry, hat, and backpack. I double-checked everything. The laptop is fine and after a few minutes I was able to figure out how to work his stupid phone. When NBA Contractor finally woke up, he began asking what happened. By now a small crowd had gathered and the abulance had arrived, along with two cop cars. I hurried over and asked him who he wanted me to call. With zero hesitation, he asked that I call Monica. So I call Monica and tell her what just happened, reminding her that we’re not sure how severe his injuries could be because he hasn’t made it to the hospital yet.

Monica said, “Well, does he need me there?” REALLY. I said, “Monica, he was just HIT BY A CAR. Yes, he needs you here. You were the first person he wanted me to call when he regained consciousness.” Monica told me she wouldn’t arrive for a few hours because lives in Michigan. I tell her what hospital he’s going to and she says she’ll call the emergency room in a little bit.

I returned to NBA Contractor laying on the ground in a neck brace and tell him that Monica is on her way and asks if there is somebody else he would like me to call. By now he has those pathetic, watery, downtrodden puppy eyes from the depressing commercials starring Sarah McLachlan about animal cruelty, and says to me, “Can you go with me?” SHIT. GUESS I’M GOING TO THE HOSPITAL.

I tell him yes and I climb into the ambulance. Meanwhile, the paramedics are trying to quiet the NBA Contractor who is PISSED that they’ve cut his shirt off. I turned off the A/C off in the ambulance – it was FREEZING – and wait for paramedics to finish their work. Within 30 minutes, I’m waiting for him in the E.R. while he is getting his shoulder popped back into it’s socket. Finally the woman asks me if I was ready to go back and see him. I was, but I had forgotten his name completely. WAIT. FACEBOOK. Opened the app, scrolled through my friends, found him, walked back to see how he’s doing.

NBA Contractor is a mess. One arm is in a sling, the other is scraped, he has stitches over his eyebrow and an open gash on his forehead. Parts of his head look like Frankstein and he doesn’t remember a thing. He doesn’t remember the paramedics putting his shoulder back into the socket. He doesn’t remember getting hit by a car so badly that it dented the hood. We talk for a few minutes, I catch him up on what happened and he asks about Monica.

So I call her. She informs me that she hasn’t left the house – which is 4 hours away – because she “has to go to the bank in the morning” and because she “doesn’t want to travel this late without money”.

HEY MONICA: IT’S 2011. IT’S CALLED AN ATM. IT’S INSTANT. IT’S THE WAVE OF THE FUTURE. In what instance would you need to physically go to a bank to withdrawl money in 2010? If that were the case, which I don’t believe for a second, the NBA Contractor needs to stop associating with such ridiculous people. That bitch was just lazy. Period.

pictured: Monica

I immediately ask Monica if she’s kidding. She’s serious and asks ME TO TAKE HIM HOME. The man is 6’3” with one arm in a sling and I drive a 2-door Honda Civic. This was not going to work. So, for a good 15 seconds, in my head, I scrambled to come with up a plan. I forgot to mention that he had already asked me if I ”had ever dated a brother” or if I ”wanted to date a brother” NOT drugged up on pain medication, so I could only imagine how inappropriate he’d get at this point. Then I said to myself, ‘NOPE. NOT DOING IT. I DID MY GOOD DEED FOR THE DAY.’

He remembered somebody that would help him out so we called Totally Legit Friend, and this dude came to the hospital within 30 minutes. I still don’t know if Monica ever showed up. Ready for the worst part? He got a ticket for jaywalking and the driver was let off the hook.

…and now, the seething letter I sent to the worst boss ever.

1 Mar

Nick,

I’d like to say that I genuinely enjoyed my time working for you. I didn’t. The beginning seemed promising, but shortly after starting my position, a few of your idiosyncrasies came out kicking and screaming. You need to calm down. I understand that you’re a young business owner. I understand that you think you’re a go-getter. I understand that you think you have everything under control. I understand that you think I don’t understand. I’m going to do you the favor of explaining what isn’t okay to say or do to people.


First, let’s begin with the incident that started it all. Evidently you thought I drank too much water. I don’t even know where to begin with how many boundaries you crossed and the audacity it took to bring this to my attention. By “you” I mean the woman at Associates Staffing. You didn’t even have the fortitude to discuss it with me yourself. I don’t care if it’s policy to contact the staffing agency with your issues. This could have been cleared up if you would have walked the 25 feet to my desk. I’ve told everybody I know about this company (this letter is going right to the internet) and the rules you enforce, and 100% of them cannot believe I was approached about my water intake. You can’t do that Nick. You just can’t do that. Is there a law against it? I’m not sure. Is there a commonsense, keep-your-employees-from-hating-you rule? Absolutely.

So what did I do? I called Tom whom I had dealt with from the very beginning about the situation. What was Tom’s response? Are you ready? “Well, Kristin. I mean, if somebody works on an assembly line and they have to go to the restroom, the assembly line stops.” THAT ISN’T HOW IT WORKS. There are ZERO similarities between selling things on eBay and building a transmission. You hinted that I’d have to let you know when I left my desk. Which means I’d have to let you know when I was going to the restroom. YOU CAN’T DO THAT. By the right attorney, that could be interpreted as illegal and an invasion of privacy. Snap out of it.

Secondly, you have a problem staring at women. Maybe you haven’t realized it or caught yourself, but you’re a grown man and should know better. I’ve caught you staring at my chest a number of times over several weeks (you were a huge fan of whatever I was wearing on October 13th, 2010) before becoming annoyed. Keep in mind that I’ve been dealing with this for many years, and I’ve been dealing with awkward tech-nerd types for many years. However, I’ve never had a boss do it until you did. It was disgusting. So I made the next logical step. I called Tom so he could call you about how uncomfortable you were making me, man-to-man. What did Tom say? Are you ready? “Well, Kristin, there’s no law against staring.” YES THERE ARE. THERE ARE SEVERAL. In 2001, the case of Birschtein v. New United Motor Mfg. stated that “staring at a fellow employee may constitute actionable sexual harassment under the Fair Employment and Housing Act.” That’s just one case and we both know there are more. I suggest you keep your eyes straight ahead for the next female you hire.

Lastly, let’s review the overly serious company “policies”. I have never worked anywhere in FIFTEEN YEARS of holding jobs that only allow one 30-minute lunch break and zero breaks after that. Never. I understand it’s not law and you can do whatever you like as a business owner, but come on. Get real. Let me just throw in that I’ve also never worked anywhere that doesn’t allow a working lunch. I’ve worked for companies smaller than this and giant corporations. I’ve NEVER been told I wasn’t able to run errands on my lunch break and eat lunch at my desk while working upon arrival. You own a glorified Goodwill, just remember that.

You “ended my assignment” also known as “fired” me on VACATION. You have no spine. You’re not a man. You were a terrible boss and I wasted my time.

p.s. We are all positive you’re a virgin.

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Listen, I Got A Phone Call From Your Boss.

28 Feb

This past winter I submitted my resume to a staffing agency for job posting I saw on Craigslist. It was a web marketing position and I had been out of work for a few months when I got the call for an interview so I was pretty excited. I drove to the offices of Associates Staffing, which would later turn out to be the worst staffing agency in history, and interviewed with Tom. Everything went well and he offered me the job. I started working a week later and everything was going well, or so I thought.

My immediate boss owned the company, was two years younger than me, lived with his family, and his parents were his employees. He was a electrical engineer with zero understanding of social graces, a definite virgin and possibly a serial killer. Maybe both. He looked like a 6’1″ giant 3rd grader. Shit wasn’t right.

So, about 6 weeks into my employment I get a phone call from some bitch at “home office” who I had never spoken to before. I had never heard her name. I didn’t know her position in the company, and I didn’t know why Tom The Dickhead wasn’t calling me himself. She make obligatory small talk and then said, “Listen, I got a phone call from your boss yesterday.” My head scrambled to think of WHAT in the world this could be about because he says I’m doing a good job and catching on quickly. I asked what he called to talk to her about. Tammy-whatever-the-hell said, “It seems that you’re drinking a lot of water. What’s this about? Are you on a diet?”

I was flabbergasted. I said, “Is this for real? Like, you’re seriously calling me about my water intake?” She said she was serious and then had the AUDACITY to say, “So how are you liking the job?” It was one of the few times I can remember where I had to put on a front and say I was enjoying it. A few hours later, I leave for lunch and call Tom The Dickhead. I tell him that I just got a phone call about drinking too much water. Evidently, according to him, the entire office knows. It’s apparent how angry I am. I’m almost yelling. I tell him that I’ve never come across such a ridiculous situation in fifteen years of holding jobs, and the fact that the boss couldn’t man-up and come to me personally posed it’s own problem. What was Tom’s response? Tom said, “Well, Kristin, if you’re working on an assembly line and you have to leave to use the restroom, the assembly line stops.” Really. I said, “TOM. NO IT DOESN’T. The assembly line doesn’t stop, first off, and secondly, there are ZERO similarities between building an engine and selling bullshit on eBay.” Our conversation ended on a not-too-pleasant note.

Smash cut to the next day. Virgin Boss comes over to my desk and says I’m not allowed to take a working lunch, eat at my desk, or snack at my desk. Then he tells me that he’s monitoring my internet traffic and my phone records.

I had already planned a trip to Texas and dropped a healthy sum of money on the mini-vacation so I couldn’t quit. I stayed for a few weeks longer. Then one day, Virgin Serial Killer Boss walks over to my desk and while he’s there, he’s begins STARING at my boobs. Within in four seconds there was almost steam shooting out of my ears, cartoon-style. I was LIVID. Virgin Boss continues to do this for a very uncomfortable ten minutes or so. It’s important to note that I was wearing a normal shirt, a sweater, and a scarf. Really. There’s nothing to look at.

When I headed to lunch a few hours later, I immediately called Tom The Dickhead from the staffing agency to resolve this issue. I figured he would take one for the team and call Virgin Serial Killer Boss to sort this little issue out. It would be uncomfortable for me to bring it up, since he doesn’t know how to properly look at a woman, much less discuss staring at titties. I said, “HEY TOM, we need to talk about my boss being totally inappropriate. I caught him staring at my chest with zero disregard for my reaction. I understand how computer guys are. I understand how engineers work. I’ve been around them since high school, I know they’re not the smoothest dudes in the college bar trying to hookup with sluts. But he’s my boss. He can’t do that.”

Are you ready for Tom The Dickhead’s response? Without skipping a beat, Tom said, “Kristin. There are no laws against staring.”

THAT IS REAL.
IN 2010.
THAT STILL HAPPENS.
IN AMERICA.

My mind was blown. I lost my shit. I told him there are LOTS OF LAWS AGAINST STARING and there have been for several years. After relentlessly getting my point across, Tom The Dickhead said, “Well I mean, Kristin, if you want to make a big deal about this and drive all the way to our office and fill out a report, you can, but it’s not going to do anything.” My voice got louder, Tom got quiet and eventually our conversation ended after a few minutes.

Then I left for vacation. I had a blast, and the day before I was supposed to come home, I got a voicemail from a phone number I didn’t recognize. I checked my voicemail. Tom has fired me via voicemail like a bitch.

So, I did what any angry person would do, and sent a seething letter to my boss and copied it to two other employees. Now he knows we all think he’s a serial killer virgin and I’m happy.

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RANT: How Late Are You Open?

25 Feb

I watched two episodes of Roseanne (also known as the best sitcom in history) back-to-back tonight and they were having chili for dinner. Indirect marketing works like a charm on me, so OF COURSE that’s what I wanted within twenty minutes. I wanted that chili from Wendy’s. Since it was already 12:30am, I called to make sure the drive-thru was open.

Pictured: the bitch I dubbed Tammy

Tammy: “Hi, this is Wendy’s.”
Me: “How late are you open?”
Tammy: “We’re open until midnight.”
Me: “So you’re closed.”
Tammy: “Yes.”

HEY TAMMY: JUST SAY YOU’RE CLOSED. You had me thinking I was getting chili for 1.3 seconds. Petty and selfish of me? Yes. Am I still going to rant? Yes.

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