Most, if not all of the Democratic party is now dead to me

If I was a religous woman, or at least an unemployed woman, I'd be on my knees every day in front of the Dirksen Federal Building praying that Patrick Fitzgerald will succeed in doing what the Democratic party and the American electorate could not do--send the treasonous Bush on permanent vacation.

The Libby indictment is heartening, but nothing is ever what it seems. Trials can be messy affairs, which could be good. Rove may or may not be indicted. Fitzgerald could be some hologram that could disappear at any moment. I just don't know what to think.

However, it would be safe to say at this point Democrats could finally pool some PAC money and buy a few spines for their leadership. With over 2,000 of our soldiers killed in a war started at best, on a hunch, and at worst cuz a few neo conservative dingleberries just kinda felt like it, we need the opposition party more than ever. Yet they keep letting us down. They're relentless wimps.

Case in point: Last week, here's what Chuck Schumer said on Meet the Press. When I heard it, I wanted to climb into my TV and choke him.

TIM RUSSERT: Senator Schumer, there's been a widespread discussion that this is bigger than just Joseph Wilson and Valerie Plame and White House aides; that it really goes to the core of the Iraq War, what cases were made to the American people about weapons of mass destruction. . .Based on what you now know today, do you regret having voted for the war?

SEN. SCHUMER: Well, no, Tim, because my vote was seen and I still see it as a need to say we must fight a strong and active war on terror.


Well, no, Chuck. What you actually voted for wasn't a vague referendum on how manly and tough you wanted to be on terrorism, YOU VOTED IN SUPPORT OF THE UNITED STATES WAGING A PARTICULAR WAR AGAINST A PARTICULAR NATION. The Democrats, because they're paralyzed with fear when it comes to being perceived as weak (ironic, eh?) went along with this with no real debate. And hey why not because as NY Times writer Maureen Dowd said so aptly, "going to war because we have to is sooooooo 2oth century.”  I literally lose sleep at night wondering how these people sleep at night.

Anyway, here’s hoping Pat can pull this off. Though I fancy myself a bit of a doomsayer, I am capable of an occasional burst of optimism.

I want to believe in Fitzmas, I really do.    

Sox win and I have Red State cooties

Instead of living in the “city that works,” today I wished I lived in the “city that calls in sick.”

Though I’m moderately hungover, I’m so tired I could cry.

It’s all worth it though. And it’s not like I’m a stranger to working under these conditions. It was a once in lifetime chance last night to watch this town go ape shit over this World Series business.

We started the night out at Moretti’s on the Near West side, one of the few places where we could actually get a table. This table turned out to be conveniently next to an entire CPD SWAT team. Even though I was at the height of my fair-weather fan pennant fever, I couldn’t very well resist the chance to pick up a SWAT team, so another girl and I worked in the word “hostage” as much as possible over the course of the game.

Like, “Where’s Janet at?” my friend Bob asked. Me:“Uh, I think she’s being held HOSTAGE somewhere.” Or, “Wow, where’s our food? ” Me: “I think those Chinese kids over there took it HOSTAGE.”

Surprisingly it didn’t work. Not surprisingly, the on-duty SWAT team which was on a meal break sat there for hours until the top of the 9th when they were called to da streets.

After the game it was off to another local watering hole in Greektown. En route as we were looting our way through Little Italy, we dodged UIC students running the streets in their underwear.

At Dugan’s it was like St. Patrick’s Day--overflowing with drunks and smelling of hurl, sweat, and beer. While watching the party coverage on the big screen, a severely cross-eyed fan with a broom caught my interest on the TV. He had the same effect on this cute guy standing next to me because we looked at each other in amazement, looked back at the cross-eyed dude on the screen, and then back to each other. "Wow, he's really cross-eyed," cute guy said to me. Unfortunately cute guy turned out to be Indiana Republican Cute guy. And Indiana? It couldn’t have been worse.

It took me about two seconds to decide that on a night that only comes once every 88 years, political principles can go out the door.

Don't make me slap you!

Who is this mystery man who slapped and pulled the hair of an Astro player’s wife? Ozzie Guillen says he wants to have some quality time alone with him in the dugout to even the score since the Biggios aren’t pressing charges.

This idiot wasn’t there to watch the game obviously. Getting loaded and knocking a broad around takes time and focus. Was he a disgruntled misogynist Cubs fan off his meds? Or maybe he was some Canaryville wifebeater who sold one of his kids for a ticket. Whatever the case, I think it’s hilarious that this wife chased the guy down and apprehended him herself with the help of her brother.

Sounds like they handled it just fine.

The Astros say that although they know this behavior isn’t indicative of an entire city of nearly 3 million (uh y’all think?) Chicagoans should be embarrassed just the same.

Sorry Houston, I’m not all that embarrassed. I’m certainly not proud either, but I didn’t slap her and it’s not like I’m related to the guy (well at least I think I’m not.) So my conscious is clean. And besides, I’ve got PLENTY of my own drunken antics to be embarrassed about. I can’t be taking on someone else’s.

By the way, there are a lot of awful things that happen every day in this city. Getting slapped by a drunk asshole doesn’t really rank.

I need a wife

Not to have sex with. That would require me being a lesbian, or at least a gal who wouldn't mind the occasional mouthful of, well another gal.

What I'm talking about is one of those wives who clean the apartment, do the laundry, pay the bills, send the birthday cards, and make dentist appointments. It’s the kind of shit you're supposed to do on Saturdays instead of sleep in because you were out the night before drinking yourself silly celebrating a friend's last night before moving in with her fiancée on the North Side.

I woke up at 10 which is still plenty of time to knock out some of the above. But I was out of coffee, so that meant I had to go to the coffeehouse. And I absolutely had to watch Phil of the Future before going to the coffeehouse, so that slowed me down even more. I walked past a Chicago Tribune box, and had to pick one up on the way to Cafe Jumping Bean, because a girl should always be on top of the news. And then once I was at the cozy and inviting Jumping Bean I had to sit down, read the paper, order a panini, try this amazing chocolate cake, all while pretending I didn't recognize some weirdo guy from a John Kerry campaign trip last fall to Wisconsin.

And then there's email. It doesn't check itself, now does it? And this blog, if I don't update it, who will?

It's been a busy, busy day.

So here it is 2 p.m. and I have leave in a couple of hours to meet friends to watch Game One of the World Series.

Maybe I'll just froogle a mail order bride. My last roommate and I once wished we could get an 18-year-old foster son to act as house boy, but this mail order bride thing might work better (no confusing DCFS paperwork.) There's plenty of room in the basement, I'll pay for some English classes . . . everybody wins.    

Harriet you ignorant slut

This one half-asses her Supreme Court nominee homework and gets a do-over?

I'm no longer horrified by the Bush news of the day. I just laugh the maniacal laugh of a woman who knows she's doomed.

On a related note, our President successfully used the word "opining" in a sentence yesterday. That's worth a couple of points in the polls, in my estimation.

Good job Georgie!

The Scent of a Woman

“A lady should be seen and not smelled.” Anonymous

Last weekend some friends and I threw an engagement party for a friend at the home of a pal in the suburbs. Shopping the night before and spending the day getting ready for the party reminded me and the girls of our days as roommates at Illinois State. We ate fast food, watched soaps, took naps, and since we’re oh so comfortable around each other—stunk up the joint when the need arose.

Some of us are better at this than others. That day one friend was expelling gas so obnoxious while she was getting ready in an upstairs bathroom, that I literally stopped in my tracks before getting to the door, ran the opposite way and locked myself in a bedroom. As the party progressed, she left lingering reminders of herself in rooms.

I’d walk in and say, “She was in here, wasn’t she?” Ghost-white friends would nod silently.

Earlier, before the guests arrived, we filled in a boyfriend and a husband on the gastrointestinal disorders of the day. Truly disgusted, the boyfriend remarked how his friends are NEVER as crass as we are.

Yet, Mr. Disgusted has been around for over 10 years and this is nothing new for him. He knows that when we take trips together, we come prepared with enough matches and air freshener for hotel bathrooms. He knows that on occasion, we talk about bodily functions and sex like a bunch of 14-year-old boys.

This past Saturday, it was me and another former roommate heading back from the Bolingbrook IKEA to our hometown for a 30th birthday party. It was an uncomfortable and tense ride for both of us. We do have problems dropping s-bombs in public places (come on, we’re not that gross) so we were literally sucking it up until we got to our respective mothers’ homes.

As we drove into the Central Illinois sunset, she shared the following story with me. Unfortunately it’s true.

A few years ago she said she was on a gin and Squirt kick which didn’t agree with her. Hungover, the next day she was eating a Burger King meal at her house with a friend when she prepared to break wind. Or so she thought. Her lucky companion, who I saw later that night tells the rest of the story like this:

“She shot up and had both hands behind her holding her ass. She then blurted out, “Dude I think I just shit my pants!” While I fell over laughing, she takes  one of the hands holding her ass and TAKES A BITE OF HER SANDWICH before running to the bathroom.”

The guilty party in this said she took that last bite because she knew she was going to be in there for a while. And well, she was hungry.    

Apocalypse Soon

Looks like Chicago just kicked the end time in motion.

To the world I say: Sorry dudes. Better to end it with a World Series in Chicago than the Avian Flu or dirty bombs.


Go Sox!

The UN really needs to lay off the acid

This is what the UN children's fund is using to drum up contributions in Belgium.

Why do Europeans have to be so fucking weird?

Smurfette dies, in case you're wondering.

This taint your Grandma's magazine

The last time I bought a Cosmopolitan magazine, George W. Bush was just a failed Texas businessman and Seinfeld was still in primetime. It’s got to be one of the silliest publications on the newstands.

Actually, I’ve always thought most women’s magazines of the Cosmo genre aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on, and my disdain has nothing to do with my body image or feminism.

I find the sex articles to be beyond ridiculous.

From the day I first picked up a Cosmo at age 15 or 16, I was bombarded with headlines like, “Give him mind-blowing blowers,” or “Please your man one position at a time.” But mostly these articles tried to indoctrinate women about how we’re ignoring the taint, the supposed male version of the G-spot.(I say supposed because I taint met a man yet who supports this theory.)

There was no avoiding the taint. So after my 165th taint article, I decided to solely devote my mind-rotting reading choices to entertainment magazines and tabloids. Over the years, I’d glance at Cosmo’s cover and scan the headlines. Nothing changed.

Last night however, they got to me. I was finishing up my 10-minute grocery shopping challenge at Dominicks where I saw this in the checkout line:

“Our New Sex Position Named 77,
It's as Mind-Blowing as That Other Naughty Number”

The 77? That’s like 8 more! 8 more of what, I had no idea. They got me though. I was kind of embarrassed to buy it, and as I had guessed when I read the article before my aerobics class, it was some stupid, awkward sounding thing that I’d never do.

Or would I?

Sunday Bender Anyone?

     With a belly full of Krispy Kremes and enough coffee to jumpstart the heart of a day-old corpse, I spent Sunday morning in Little Italy watching 40,000 insane people run the Chicago Marathon. To me, watching it was exhausting; running it is beyond comprehension.
     I was on Taylor Street which I think was the 19th mile of the race and at this point, when you cheer people by name (some runners put their names on their shirts to encourage this) they’re either so out of it they look at you like, “how in the hell do you know me?” or they’re fighting the urge to strangle you, a person who swears she will run only if chased, sitting comfortably on a stoop eating a cold Italian sausage.
     After the race some cronies and I held court at a bar to start our bloody Mary-thon. We’re weren’t able to drink 26.2, but it was a strong showing indeed. And with one pal demonstrating her ability to smoke a 6-minute cigarette (does anyone really need to run a 6 minute mile by the way?) we ended our day with a real sense of Sunday Bender accomplishment and a fear of Monday morning hangover.

Bandwagon forecast: 72 degrees, breezy, sunny

I wasn’t entirely forthcoming with an earlier post where I said the male obsession with “the game” is a bit tedious.

I have a tendency to be a fair weather fan when it comes to Chicago teams making it to post-season play, which we all know ain’t too often. So most of time, it’s true, I don’t give a hoot about sports.

I caught pennant fever a couple of years ago during the playoffs when the Cubs made it within five measly outs of the World Series.  The fever was so bad; I was actually hanging on every pitch of every game during that series. I read the Sports page. I wore a rally cap and drank Old Style. I could even commiserate with actual Cubs fans on subjects such as Dusty Baker’s insistence on keeping his pitchers in until they reached their pitch count, regardless of how the game was going.

It wasn’t all fun and games though. I learned that drinking while you have the fever can produce an incredibly awful side effect: near-blinding beer goggles. That’s probably something guys learn early on, I guess.

Now with the White Sox in the post season, I have what I can only describe as low-grade pennant fever. I’m just lukewarm—the other night I read the paper intermittently while watching the game.

I’m not sure why I’m not as into it as I was with the Cubs. I have lived south of Madison Street for eight of my last nine years in Chicago. And if the Southside would ever attempt to secede from Chicago, I would have no problem taking up arms against the citizens of Lincoln Park and Wrigleyville. I rarely drink on the North side, and except for a couple of friends up there, what do I care?

I guess pennant fever is like many illnesses. You get a bad case of it once and you develop immunity.

Experience Not Needed

Dear White House Hiring Person:

Given the recent nomination of that creepy lady to the Supreme Court who has never been a judge, and that dumbass who headed up FEMA, yet had no emergency management experience, I thought I would throw my hat in the ring for the following posts should they become vacant:

Surgeon General—I’ve been the keeper of the office First Aid Kit for the past 10 months, and I put a huge bottle of hand sanitizer on my desk yesterday, encouraging co-workers to use it at will (flu and cold season is coming!). Back when I didn’t have health insurance I visited WebMD frequently.

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—I’ve seen “Stripes” like 42 times.

Secretary of State—I took a Post Soviet foreign policy class at Illinois State back in 1994 earning a gentlewoman’s C. I also took the Foreign Service exam. I didn’t pass, but that’s neither here nor there.

Fed Chairman—Right now Greenspan’s reports to Congress are buh-buh-buh-boooorrring! I could make jokes like I did back in my business reporting class. Example, “Man, I think my credit card debt just surpassed the GNP!”

Secretary of Energy—I once dated a guy who worked for Commonwealth Edison.

Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security—I also dated a smattering of first responders and a trained killer.

So as you can see I’d make a great addition to the Bush administration in just about ANY capacity.

Call me, ok?

Angie

No really Mary, why you buggin?

I now have a statue of the Virgin Mary in my kitchen. She's about a foot tall, made of resin, and manufactured in China, presumably with love.

Why you ask, do I have this?

Well if you can believe it, this nun totally made me buy it. I didn't have a choice. She didn't exactly force me, or put some sort of Catholic hex on me, but I think I was coerced just the same.

On Saturday morning I stopped by my neighborhood grocery store for a couple of things. As a rule, there are vendors outside with carts selling all sorts of stuff. I live in a predominantly Mexican neighborhood, and the sundries up for purchase run the gamut from huge pieces of fried pork fat to the latest Tejano CD.

This my friends, is no Super Target.

I've yet to see a nun selling stuff though. She was tucked away in a corner, standing not much taller than the garbage can next to her. She had a couple of crates turned upside down, covered in pillow cases. A dozen or so religious statues were carefully arranged on the cloth. I rushed past her, pretending not to notice she was standing in the shadows.

I wouldn't exactly say she creeped me out, or even elicited some sort of emotional response, but as I made my way through the store I knew I was going to have to buy one of those blasted statues.

Maybe it was her big, sad brown eyes. Or the fact that I still feel a little guilty about cheating on my Confirmation test 17 years ago. Though I tried, I didn't get very far past her when I left the store. I stopped in my tracks, turned back and asked her, "how much?"

My Spanish was about as good as her English, so completing our transaction was a little challenging.

She asked me which one I wanted. I pointed to the biggest statue (that's my champagne tastes for you) and she inturn indicated what I thought was a five dollar price tag.

Five bucks? No problem. I counted out five singles and reached out for my Virgin Mary statue with the baby Jesus sprouting out of the ground at her feet.

Not so fast, Angie. That one is ten dollars.

"Ten dollars?"

"Chess, dee-ez."

Alright sister, I knew where this is going. But I also knew I couldn't very well back out of deal on a Virgin Mary statue with a nun, not over five dollars.

I handed her a five, threw my statue in my bag and walked away, immediately wondering, "Now where in the hell am I going to put this God damned thing?"