Leftover Ham

Sick Co-workers. Thankfully an employee who I nicknamed "Typhoid Michelle" isn't in today. Starting last week, she was walking around the office with a cough so horrendous, I seriously told her I would do whatever it took to get her out of the office. Her work, drive her home, whatever. It was that bad. On Wednesday I diagnosed her with walking pneumonia. On Friday I was convinced she had no idea she was at work, that she was so delirious, she thought she was at home in bed. Anyway, she insisted on sticking around and I asked her (I thought it was pretty funny, but you might think I'm really mean) if she wouldn't prefer to die at home. She laughed pretty hard at that, which prompted quite a coughing spell. Anyway, my point is, please stay home when you're really sick unless you've used all your sick days for hangovers, interviews, or nooners with your married boyfriend. You'll be doing America a favor.

Gerald Ford and James Brown are dead to me. And also to the rest of the world apparently. I'm spilling a little of my diet coke on the floor of my cube right now in their respective honors. I walked around Christmas weekend asking people if Fidel Castro died. I had some weird vibe that he bit it, so I think he's going to be next.

Is anyone working this week? There was no one on my bus yesterday, which was kind of nice. But it reminded me of the days when I took the week off between Christmas and New Year's. I never stayed in my hometown the whole time, I'd come back and shop, drink alone, go to museums, movies, make crazy resolutions, and play with my new Barbies. Good times.

I'm going to save a TON on sweet marjoram. A couple of Saturdays ago, Rusty called me to see what I was up to. "I'm planting my Chia Herb Garden. It's kind of hard." I replied, completely serious. This shit is actually growing, and you wouldn't believe how fast cilantro comes up. Does anyone know what you'd put sweet marjoram in? Email me if you have a sec.

No Justin, I'm bringing sexy back

Sorry to be such a buzzkill with the last post. Geez. Perhaps I was murdered by a Mall Santa in a former life.

I hope everyone has a wonderful Christmas!

Oh, that's WHY I think Christmas sucks

I almost forgot.

See Christmas for me growing up for the most part, consisted of my my mother stressing herself out over trying to buy us the shit other kids were getting and then saying things like "I wish it could be more," when you'd thank her on Christmas day. Like every goddamn year. Seriously, God bless the woman, but we really weren't THOSE kids. You know jumping up and down, and crying for this and that. We knew what the deal was. Useless shit wasn't worth her getting depressed over.

The reason why I'm sharing this, is I'm seeing that same look on the faces of people I work with. A lot of them don't make much money and kind of sigh and frown when you mention Christmas. It's pretty sad. A father feeling bad about himself because greedy retailers and insane consumers have to gorge themselves on gifts and profits, and he can't go along for the ride. I mean really.

IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!

Doesn't the image in the bottom right hand corner look suspiciously like the Baby Jesus? I snapped this picture yesterday at a Little Italy Christmas party. The cannoli-filled cannoli is always my favorite at this party so I wanted to photograph it. Unfortunately no one can make a pilgrimage to this particular sweets table because that righteous dessert is loooooong gone!

Have fun fighting in Iraq. I'm outta here!

Iraq Study Group, Shmyrack Shmudy Group, this war ain't ending, the draft is coming and I'm going to Canada!

Well just for New Year's Eve. And I'm making two friends come with. Both redheads, I'm sure I'm in for a whole lot of trouble. For this blog post, I will name them Red and Rusty.

We're taking Red's SUV and driving to Toronto from Chicago (only really smart people drive through the heart of the Great Lakes in the dead of winter, but this is what you'd call an adventure.) I'm in charge of producing the soundtrack for the trip, and have dutifully downloaded several tracks by Canadian artists. Everything from Celine Dion to Corey Hart. Red is bringing snacks (Rusty said she wants pizza combos) and we'll have lots of magazines and celebrity gossip to discuss. It is likely that Red will prepare a full spread of appetizers and dips. That's just the kind of gal Red is.

Hopefully Rusty doesn't hold us up at the border patrol (is that what you call it?) Just a few months after 9/11, we went to London and Rusty had a HUGE machete in her carry on (ok, just a little key chain pocket knife) and it was quite the ordeal to get her through (ok, maybe it took her a couple of extra minutes.) She lost the pocket knife though! Shit, what's a girl without her pocket knife in the big city? Poor Rusty. We have our passports ready. And we're really excited about using different money and drinking beer that's about 10 percent cheaper. Maybe we'll get sick and enjoy some free, universal healthcare!

I'm ready to say, "What are you talking aboot?" when someone tells me about their gun control laws. And it's a given that Rusty and I will have this back and forth inspired by Tommy Chong in That 70s show. I'll ask in a dopey way, "What are YOU doing in Canada?" and then she'll say "What are YOU doing in Canada?" And then I'll say, "What are YOU doing in Canada?" and then she'll say "What are YOU doing in Canada?"

And then Red will throw us out of her SUV. Probably on 8 Mile in Motown. Yikes!

CTA and Metra, listen up!

After seven months of taking BOTH* the Metra and the CTA to get to work, I'm officially declaring myself Chicagoland's Queen of Public Transport.

Queen Angie is making a declaration. Enough already with the To-do lists announced over the PA. Seriously, I'm listening to music, or reading, or trying to keep from kicking every other passenger in the head. I'm too busy to do anything else.

According to the messages, I'm supposed to be watching for people hopping on the bus without paying, because when someone does that "we all pay." I'm supposed to move to the back of the bus. And I'm supposed to report anything suspicious. Or anyone partaking in "unusual" activity. I've lived in Chicago for 10 years, I really have no concept of "unusual" anymore. I'm not supposed to leave my bags unattended, but apparently a certain Metra conductor, who's too concerned with chatting up the ladies, can leave his unmarked black duffel sitting at the top of the stairs for several minutes until Queen Angie walked up to him and called him on it. What else does the PA tell me? Oh, I'm not supposed to talk loud on the phone, I can't play music, I can't solicit, I can't gamble, I can't eat or drink, and I can't assault a passenger, conductor, or driver.

That's it, I'm hopping on the bus tomorrow for FREE, then I'm punching the driver with one hand and eating a turkey leg with the other. I'm gonna leave my bag at the back of the bus, and while I'm talking LOUDLY on my cell phone I'm going to walk to the front of the bus, panhandle a couple of folks, and start a game of craps on the floor.

Just watch me.

*It's ok to think I'm crazy and/or feel sorry for me.

I'm throwing my support behind this hottie

Dennis Kucinich is running for president, again. I know next to nothing about him except that he couldn't deliver Ohio in 2004. So he's dead to me. He's also got those weird eyes like Jim Lehrer that creep me out.

And can someone explain the Obama thing to me? Two minutes in the Senate and a better-than-average speech at the 2004 convention and he can be President? Overlord Oprah's endorsement aside, I'm so waiting this one out. And as his constituent I have no idea what he's accomplished for Illinois.

So glad we got rid of cholera

I was kidnapped last night, and oddly my captors forced me at knife point to tour two 19th century historical homes in the South Loop. Very strange behavior for criminals. Since I've officially given up on Grey's Anatomy, it wasn't that big of a deal to miss Thursday night t.v.

The Glessner and Clarke Houses, decked out for the holidays, turned out to be a nice way to spend a couple of hours. They did a great job restoring the houses, however it was a little disconcerting to see my Target floor lamp in one.

Thankfully it wasn't a walking tour (it's like Artic circle cold here) and our tour guide was a pretty smart gal. A given on any guided tour, you always have at least one annoying person who asks stupid questions or expects the tour guide to like travel back in time or something to get ridiculously accurate information.

Example. The Clarke House is Greek Revival, which the guide said emphasizes symmetry. On one side of the house, there are three windows. The other also has three windows, with one actually being a "fake" but they put shutters on the outside, for you guessed it, symmetry. Here's a little taste of the exchange.

Annoying Dude: Why did they put the window there if it's not real?

She had all ready gone through the above explanation.

Guide: Because the other side has it.

Annoying Dude: Why?

Guide: For symmetry. There are three windows on either side.

Annoying Dude: But why?

In the second house the guide talked about a holiday gift giving tradition the Glessner family had, and they weren't sure if it was something family came up with themselves or if it was an established practice of the time.

Annoying Dude: Why did they hide the presents like that?

Guide: We don't know.

Annoying Dude: Did they come up with it themselves?

Guide: We. Don't. Know.

At this point, we just threw him into the fire and made a solemn pact to never speak of it again. But no one said I couldn't blog about it.

The Clarke House had the sweetest middle aged security guard who told those of us in the back of the tour that the house was haunted and she was scared of the place. She said she sees and hears things there all the time (old man Clarke died of cholera in the home) and even heard things while we were upstairs with the guide last night. We thought that was awesome and wanted to hear her stories instead.

"I'm a terrible security guard," the fraidy cat said, wide-eyed. "I don't like to be here alone."

"That's ok, we got your back." I told her.

A whale of a an interview

While many of you have forgotten the Sea World orca who attacked her handler a week or so ago, I've been trying to get an interview with the tempestuous Kasatka to no avail. A true diva, she's protected behind a wall of publicists a mile thick.

Late last night, Kasatka called me. Here's a little sample from our Q and A.

Me: Geez Kasatka, it's like 2 a.m.

Kasatka: Look lady do you want this interview or not?

Me: Sure. Sorry. So what happened?

Kasatka: God, why is everyone so transfixed by this story? You'd think I flashed my whale coochie to paparazzi like Brittney or Lindsay.

Me: Actually Kasatka, no one really cares. I just need something for my blog.

Kasatka: Oh. Anyway I was having a pretty bad day--bloated, tired, you know--and I was trying to send that idiot Ken Peters the I-don't-wanna-be-your-trick-pony vibe but he wasn't getting it. So I decided to kill him.

Me: Kill him? That's kind of bitchy. Couldn't you just, like quit?

Kasatka: Dude, I'm a KILLER whale. That's what I do.

Me: It seemed like you had second thoughts. What happened.

Kasatka: Yeah, the guy's got a family and shit. The holidays are here. . .

Me: I didn't know whales had such hearts!

Kasatka: And, we're highly intelligent you know.

Me: I thought that was the dolphins.

Kasatka: Fuck that, most plankton's smarter than your average dolphin.

Me: Kasatka, you have quite a mouth.

Kasatka: I'm kind of drunk. I gotta go.

Me: Ok. Drink a ton of water before you go to bed. Less of a hangover that way.

Kasatka: Thanks for the tip.

I was attacked by Christmas decorations

I don't know if my left eye will ever be the same after a strand of evergreen garland fell off the entrance to my living room and slapped me on the eyeball. Eeewwwouch

Regardless, I'm still filled with holiday cheer. And I apologize for taking a week to share my tales of my trip home for Thanksgiving. I knew it would be blog worthy, so I carried a notebook around for most of my visit.

Aunt Sheila, not in the mood for Angie's "crap"

My Aunt Sheila picked me up the day before Thanksgiving at the Amtrak station in Mendota, Illinois, a one horse town and the village of my birth.

"What are you wearing?" she asked, eyebrow raised as I hopped in her car. "What is up with that hat?"

"I wasn't aware there was a dress code." I was sporting sweats, a denim jacket, baseball hat, scarf, and probably some eye boogers as I had gotten up at 5:30 to catch the early train. I didn't expect any flack from her of all people--a woman who shops at a place called the Underseller and has never stopped wearing legwarmers. However, she is hands down my favorite relative outside of my immediate family and is allowed to make fun of me. I gave her a playful shove, and we were on our way south for the 15 minute drive to my hometown.

Acting as an unsolicited tour guide of sorts, Sheila began to regale me with the latest busines news of the Illinois Valley. And oddly she had adopted some sort of twang as she spoke.

"Yeah, we're supposed to get an Olive Garden, and I went to the Super Center in Ottawa. I walked the whole thing! It sure is big." Then she paused a bit and said, "We're really growin' here ya know ."

"Why are you talking like that?" I asked.

"Like what?"

"With that Southern accent? Where in the hell did that come from?" I asked, no demanded of her.

"Oh, shut up Angie. I don't want any of your crap today," she said.

My crap? I wasn't aware I had "crap" that would upset a person so. Anyway, we had a good laugh and went to my brother's job to hit him up for money. Chad's new place of employment is located right next door to a massage parlor called "The Spa" and appropriately housed in a trailer. Later that weekend, Chad would point to a Spa employee taking her cigarette break on the back steps and say, "Now there, there's something for your blog."

Stroll down memory lane

I got to my mom's apartment and had my fill of day time TV by the end of The View, so I bid her farewell, grabbed my iPod and went out for a walk. It was unseasonably warm, beautiful even, so I was a bit surprised to see so many townsfolk stare at me from their cars as they passed me. Like Los Angeles, people in my hometown love their cars. They drive (frequently drunk) everywhere. So it's weird to see someone on foot, I guess. I wondered if the freaky guy I saw whizz by me on a bike with a cross and a sign that said "Jesus Saves" on the back got as many looks. Anyway, they probably just thought I got a DUI.

I passed what used to be a liquor store--a place where I bought six cases of beer along with a classmate at the age of 16. I had the biggest boobs, and he had a full beard since the age of like 10 so we were the chosen ones. We used to drink outside in the woods--a place called the G-spot--and the six cases of cheap beer, if I remember correctly, was for a summer party there.

I ended up near the downtown area and decided to walk by the house where I grew up. My family moved from there about 10 years ago--so I'm way beyond the nostaligia thing. But it was a little sad to see our neighbors house where two of the nicest people on the planet had lived. Frank and Rose, and elderly married couple had never had children and were de facto grandparents to the neighborhood kids (something I never shared with my real, crazy, quasi-agoraphobe of a grandmother.) Frank even knew about my early obsession with politics and said he was amazed how a junior high girl could blab and blab about it (it was my inner-50-year-old woman talking.) Poor Frank, may he rest in peace, told me about the Congressional Page program and urged me to give it a whirl. It's probably a good thing that I never realized that dream Frank had for me.

Also of note, I walked by the Catholic Church were I had cheated on my confirmation test and then showed up hungover for said sacrament (I had been out the night before at a community college keg party. I had THE biggest crush on this gangly basketball player.)

Does God hold grudges?

NERDS!

Chad, Zach, and I went for lunch Friday afternoon and took a little spin out by this new resort called Big Bear, or Grand Bear. Something like that. Illinois, for the most part is pretty flat and boring, but where I grew up there are rivers and bluffs and state parks where folks hike and fish and fall to their deaths if they have too much to drink and do stupid shit.

We ate in an even smaller town called Utica, at bar where an old cronie of mine--Pork Chop, or Chops if you're familiar--tends bar. I never liked that name for him, because I assumed some local jerks gave it to him. Thus, I always make a point to call him by his real name, Kevin.

"Hi Kevin, what's up?" I asked him. "Oh, same old same old, Ang." He sighed, washing glasses.

I knew the feeling. A few years back I ran into a guy I knew down there and he asked me what "I was up to." I told him, and he kind of stood there silently, frowned, and then said, "Nothing changes with you, still the same thing everytime I see you." Besides the fact that this guy was and is an unmitigated asshole, in some circles if you're not reporting marriages, new babies, or home purchases, you might as well use Chop's reply of "Same old, same old (insert name)." It saves everyone time and the energy spent on feigning interest.

That night I had dinner with several friends at a local place called the Right Spice, a restaurant whose name I have problem with. It reminds me of deodorant. Like, "Honey, can you pick me up some Right Spice at the store?" Or "I just took a whore bath--you know a little Right Spice under each arm, a spray of perfume and out the door!"

Anyway, we were all at the bar having some pre-dinner drinks when someone pointed out a guy that looks an awful lot like Ogre from Revenge of the Nerds. Older, grayer, fatter, but it was him. It turns out Ogre married a local girl and was home for the holidays. Ogre also owns a Wrigleyville bar, fyi.

After dinner we made our way to the local watering holes, of which, let me tell ya, there are several. My favorite--a place called Elle's is run by the newly svelte (and single) bartender nicknamed Slubba (pronounced sloo-ba.) On happening holiday weekends past, the bar (what Chicago yuppies would call a dive) would be packed. Slubba would be slinging drinks with a dollar bill stuck to his sweaty forehead. On this night it was quieter and Slubba doesn't sweat as much. Slubba and I have this crass, flirty back and forth going on. I remembered this episode of Seinfeld where George gets his bald head oiled up and rubs it on some chick. Slubba and I decide (jokingly and hypothetically, of course) that we'll do the same, except I say we should use non-stick Pam.

You know, less calories. He's slimmer now. Get it?

Don't I look like a suicide bomber?

Behold my mini-photo essay from my commute.

No one should have this much fun trudging 8 blocks through the snow and then waiting 20 minutes for the 60 Blue Island.

Watching . . waiting . .

Alas, salvation!

Special commuter shout-out to the girl I sat next to. Sorry for all the snow I inadvertently shook off on you.

Clay Aiken you can't touch me either

And not because you're gay. You're just creepy, and rubbery looking. Now that I think about it, Kelly Ripa is also creepy and rubbery looking. Hmmm.

I have to say going into this holiday that I'm most thankful for celebrity news. It's been a good few days, what with the TomKat wedding, the Kelly Ripa/Clay Aiken and now Rosie O'Donnell controversy, the Britney-KFed split, the O.J. book/interview, and the Kramer outburst. I'm going to have TONS to talk about Thursday at dinner. There will be no reason whatsoever to engage in any real, meaningful conversation with family and friends.

I'm shipping off tomorrow morning for the swamp in which I grew up. I wish everyone in the blogosphere a happy and healthy turkey day!

My Christmas List

This is what I want for Xmas.

1. A maid
2. An additional (virtual) liver that I can tap into remotely
3. A personal stylist
4. An eating disorder
5. A trust fund
6. Keys to my dream house on the corner of Lexington and Ada
7. 20/20 vision
8. Patrick Fitzgerald
9. Smaller feet
10.To know what was under the ENORMOUS black rectangle that was covering Sascha Baron Cohen's privates in Borat.

Did I break the Google?

I've never seen this message before:

The holidays are here, and I think I might be ok

I have a reputation at work for being anti-holiday. We have some new folks here who are asking about holiday parties and gift exchanges, and a coworker who's been around for a while said, "Why you asking her? She's a SCROOGE!"

Nice.

Sure last year I wrote things on this blog like "I feel like there's a big fat Santa sitting on my chest, jamming candy canes in my eyes," and I also told my subordinates to plan whatever they wanted for a party, tell me who I have to buy for, and I'll show up but want no part of any holiday hullabaloo that lasts for five or six freaking weeks. Was I wrong? I don't think so. The baby Jesus is way too humble to have anyone fawning all over him for more than five days, I say.

So today, I tried to conjure up some anti-holiday acrimony when a newbie brought up Christmas. In spite of myself I started suggesting things like office potlucks and Secret Santas. And when I got an envelope this week in the mail from my sister-in-law containing new school pictures of my nephew and neice Zach Tee and Kaylla Tee, with a note that read: Here's some new pics, hope they aren't bent to shit, see you at Thanksgiving."

I smiled, and thought yes, zany family. I will see you at Thanksgiving.

So it's true then

I held my own Iraq study group over the weekend. It was just me, and I held it on my couch yesterday, hungover, watching the McLaughlin Group. The study group lasted from approximately 12:22 to 12:27 CST. I poured over zero documents, interviewed zero military experts, and spent zero tax dollars and have come to following conclusion:

This country is run by a bunch of boobs and weinies. The biggest boob--President Bush--and his friends decided (before 9/11, which we knew then) that Saddam had to go to make way for a Baghdad Barnes and Noble and Wal-Mart, a.ka. democracy. Boob and the other boobs thought it would be like really easy. Maybe a month or so of shock and awe, and everyone back to Crawford for some quail hunting and keg stands. The Democratic weinies in Congress, paralyzed with the fear that the pro-war boobs would call them babies, back a war they knew was wrong. They would later lie and say they believed the lies Bush told them. No one really believed the stories about WMD though, it just kind of made people feel better about what they were doing. So how can a bunch of boobs and weinies clean up this mess?

I don't know. That's when my Iraq study group went back to bed. I have a feeling the real Iraq study group won't fare much better.

I do have to say I'm a little disappointed that Rumsfeld is gone. After he chastised Pentagon reporters a few weeks back, telling them to "relax" in the face of their questioning, I wanted to create T-shirts that say "RUMMY SAY RELAX!"

But I never got around to it, and now it's too late.

Thank you notes

My coworker, a newlywed, is plowing through a list of thank-you's she has to write and uses our Metra commute to hammer out a few each day.

Thank you notes are important, of course. Not acknowledging a gift or a kindness is terrible indeed. But I must admit there are plenty of notes I've should have written over the years, and I'd like to use my blog today to try and catch up.

April 4, 1981

Dear President Reagan:

Thank you so much for giving my family government cheese. It doesn't melt very good like Velveeta though. I'll just pretend it is I guess.

Signed,
Angie Tee, age 9

P.S. Why does my grandma hate you so much?


November 11, 1983

Dear Aunts and Uncles:

Thank you for being complete losers. Everytime I see you do drugs, or have more children, or I visit your gross houses, you remind me that 18 can't come soon enough.

Good luck and all that,

Your niece,
Angie

P.S. Where's my #@$% baby sitting money!!!!

April 10, 1985

Dear Boy I first kissed:

Thank you for sticking your Dorito-encrusted tongue in my mouth. Let's not try the hickey again though. OK? I had the imprint of your braces on my neck and Peggy said she was going to tell my mom when we were in Social Studies.

xoxo
Angie


October 1990

Dear Boy I first yada-yada'd:

Thank you setting the bar really low. I especially like how you sweat so much during sex it drips into my eyes sometimes. I can't understand why women would sleep around. What, are they worried that they'll be relegated to a life of mediocre sex if they swing at the first pitch?

Curious, huh?

Love,
Angie

I got your mandate, right here!

Ahhhh, to be a fly on the wall in the White House this morning. But I will not gloat, because I feel their pain.

Twelve years ago I was in Oklahoma City watching the Democrats lose Congress. That damned Bill Clinton was up to no good at the time. What with him trying to reform health care, passing a crime bill that banned cop killer bullets and creating something called community policing, the entire nation was up for grabs. The GOP's three pronged strategy of God, Gays, and Guns had finally taken hold. It was a horrific evening.

The candidate I was working for had lost his shirt big time in a Senate race, and I remember standing aghast in front of the TV watching what was happening across the country. A hot shot DC political consultant was standing behind me.

"Oh. My. Fucking. God," he said almost as if he was watching a mushroom cloud explode before him. He saw my face and tried to console me. "Don't worry, we'll get it back soon."

Soon? Well anyway, they got it back, and they better not piss me off.

Or I'm going to have to start my own party. And I'm taking all you people with me.

Fun with my phone

I always vote for the guy who manages to get the most signs up the night before the election. Here's the corner of 18th and Blue Island at 7:30 a.m. today.



And from a distance (and from behind my glasses that are now too weak) these abandoned cowboy boots kind of looked like a pair of severed legs on the sidewalk.

Do you guys think it's like an omen? Like, "she who sees the abandoned cowboy boots will become thrice blessed with riches"? Once when I saw a one-legged pigeon, I wondered the same thing.

Good luck tomorrow!

Maybe if we hold our noses with one hand, and pull the lever with the other?

Vote early and vote often!

Free polls from Pollhost.com

Why on earth do you read this blog?

I'm lame enough to think you're  funny I'm worried that you might write about what happenend on Halloween I want to keep tabs on my ex-girlfriend and/or current wife I hate my job and have nothing else to do I'm stalking you I'm Patrick Fitzgerald and I love you too

I'm a bad blog mother

If this blog was a newborn infant, it would be wrapped in a hefty bag, blue, with its umbilical cord still attached, hanging on for dear life in a dumpster. I've been ignoring my blog the way Madonna ignores little Rocco and Lourdes. It's just plain wrong. I'm turning over a new leaf, I swear. I'm going to up in your respective kool-aid at least 3 to 4 times a week from here on out. No DCFS case worker will be knocking on my door.

Here's a little lunch time sumpin sumpin.

I've got a sketch (btw, I've been posting them to right--check them out) planned for my Monday night class--one that utilizes something called "clash of context." When our teacher tried to explain it to us, we acted like we all ride the short bus. She seriously was getting frustrated and let us out early.

Anyway, so here's what I'm thinking. Laura Bush and Condi Rice are hanging out like a couple of girlfriends, drinking, chatting, watching Extra! It comes out that Laura didn't vote for Dubya. And I want Condi to be uber-ghetto and over the top, so I asked my coworker who teaches me all the inside lingo. And this is what I got:

Man Up: step up to the plate, be a man, etc.
Don't get cut: literally--dont' get stabbed, etc., figuratively--don't get a verbal lashing
Pour the tea: get the business done
Don't get a beat down (also heading for, or looking for a beat down)- Don't get your ass kicked.
Talk to the hand: I already knew that one
Get your end up: Get off your ass

It should be a good one.

Happy Halloween and Shit!

I am wearing an orange turtle neck* and eating a lunch of potato salad, diet coke, and mini Mr. Goodbars as I write this. If I had jack-o-latern earrings, I would have seriously considered wearing them.

Yeah, I'm that girl. I even like candy corn. OK, I love candy corn.

This is hands down, my favorite holiday although I must admit this All Hallow's Eve kind of snuck up on me. I didn't decorate my flower boxes with orange lights, I didn't carve a pumpkin, and I don't think I'll have time to watch Halloween (I have it on VHS) tonight. I have some candy, but I'm just going to give it to my first floor neighbors to pass out because they begin shooting their short film on our front sidewalk tonight and I don't want to get in the way.

*left over from a Velma costume a couple of years ago.

HOT NEIGHBOR WAS ON T.V.!

The television was on in the background while I was in the bathroom getting ready for a Halloween Party yesterday. Check, Please! was on and I heard Alpanah Singh announce they were going to review the May Street Cafe--a restaurant near my place--so I ran into the living room. And there he was.

Hot neighbor. Talking up the joint. I had to call the one other person I know who's familiar with him.

Just as I was dialing Janel's number, there was a knock at my door. The workman had arrived to take a look at my shower that's apparently running into the British neighbors' flat, yet again, below me. A little confusion ensued.

"Hot neighbor's on Channel 11!" I frantically yelled into my phone, letting the guy in.

"What?" asked the workman.

"I know! I have it on!" said Janel, equally excited. I pulled the workman into the living room and tried to carry on a conversation with Janel, while explaining the whole hot neighbor thing to him.
For those of you outside of Chicago, or not familiar with the show, Check Please brings on three "regular" people who come on and offer up their favorite restaurants for review by the other two. Restaurants that get a rave review--like May St.--get a tremendous boost in business and don't look back. Consequently hot neighbor should be able to eat there free for life.

Hot neighbor--or I should say hot former neighbor as he has moved--was cleaned and pressed for the show leading Janel to say that she thinks some of his heat has cooled. Maybe a little, it's just that he's one of those guys who look really good dirty. You know the bed head, scruffy face, cigarette dangling from the mouth, walking the dogs, calling hello up to you as you're leaning out to water your flower boxes, kind of hot.

He may not live in Pilsen anymore, but he's continuing to keep it real as he lambasted the other guest's choice of Tavern on Rush. Maybe just a little over the top, because if some folks would rather eat at a restaurant sitting on a slice of Chicago's most expensive real estate knowing that their Lexus SUV is sitting safely in a nearby lot versus off a dark, industrial strip on Cermak Rd. with something that looks like a giant lit cigarette sitting on its end and belching out God only knows what nearby, then to each their own.

In honor of this hot neighbor sighting, I'm reprinting "Ode to My Hot Neighbor," originally posted in April.

Hot neighbor. You're so hot.
You walk two dogs That you got
You smoke cigarettes And I'm guessing pot.
Hot neighbor. You're so hot.

Which way you want to take?

Each Monday night after my Second City class I grab a cab from the corner of North and Wells and brace myself for the elaborate explanation I have to offer up to get myself home. There is of course the inevitable language barrier, and this is intensified by the disbelief one can get when you give your address with the word "south" before the street when you're picked up in this area.

"South?"

"Yep. South."

"Really?"

"Yes, really." Geez.

And then we have to haggle on the route.

"So you want me to just take Ashland all the way?"

"No I do not want you to do that."

I'll offer my alternative--which fuck, I live there so I think I know best here--and they'll just kind of shrug their shoulders and we'll be on our way.

Last night my cabbie seemed to have his shit together. I popped in the back, said hello, and gave him my address. He knew the cross street and happily headed south on Wells.

"Which way you wanna take?"

My stomach kind of tightened and I said, voice lowered:

"Ontario to the expressway and get off on 18th?"

"No problem."

No problem. THANK YOU! Now that wasn't so hard, was it?

Note to the cabbie that picked me and Janel up by the Map Room on Friday night: Bill Withers sings "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone." Action Jackson/Apostle Creed as you correctly pointed out when I said it was Carl Weathers, is not a singer.

All politics is loco

I've truly had it with campaign commercials. They're obnoxious, over-the-top, and I can't believe anyone would seriously consider them a viable resource to help make a decision at the polls.

But wouldn't it be awesome if we could produce commercials to help our own personal causes--like snag a love interest, get a new job, or sway a blog reader to choose your site over another? Read on.

Let's say I was trying to steal readers away from Justin. (Imagine serious, dark male voice reading the copy--you the know the same guy who seems to do the voice over for all political commercials everywhere.)

Justin Kaufman will do just about anything for a laugh.
He supports amnesty for illegal aliens, consorts with so-called "pimps" and "ho's",
and has appeared semi-nude several times on stage.
Justin Kaufman. Just what is he thinking?

Show Justin the joke's on him.
Send him a message on November 7th by clicking Blogdiggidy on his list of links.

Perhaps I'm trying to a sway a guy to choose me over another girl?

Suzy says she wasn't picking out china patterns after date two, but isn't this Suzy at Macy's with a known Chicago wedding coordinator?

Suzy says she's cool with you hanging out with your friends whenever, but isn't this Suzy crying on the shoulder of her roomate when you said you didn't want to come over?

Suzy says a lot of things.

Just who is the real Suzy?

Vote Angie Tee on November 7th by texting "you up for xoxox?" to 773-322-XXXX

What if it's down to me and another candidate for a job?

Sure George has 10 years experience working in public adminstration,
but let's look at exactly what George was administering.

You guessed it. Final Four office pools, after work happy hours,
and alka seltzer smoothies to get him through morning meetings.

Party Boy George a good fit for this job? Think again.

Reaffirm your committment to office decorum on November 7th by saying yes to Angie Tee.

They're not the greatest . .

I got a new phone last week . . . one that takes PICTURES! So now when I tell you I walked out of the coffeehouse and right into a protest against McDonalds, or when I wine that its too dark for a human to be up and about ready to leave for work (this a cockeyed view from my living room window) you can see what I mean! Yippeee!

Drunken Monologue

For tonight's class I have to turn in a one page monologue for a character we created in last week's class. I feel creatively stifled by the character (a 38-year-old soon to be divorced man who sells insurance and has a plastic surgery addiction) I came up with, so here's one that's a little closer to my universe. Some of these lines have actually been said by actual people I know.

Ahem. Here goes. . .

It's me. You up? It's not that late . . .3:30? Oh. . .well why in the hell did you answer your phone then? In a cab. . I don't know. Uh, excuse me, Mr. Cab driver? MR. CAB DRIVER? Where am we? Lake Shore and what? Gram? Grand? Oh, yeah Grand. I'm like 15 minutes away. I have to pee can I pee at your house? What do you mean what's wrong with my bathroom? I'm in a cab asshole. Hey, Mr. Cab driver? MR. CAB DRIVER! Uh tell this guy you won't let me pee in this cab. See? I told you. My bathoom's fine. I got a new shower curtain and it's sooooooooooooooooooooo cute. It's red and pink and yellow and red. Oh, I don't feel so good. I need air. Excuse me, Mr. Cab driver? MR. CAB DRIVER! Can you roll down my window a little, it stinks in here. Wait a minute someonesbeepin in. Hello? What? I can't hear you dumbass! I'm in a cab. I told Brian, God! Gyros? That sounds fucking awesome. What he thinks because he bought flowers it's all ok? Fuck that. FLOWERS DIE! They fucking die. Tell him I said that. No, I'm going straight home. I didn't call no one. Ask my cab driver. Excuse me, Mr. Cabdriver? MR. CAB DRIVER? Uh, can you tell my stupid drunk friend that you're taking me straight home and I'm going anywhere near Halsted and 15th. See? Would a cabbie lie? I think it's like an oath or whatever. OK Bye. . . No, I'm still going to Halsted and 15th, that was just. . . SHIT!. . . Still there? Sorry. Roosevelt and Columbus. It was ok. They're still up there. Lincoln Park is ba-roooo-tal! Not much. Some beers and a shot that looked like urine. Golden shower? Come on. Cigarettes. Just cigarettes. Really. OK, a couple puffs of a cigar. No I'm not going to puke. . . I can handle it. What are you going to be for halloween? SO WHAT IF YOU'RE 40! I'm going to be a undercover vice detective from the 70s. I've got an afro, and I'm going to carry around fake coke, money, and a gun around. That's not stupid, it's cool. Fuck. I really have to pee! Yeah, have a beer ready. And I'm not coming over to do it. I just really need to pee.

The Frizzy, Bushy Mullet That Once Rocked My World

Yesterday, I did the unthinkable. I downloaded a Richard Marx song off of iTunes.

I hadn't thought about Mr. Marx since I was like 15, but after reading this story in Sunday's Tribune, it all came rushing back like the emotion one feels when they hear a sweet Richard Marx ballad.

In the spring of 1988, my first concert experience was a Richard Marx show at the Peoria Civic Center Theater. I guess I was a big fan. I had a big poster of him--purchased at Spencers--hanging in my bedroom.

A few of us went, and our friend Julie's dad drove us. He had a buddy tag along, and the pair went to strip club after dropping us off which is a little creepy. So last night I tried-frantically even--to find the ticket stub for this post--I've had it for years--but all I could find was crap like a campaign poster signed by Teresa Heinz Kerry. I figured I didn't need proof. Because who would make this up, right?

So anyway, I guess now Richard is quite the accomplished country music song writer who doesn't want anyone to know in what Chicago suburb he lives. It was a very informative piece. I was surprised to learn Richard wrote an N'Sync song in the 90s --a song I secretly--ok-- openly loved, and I downloaded it as well. (My friends were aware that I liked N-Sync then, but they never knew just how much. I thought Lance Bass was the cute one.)

Make fun if you wish. But I will defend the genius of Endless Summer Nights to the end. It was the best 99 cents I've ever spent.

And Richard, you're right. Summer DID come and leave without a warning--it was fucking cold today. All at once you looked and I was gone, you say? Well I had to move on to other music like Poison and Bon Jovi. Now I'm looking back at you, yes because of that Tribune article. I'm searching for a way that we can be like we were before? I guess that's true because I did have to search for you on iTunes. The city doesn't look the same, I agree. Like I said, it's really cold today. But you don't need to give your life, that's a little dramatic. I will, infact hold you tight, and take you there again--metaphorically though. I remember how I loved you, that's why I put you on my blog. All we had back then was time until that day we said goodbye? Richard, are you trying to make me cry? Yes, I remember every moment of those endless summer nights too! You remember those walks along the beaches? Me too! My hair glistened in the sun? Ok. Um, I don't remember you making love to me under the moon though, I was like 15 dude. Yes, there were a lot of nights we spent in silence, because that's about when I started drinking. So you're saying now we can have it all again? And you want me to say this when? When the sun brings my heart to yours? Uh, wha? And I can't run away from what we had together? Can we slow things down, Richard? And I'm sorry, but it can't be only you and me tonight, well unless you want to watch Grey's Anatomy and the Office.

And I thought I was a spaz

I got to keep it local today, and work in my neighborhood so I went to a place that has better coffee than I do and faster a web connection. I can't tell you how awesome it was to "clock in" at 8 a.m, after waking up at 7:30, throw on some sweats, go through a very rudimentary hygiene ritual, and walk 10 minutes to my new "office."

By 11:30, I felt like I had been working for a week straight so I decided to clock out and move on to yet another coffeehouse that has an awesome roasted veggie sandwich for my afternoon shift. I was standing in line to pay for my shit, when this chick jumps up from her chair, shouts "OH MY GOD!" and takes her laptop, her plate of food, her cup of coffee and her glass of water with her as she tried to run out the door. Her companion looked as if she wanted to dissolve into the floor.

My only guess? She drank way too much coffee. Or maybe she thought a passing city truck was going to tow her car, which looked nothing like a tow truck. . . I dunno. But it was pretty painful to watch.

Alright, afternoon blog break is over. And I'm hungry again.

"The local bookmaker would like to buy you a drink"

Last night was more than a little fucked up.

I was up in Lincoln Park yesterday afternoon pounding the pavement to promote an upcoming work event--it was a gorgeous day--and the sunshine coupled with all those beer signs caused me to think drinking alone might be a great idea.

After dropping some cards off at a used bookstore, I saw an Old Style sign on a non-descript bar nearby that was begging, BEGGING me to come in. I'm an urban explorer and always in need of new material, so I walked in.

The paneled bar was dark and had two TVs on either side of the room with the games of the moment on--the Cardinals, and some college football thing. There were a half dozen flannel-clad old coots sitting on their stools who all turned--as if on cue--when I walked in.

"HI GUYS!" I said, finding a stool in between two of the older coots. The bartender, a very friendly guy, came over immediately to get me a $3 Old Style.

"You at the bookstore, huh?" He said.

"Yep. I've decided to drink alone today, and I have this book here just in case no one talks to me."

"Joe will talk to you," he said nodding at the coot on my right. Joe was hunched over the paper and was wearing a dirty brown cardigan. He looked like a some sort of teacher or professor.

"You look like some sort of teacher or professor," I said to Joe, introducing myself.

"I'm in IT." Joe then went on to fill me on on this big merger thing at work that will more than likely cause him to lose his job. He and his coworkers don't do anything anymore except play video games. I urged Joe to hang on until his severance package comes in.

Joe and I continued on with our polite banter, when I heard one of the younger guys at the end of the bar go on about how women he dates need to understand sports. His name was Pete. I could tell his rant was for my benefit.

"PETE, MOST OF US PRETEND TO LIKE SPORTS JUST SO WE CAN GET LAID." I yelled at him down the bar. Pete thought that was pretty funny. Pete then offered me a shot. "WELL OK, PETE BUT JUST ONE!"

Pete and I gulped down a Ruppleman's shot. It's like rubbing alcohol blended with melted candy canes. Blech! But I was a guest, and thought it rude to turn down the offer of free alcohol.

I had only been there for about 30 minutes when I realized maybe I'm not the best candidate for drinking alone. I checked in with a friend who was nearby and he said he'd be right over, being more than happy to babysit.

The bartender--Mike--then came down my way to hang out. He told me the neighborhood bookie would like to buy me a drink and honestly, I couldn't have been more honored. After 10 years of living in Chicago, I never met a bookie, let alone drank with one. I asked Mike if bookmaking was a fulltime job, and he said that it was all this guy ever did since was a kid. "He learned the job, works with the wiseguys and well you know."

Dan "The Bread Man" came over to say hello on his way out of the bar. He was very personable. Mike said they feel bad when they beat him. I could see that.

When my friend arrived about an hour later he found me on the floor playing with three dogs who were also regulars. He doesn't drink, and as I got drunker I was HANGING on him. But that's a different blog post.

I called in one more reinforcement--Janel--and the three of us hung out in the backroom near the pool table. We were "playing" pool when I noticed Mike duck into the backroom.

He came out and handed me a perfectly rolled joint. "Don't smoke it here," he said sternly.

Well doesn't this guy like to party, I thought. I put the joint in my purse and though I have no plans whatsoever to smoke it, I won't throw it away.

Because, hey, free pot you know?

Mr. Foley, he's just not that into you

I took a few minutes today to read the Foley IM transcript on the ABC news site. An interesting read (not nearly as long as that damn Starr report) and I was struck by the fact that Foley couldn't get that this kid really didn't want to have a creepy IM sex exchange. Foley's like, uh what are you wearing? And the kid replies, "normal clothes." Foley goes on about hard ons and stuff, and the kid's like, "settle down." The kid establishes that he likes girls, and is more concerned with bitching about how inept his mom is when it comes to computers. But that Foley, that crazy guy, keeps on keeping on. It was like he was having a conversation with himself. And I'm glad that I now know that Foley always makes time to rub one out. I wonder how many votes the guy missed in the House over the years. . . . but his masturbation record . . . fageddaboutit.

I have a coworker who drifts over to my cube periodically to discuss the latest and greatest with the Iraq War and the Bush Administration. She's heavy into NPR and Air America and she--understandably--gets pretty upset with each revelation. She'll come over and go on and on about facism, and I'll just be like, seriously I can't deal with the dissolution of habeaus corpus right now. I've got shit to do.

If it wasn't for this Foley scandal that I'm completely obsessed with, I wouldn't be paying attention to any news. Like this week, the only thing I let upset me was the Italian girl from Chicago not getting a rose on the Bachelor and my inability to find History Detectives on PBS. Last night I was so uneffected by yet another amazing Frontline about the return of the Taliban (they never went away really--they just moved to the suburbs, fyi), that I fell asleep.

So back to Foley. Obviously I hope the GOP implodes over this. But let's face it, folks on both sides of the aisle knew what a dangerous creep this guy was and kept it on the downlow for all these years.

The weasels we have running this country, man.

Blogdiggidy Exclusive! More Foley IM transcripts

This is going to get me the Pulitzer. I'm sure of it.

MAF54: Did you measure?

HAS1: Foley, it's me, Dennis.

MAF54: Doh! How pissed are you? LOL

HAS1: So not funny. No ideas on how to get out of this . . .

MAF54: I got a couple

HAS1: Well?

MAF54: Say when you heard I liked minors, you thought they meant miners.

HAS1: Don't think so. .

MAF54: You know. . . like miner rights?

HAS1: Understood. Even Rove's stumped.

MAF54: When you start on IM?

HAS1: My grandson showed me

MAF54: Is he hot?

HAS1: FOLEY!

MAF54: Seriously . . . the miners. Those accidents were terrible.

HAS1: Don't think it would work.

MAF54: I was doing research for the online protection bill?

HAS1: Are you drunk. . . lol

MAF54: hammered

HAS1: we need help. . this could be the big one

MAF54: Gotta go

HAS1: Why?

MAF54: No just got copy of TAPS from netflix ;-) badaBING!

Here's something for ya

My coworker made a McDonald's run, and for some reason I felt this incredible urge to have a happy meal. The six piece McNuggets didn't make me particularly happy, but the Little Mermaid barrette (I'm wearing it as I type) made me very happy.

The party I was sweating went well last night. I'm in a very male-dominated business (gay porn), and the guys loved the fresh flowers, jazz/blues, and slides from my company's 90+ year past reflecting hugely on a wall. We had a local cable TV station here and I thought they were sending an interviewer along with the camerman. No such luck. So it was me acting like Diane Sawyer, asking my boss questions, with both of us trying not to laugh. I kept saying, you're going to edit this, right? RIGHT? Hilarious. Everything went by super fast, so I never had any time to drink even water until an hour past when it was supposed to end (My brother called this morning, worried that I didn't keep my no drinking pledge. He was geniunely nervous.) No worries. One and a half beers, some entertaining banter with customers, and I was on my way home.

Is this the Land of Lincoln, or the Land of Gutting Pregnant Women and Taking their Babies? You can hardly swing a dead cat around in this state without hitting an honor box holding a newspaper with the headline: PREGNANT WOMAN GUTTED, FETUS MIA. Enough of these stories. I'm starting to miss the old days when the news media was super obsessed with pit bull attacks.

I'm ready for my closeup!

There are couple of things I learned last night at the last of my introductory writing workshops at The Second City--I'm a terrible actress, and I haven't done nearly enough drugs over the years.

After running through about a dozen sketches that we beginners attempted to give an actor-like reading, some obligatory drinking was to be had at the Old Town Ale House. I was dead tired, but I hadn't self medicated at all over the weekend, and a couple of beers seemed to be in order.

As usual, only the strongest survive these things, so around midnight it was just me and about a half dozen guys--a few of whom actually moved from far away places like Baltimore and Seattle solely to attend Second City. Sitting next to them, I thought, shit, these guys might actually become famous. They're fucking funny, most certainly weird, and they have some major drug creds. I'm not sure where the instructor hailed from (he's just a 27-year-old pup) but he told a funny story about first moving to Chicago to get into comedy. He didn't know a soul and felt like an idiot going to a bar alone. So he spent the better part of two weeks in his tub drinking whiskey and listening to his clock radio until his classes started.

Seattle guy then started talking about "corporate types" who take Second City classes because it was either comedy writing or yoga. I was like, uh that's kind of me, dude. He immediately acknowledged that I clearly could hang, because I was such a good sport when he cast me as the patient trying to get pap smears from two bogus gynecologists in his scene (I'm a method actor, fyi). We also acted together as husband and wife in Baltimore guy's sketch. Totally killed.

The conversation turned to drugs. Seattle guy recalled his days in high school when he was heavy HEAVY into psychedelic drugs. Baltimore guy said he got his best weed as a Marine in Desert Storm. Another guy maintained that everyone should shroom and take ecstasy at least once, and I'm like, well I do take an awful lot of ibuprofen when the ol' cramps start getting bad. That was my contribution.

After some more stories about following the Dead, and things of that ilk that I knew it was time for me to call it a night. Some of the guys decided to go on to worlds that beer alone couldn't take them--I'm certainly not one to judge--since I went on a little self destructive binge myself. This one involved a phone and a gentleman who should know better thant to answer his phone after midnight.

Someone needs to change Brit Hume's batteries

Let's settle this once and for all.

9/11 is Monica Lewinsky's fault.

I stayed home all weekend (10 glorious hours of sleep each night) and this morning I felt so great, so refreshed, I decided I could handle Fox News. And I'm glad I did, because I wouldn't have wanted to miss one second of Chris Wallace interviewing Bill Clinton.

Wallace, a giddy little twit, opened up the interview saying (and I'm paraphrasing), "geez Mr. President, I'm soooo surprised at this, but we got a TON of viewer emails asking me to pose the following question to you: Why were you such a wimpy loser who wanted to be Osama's BFF instead of killing him like a big strong manly Republican would?"

Bubba freaked. He then opened up a can of hillbilly whup ass on him, and when Wallace started giving him the "Why are you getting so upset?"routine, it got worse. Seriously, how could he not want to choke Wallace (uh, cuz I'm sure he could take him) when as Clinton said after 9/11 and everything since, "We have a President who thinks Bin Laden and Aghanistan is 1/7 as important as Iraq."

Here's where Monica comes into play. Remember when the story broke right about the time the movie "Wag the Dog" came out? Clinton reminded Wallace that when he ordered cruise missiles to hit Bin Laden and his squad's training camps in Afghanistan, that Republicans flipped out and said Clinton was trying to deflect attention from the afternoon delight Monica offered up, because they are so oddly fucking obsessed with sex. No one was saying, heck we've got a serious threat here and we're getting behind you.

Thusly, Clinton stopped. And shame on him for that. If only he had chosen a different mouth, imagine how the last several years would have played out.

So this all, humorously I think, is about a couple of blowjobs that the Republicans will never EVER get over.

As for Clinton and the Democrats: Please stop getting mad, and start winning elections.

I'm begging you.

Finally cleaning out sent email box

And I found these re: lines from messages I've sent. I thought they were funny. As for the content of these messages. . . only their lucky recipients and I will ever know.

And by quirky, I mean wierdo
My uterus
I'm evil
I look and feel like shit today
An unfortunate choice of words
Reason to not have kids, no. 1,754
How can I not sleep with thim when he says. . .
Did you survive?
I'M HUNGRY!!!!!!!
I ain't sayin she a homewrecker
This is TMI in the Worst Way, but I can't blog about this and I'm BUSTING!
I'm soooooooo over you
Jobs are for suckers
I see your Afghani and I raise you an Iranian
I'm a moron
I'm retarded
. . . and another thing!
Are you ready to puke?
Good Afternoon, Mr. Tuna

Late lunchtime scraps

Party Girl 2

E-tard is right, I shouldn't tease. This morning I was thinking about some more of my work-related party antics. This one time, at printing camp, I spent three days drinking by night and touring printing presses by day. This printer--located in the great state of Wisconsin--put us up in these cabins, and then let all their customers loose in a sea of booze. I ended up sending a drunken fax to my office at like 2 a.m. one night. Forever on top of my game, I called the next morning to make sure they received it. "Uh, yeah. . . we got it alright," the receptionist confirmed.

TV! TV! YIPEE!

I watched the last few minutes of the Grey's Anatomy season finale last night, a show I'm totally into. I am concerned with what's going to happen with Meredith--all summer I've been on edge. Mc Dreamy? Chris O'Donnell? Who? WHO? However, watching it again now made me realize how crazy ridiculous it is. It's mainly the scoring with songs from "The Fray" and "Snow Patrol" at these super dramatic moments like when what's-his-name picks up Izzy from Dead Denny's bed. It made me wonder if my life would be different with a soundtrack. Jerky ex-beau comes back, tries to be all romancy and sad-eyed, but I give him my best Miles Standoffish imitation. What if a Goo Goo Dolls song started up at a pivotal moment? Would I make the same choice? I also saw an awesome parody of Grey's Anatomy on Mad TV this summer that might have something with my new found criticism.

And yeah, I'm all over this show tonight.

Party Girl

I'm planning a pretty big party here at work--one where alcohol will be served--and have told a coworker or two that I've been forbidden to drink during said shindig.

"Oh my God, who said you can't drink?"

"Uh, I said."

I have pre-emptively cut myself off as a way to thwart the Ghosts of Work Parties Past. Some highlights:

It all started in 1994, when as an intern in D.C. I got loaded on wine at a function (attended by Bill Clinton) that required me mixing with members of Congress and the Secret Service. I kept it together, as best as a 22-year-old drunk on White Zin and politics could throughout the event, but ended up putting a cigarette hole in my dress, and making out with a married, uber-Creepy State Senator from the East Coast later that night. Yuck. I didn't make it to work the next day, and my supervisor then (now a big wig in the Democratic Party) was quite impressed.

And then there were the publishing years, which required the occasional dinner with Smithsonian folks at the University Club. I had a partner in crime then--Mr. Bottle-a-Day Art Director--and the two of us would bail out of the boring conversations early and head to Buddy Guy's. I'd wait for his lead. He'd let out a heavy sigh, slam his glass down, and declare, "I AM OUT OF HERE!" Subtle. But it worked. And we'd get a couple of people to leave with us.

Also during my stint at the publishing company, I attended a 30th anniverary party for the first magazine my rich, eccentric bosses started. Two great moves on my part: I told my boss off, and somehow still maintained my job. And I told his boss, who was wearing pants, "You have a beautiful dress on." (It was dark, and she was sitting down.)

This list is endless. But my 6 minute lunch break is over. I have to get back to work. And when the caterer comes this afternoon, I can tell him we'll be less one for the bar.

New blog smell

Pardon my dust, as my brilliant cartoonist and I work out a few kinks on the my new and improved page.

Hey, not that I can't write without apostrophes from here on out, but does anyone know how to get rid of the weird characters that are showing up? Anyone? Anyone?

Friday Night Lights

On Friday night I was back at my old high school to watch my niece perform in the marching band. She’s got a little bit of the Goth thing going on, loves punk music and seems to be carving out a different path for herself. Fine by me, because 20 years ago when I started that school I was listening to Debbie Gibson and reading Sassy.

We parked nearby at my Druncle Mark’s lady friend’s house. It was after 7 on a Friday, and surprisingly he was fairly sober. Sandy on the other hand, was on another planet. I introduced myself quickly, and we headed over to the stadium.

With the Who’s “Teenage Wasteland” appropriately blaring over the loud speakers, Chadtee, Staceytee, Zachtee, and I found seats a few rows back from this guy who, in 1986, I thought was one of the hottest things on earth. He was a senior when I was a freshman, and let me tell you, he’s still gorgeous. He has a blonde wife, and five (I think that’s how many I counted) blonde kids squirmed around him. I made a mental note that if I am to take a husband, he must be a hot husband.

They had maybe two too many kids for them to handle, because we watched one girl—about five or so—eat the paper her parents had brought for her to draw on. I noticed what she was up to when she was about three-quarters of the way through a sheet. I nudged Chad.

“Yeah, that’s her second sheet,” he said, laughing.

“Maybe she’s part billy goat. Should we get involved?” I asked, because the girl’s mom seemed to be distracted by her husband’s hotness and didn’t notice her daughter sitting next to her devouring her artwork.

“No, it’s none of our business,” he said. He was right. Maybe she was on special paper diet. Thankfully, she got her mom’s attention and showed her what she was up to.

I got up to get a soda, and saw a few people I know. One guy, a local probation officer, cringed when I suggested that I wished I had more than soda to drink.

“That’s illegal,” he said, to which I replied, “Yeah, well the last time I was in (the stadium), I broke in.” It’s true, last summer after a friend’s bachelorette party, a few of us hopped the fence at about 4 a.m. and ran the field.

After we watched Kaylla play the xylophone during the half-time show, Chad said it was time to go. In the car on the way home, Zach browbeated his father. “Uh dad, why did we have to leave? Dad? Dad? Why?” His mother assured him that they’d come back again for another game—without my brother.

“Uh, because it wasn’t fun?” Chad said.

I tried to distract Zach and gave him a dollar for the two front teeth he recently lost.

“Can I call you Angela?” he asked.

“Sure, that’s technically my name. Hey, you should put that dollar in your pocket. Or don’t you have pockets?”

Just eight-years-old, Zach has inherited our family knack for sarcasm and smart-assery.

“Uh, don’t you think if I had pockets, that the dollar would be in them?”

She's blogging about boogers?

Early 20th Century New York had Typhoid Mary, and contemporary Chicago has a little known, but very serious public health threat.

His name is Boogerstache. And I had all but forgotten him until yesterday.

It was a lovely day in Chicago several years back when friends and I were dining and drinking alfresco at a neighborhood pub. A waiter there—we’ll call him Joe—knew us as regulars and came out to the patio to take our order.

“Ladies, what’ll it be?” He asked.

As we each looked up from the menu to tell him what we wanted, we saw something that would scar us for years to come. A chunk of snot was smeared into Joe’s black moustache.

Now you’d think our appetites would have instantly disappeared, and we would have jumped up screaming from the table. Didn’t happen. We placed our orders and you can imagine our horror when he came back with the food, the booger was gone.

Where did the booger go? That, my friends, was the million dollar question. Of course we took our chances and ate and drank with reckless abandon. Later that year, Jennifer called me to relay that she had seen the offender, now forever named Boogerstache, crossing Taylor “with his index finger buried to the third knuckle” deep in his nose.

Ready to hurl yet?

So yesterday I walk into a market I frequent and I see a familiar silhouette. As I get closer I hear this guy—wearing the store’s uniform—trying to pick some chick. I pass them, he looks at me. He freezes. Yes, Boogerstache, I know about your sordid, snot-smeared past.

I called Jennifer and left a frantic message.

I bet he works in the deli making coleslaw and the like. And I really need to consider Peapod.

My observations on part one of "The Road to 9/11"

I know Democrats--particularly Bubba--are fuming over ABC's show. I watched it very carefully last night, and I have some additional issues with the artistic license of the film's creators:

-Was there really a Filipino dude singing "Whoop there it is!" at the Manila nightclub where Ramzi Yousef used to hang out with hookers and make bombs?

-Did Al Qaeda soldiers actually have a jamboree-like party where they shot up a screen broadcasting Bill Clinton talking, and then did Jesse White Tumbler moves through rings of fire?

-The costume design was a little problematic. Does anyone know if Northern Alliance soldiers really wear J.Crew barn jackets? I mean they looked good and all, but I don’t think they’d be warm enough for that climate. And they're pricey, although the film makes a point of establishing the Alliance's penchant for heroin trafficking.

-Playing Madeline Albright as a shrill Mary Kay saleslady? Interesting.

- When CIA agents grabbed the guy hiding out in the Sudanese village, all they had to say was “MICHAEL JORDAN!” to the angry machete-wielding crowd, and they let U.S. operatives take the guy? C'mon.

More tomorrow. . .

Bridgeport Lori

Bridgeport--the neighborhood that birthed five Chicago Irish mayors--is the next neighborhood south of me and is where I found myself Friday night at the Sox game.

My hometown friends Kim and Jeff had a couple of extra tickets. I took one, and Jeff's friend Lori--a Bridgeport native and big Sox fan took the other.

I like baseball--just not six freakin months of it--so now is about the time I can consider to start paying attention and Lori was more than willing to bring me up to speed. Before long I was watching the board to see how the Detroit/Minnesota game was progressing and was as concerned as Brideport Lori about reliever Bobby Jenks' hip issues. We were just a couple of rows off the third base line, where we could keep an eye on the bull pen. Yes friends, I was keeping an eye on the bull pen.

"Uh, look. Bobby's up!" Lori said. He had started throwing some pitches, something that also that grabbed the attention of the guys behind me.

"Hey Bobby! Don't mess dis one up!" shouted one.

"He's not in yet, douchebag!" said the other.

He was in soon enough though, and immediately gave away their two run lead.

"What is this? A Cubs game?" I asked to no one in particular.

Bobby was pulled, some other guy came in and the Sox ended up with a win. I couldn't help but think that maybe the 11th hour drama was staged ala the WWF. Seriously, they're in the lead, a reliever comes in and sucks to the high heavens, then the stars come out (hottie Paul Konerko and AJ Pierzynski) and save the day. Great script.

After the game, the four of us went to Jimbo's to wade in a sweaty sea of drunken Sox fans. I asked Lori where she watched the Sox win the World Series last year and she mentioned this place, the oldest bar in Chicago. It seemed like a great alternative to our current crowded environs, so we left immediately. And after Lori tells you, "the joint is a hoot!" you know you can't go wrong.

I immediately fell in love with Schaller's. Honestly there are a dozen places like this back where I grew up, but what we don't have is Schaller's entertainment--a 70-something crooner playing a keyboard and singing Sinatra, and equally vintage waitresses coming up and belting out a tune or two. It was awesome. Jack Schaller, 82, and the grandson of the guy who originally opened up the place in 1882 was quite the host. When I thanked him before we left, he said, "Ah shit, it's nothing."

As for Bridgeport Lori, she is one gal who loves her neighborhood. At 51, she swears she's never been to Wrigleyville (Jack told me he's never heard of it) and gets all tense if she ever has to go north of Archer.

"It's too transient up there," Lori said. "We come from people who worked in the stockyards. Generation after generation stays here." She was preaching to the converted--I've spent 9 of my ten years in Chicago living south of Madison.

And I for one, would put my money on the South Side if Chicago ever dissolved into Civil War.

Lunchtime scraps

Today the city of Chicago is launching an evacuation drill downtown affecting a few thousand Loop workers and my bus, apparently. The driver on the 60 today (who was driving like a bat out of hell and is now my favorite CTA worker) reminded us that the drill was going to slow things down this evening. And I was like, you’d think we’re supposed to get out of the Loop faster than normal if we’re being evacuated. Badoomboomp.


I completely forgot to buy Vanity Fair yesterday, but saw the Suri pics on this web site. Whoever’s charged with keeping LA demon-free—the Catholic Church, the Power Rangers-who knows—should scour the area looking for a buried jackal, cuz this kid is scary looking. Maybe Tom Cruise’s new movie production plans call for an Omen sequel with Suri in the lead.

On Saturday Marshall Fields will officially become Macy’s. Lots of people are really pissed about this here, and I’m surprised I don’t care much considering I think New York sucks (just kidding). Anyway, all this whining is a little too late. Where were these people when the old school retail experience started to die a long time ago? Like when politicians decided to destroy the unions and started hopping into a $78.67 bed with Wal-Mart? Check out a post from last year on this topic. And I hate shopping.


I was watching a Gilmore Girl rerun on Tuesday and it hit me that maybe I’m missing out on something because I didn’t have a kid at 16 who would now be a Yale freshman running the school paper? Shit. I could have this BFF, we could share clothes, gossip about boys, and engage in witty, rapid fire discourse about the issues of the day. Instead I was just a 34-year-old weary gal just glad to be home on her couch after a long day and a long sales meeting.

This post is 10 years in the making

Ten years ago this month I moved to Chicago after spending a post-college year in my hometown temping and drinking and temping and then drinking some more and then ... Well, to mark this auspicious occasion, I offer this timeline:

Summer 1996 About two days after accepting a job offer at a publishing company in my hometown, I ask for a transfer to their Chicago office. There is a job opening on their bulletin board. They are launching a new kid’s magazine with the Smithsonian, and well, they could have been launching a spaceship to Saturn, I just want to get the hell out of Dodge. Oddly enough, saying "uh all my friends live there" is sufficient to get out of the job I now no longer want. The general manager says about my soon-to-be ex-boss, "Goddamnit, Karen is going to be pissed!" then looks at my face and relents, "Oh, alright, I’ll make a few calls." And with that I’m on a train to Chicago to work for an art director who keeps a bottle of Jameson whiskey in his desk, and two of the smartest and funniest editors in the world. I rent a $375 a month studio on Kimball, and the fun begins.

Summer 1997 I move into a two bedroom, first floor rear (read: no natural light) apartment with my long time chum Kim in Little Italy. The landlord is an insane Italian woman whose belligerent, good for nothing children yell and scream at each other all day. Oh, and the woman is going through a divorce from her cop husband who left her for his goomad and you can hear her on the phone late night (gangways are like megaphones, fyi) detailing the situation to various relatives. It isn’t unusual for me to come home to them running up and down the stairs yelling "Fuck you! No Fuck YOU MA!" And then they turn to me, stop, smile and say, "Oh hi Ang, how’s your day?" Also of note, a fateful afternoon in a neighborhood park that summer involving me, my friend Jennifer (who lived just a block over), some piss warm vodka and lemonade, and a bike cop would prove to haunt me for some time to come.

Spring 1998 Kim leaves Chicago to become Mayor of our hometown and I move down the street into a cheap garden apartment with yet another unusual landlord. I love my little apartment, especially the laundry right out the back door, and spend the summer with Jennifer drinking in her coach house, holding two man dance contests, and then stumbling down the street to see the creepiest bar owner in Chicago, Ed, proprietor of what was at that time, the place to be on Taylor (this is written, dripping with sarcasm mind you).We also make plans for our future. We’ll raise cat and dog hybrids called either dats or cogs (we couldn’t agree) or marry guys and have houses with adjoining backyards.

1999 begins Michele, my friend from way back in the day calls me from Arizona over the holidays and says her younger sister Janel has just graduated college and suggests we could be roomates while she gets her shit together in the big city. I agree (thinking she’d only be around for a few months–little did I know that we’d nearly become common law wife and wife) and this wide-eyed, fresh face youngster comes into mine and Jennifer’s life during one of the biggest snowstorms in Chicago’s history. The three of us become fixtures at Dugan’s–so much in fact, one night a bartender tells me to deal with a drunk and disorderly girl who was throwing up in the men’s bathroom (not Janel or Jennifer). "You basically work here," she says. I shrug my shoulders and do as I’m told. Janel and I spend many Sundays on opposite couches essentially on a conference call with Jennifer trying to help each other piece together the evening and/or console someone on a bad choice for the Make Out Corner. This year also marks the weddings of three friends–Michele, Cassy, and Cathy–cutting the squad in half between the married and the single. Jennifer and I joke about that being our Y2K crisis.

2000 The new millenium dawns. And I think it was more of the same until that fall when I bail on my publishing job to go back to school. I hadn’t finished my B.A. and I get this insane idea that not only will I finish my degree, but I’ll hang around at Columbia for a while and become amazing journalist woman. Why not, right? I ended up having a cute copyediting teacher, so it was worth the bajillion dollars. Obviously 2000 sucked, because I can’t remember much beyond this. Maybe the election of George Bush has completely destroyed this year for me? Janel and I have fun watching the GOP convention that summer playing a game where you have to drink everytime someone says "children"or "America." And Janel discovers she really doesn’t like Lynne Cheney.

2001 I’m still in school full-time, and start working at the public radio station in town answering phones. I see a few famous people like Salman Rushdie and Gary Sinise, rub elbows with the hotshot producers like this guy, and secretly get drunk at some of their membership functions. Graduate school starts that fall, and of course we all know about that other memorable event 2001. I think it’s at this point when I decide that I really don’t want to be a reporter after all. I did start a journal–like a real one, not online–chronicling the last year of my 20s. It’s in a purple book and I have it under my bed so if I die or whatever friends, that’s where you’ll find it. The funniest things in there are these sketches I drew of guys I dated and or "dated" that year. I’d scan them and post them, but some of them read this blog and well, I’d hate to have to endure another one of these.

2002 This is the year I turn 30. I’m working for a neighborhood business, the owners of which said they’d hunt me down and kill me if I’d ever decide to write about them, and doing some writing and reporting for a community paper. I’m still taking classes and start to figure out what plan b might be. Or maybe it was plan c or d. . . whatever, I had no fucking clue. And Janel and I are still living together.

2003 A total blur

2004 Our landlord decides he wants to sell the building, Janel and I get separate apartments and I finally get a real job, again. As an urban pioneer, I move a mile south to Pilsen (not the super gentrified east part) but the real deal, and have a fleeting "I-can’t-fucking-believe-I-just-moved-to-Pilsen" freak out the day after I move in, but all my shit was in and I really like my place and there you have it, I live in Pilsen. In the spring I get a promotion at work after I give them my notice (I had been there for like five months) because the supervisor lady was a BEAST of a woman and said that I was a Miss Know it All (I was and I AM). The bosses fire her, I get a raise and her job. I rock.

2005 Two comrades fall this year as Kim and Jennifer take husbands. Kim has a lovely wedding in our hometown, that I think I was at, and Jennifer spares us all the pain and torture of yet another bridesmaid experience by shipping off to some island. This leaves me, Janel, and Nikki to continue to canoodle with potential Mr. Rights, Mr. Tonights, Mr. Right Nows, Mr. Oh Alrights, or Mr. Alright Alreadys! And I start blogging, so I can stop right now and you can just click away at the archives, lazy ass.

2006 Well, we’ve got exactly four months left of this year. A lot can happen.

And as always, I’ll keep you posted.

Random

Bus Banter

This drunk lady gets on the #8 bus yesterday, MARINATED in beer, sits down near me and proceeds to stare at this woman sitting across from her. After about five minutes, this is what I hear:

Souse: You have beautiful nails.

Gal: What?

Souse: YOU HAVE BEAUTIFUL NAILS!

Gal: (looks at her hands) Uh, Thanks?

Souse: I used to have nice nails. I’m a stripper. I don’t take my clothes off or anything, I STRIP WOOD! (starts to laugh maniacally)

Gal shoots back blank stare.

Souse: So what does that tattoo say? (leans in close) Tim or Jim?

Gal: Tim

Souse: Jim?

Gal: TIM!

Souse: JIM?

Hilarious. And thankfully it was time for me to get off the bus. The Tim/Jim back and forth probably went on for miles.

Weird garbage

Trash in the streets is not an unusual sight in my neighborhood. But I saw something a little out of the ordinary at the corner of Cullerton and Peoria that got me thinking about what archeologists would say about us in say, 500 years. There were like five dirty baby diapers and a bag of Cheetos, half-full. Open air daycare center where they serve the kids junk food? Or maybe a roving band of stray babies who stand on top of eachother to break into corner groceries for Cheetos and Similac. Like I said, weird.

Sorry Senor!

This morning I was walking to the bus when this older gentlemen coming toward me stepped to the left, lifted his hat up a bit and lowered his head.

And I didn’t acknowledge it! No smile. Nothing. It was a few moments before I realized this guy was demonstrating an extreme gesture of politeness and grace and here I was barreling by with my “Get out of my #$@& way face!.” Nice job, Angie. Real nice.

And scene

Here's my homework I did last night. Whaddya think?

“Speed Dating”

CASTPhoebe-late 20s, Northside yuppie type
Stan-early to mid 30s, Southside “ball scratcher”
Event organizer-female voice offstage

(Speed dating happy hour at a Northside bar)

ORGANIZER
You’ll have exactly three minutes per date, so make sure you ask some good questions. Have fun, good luck, and happy dating!

PHOEBE
So, Stan . . . nice to meet you. Ever speed date before?

STAN
Nope. First time. You have some nice hoots.

PHOEBE
(Giggles)
Wow. Stan. You certainly don’t waste time. You . . .

STAN
(interrupts)
Let me tell ya, you’re a beautiful girl.

PHOEBE
Hmmmm. There’s something about you I like. So what do you do when you’re not speed dating?

STAN
I work for Streets and San. There ya go. Small talk outta da way. Where do you stay?

PHOEBE
Where do I stay? You mean like what neighborhood I live in?

STAN
Would you look at that, a great rack AND a brain. Yeah genius, where do I pick you up?

PHOEBE
Uh . . . just off Halsted and Diversey. And why would you be picking me up?

STAN
I hear you Lincoln Park broads are supposebly nymphos. I never took one of you out; that’s what my cousin Joe says anyways. He’s over there. (He waves at a nearby table) HEY JOE, I’D HIT THAT IF I WERE YOU!

PHOEBE
Nymphos?

STAN
Yeah, it means you like to fuck a lot.

PHOEBE
I know what it means. I don’t remember agreeing to a date. But if I did, you’d have to bring it down a notch.

STAN
Fuck that. Babe, if we’re going together, you gotta be able to roll with the punches.

PHOEBE
(carefully eyeing him over)
You’re just a little different from guys I usually date. My last boyfriend was an investment banker.

STAN
And a tool at that, I’ll bet. And no grief on the clothes, babe . . . or you and me . . . it ain’t gonna work.

PHOEBE
So what’s in store for me on a date with Streets and San Stan?

STAN
Cute. I dunno. Maybe Narcisse . . . or Le Passage?

PHOEBE
I love those places! That sounds great!

STAN
Yeah, we’ll I’d rather have my balls cut off with a chainsaw. God, you’re fucking gullible. What do you do that go to these fancy joints?


PHOEBE
I’m like a aeronautical engineer for Boeing or whatever . . so our date?

STAN
Probably by my ma’s for dinner. (He reaches across the table and grabs Phoebe’s hands) She’s going to fall in love with you babe. . . just like I have.

ORGANIZER
Alright speed daters, time’s up. Gentlemen move onto the next table.

STAN
(gets up)
Let’s you and me go have a couple two three beers somewhere else.

PHOEBE
(sighs)
Oh, all right.

(Black out.)

Metra people, We must stand together and fight!

Last night I was the star of a show called LOST: The Elmhurst episode.

My coworker KC and I had just gotten on the train after work to head back to the city (on what I now call the Trail of Tears), when we hear we're stopping like FOREVER in the quaint downtown area of Elmhurst because of a stupid signal problem. They essentially said they had no idea when or if we'd ever return to Chicago again. So being the smart, resourceful gal that I am, I ordered KC off the train with me to search out some beer and vittles.

I needed to steel myself for the unknown.

There was some sort of brutal car show in Elmhurst, so there were lots of people having an extraordinary amount of good, clean, wholesome family fun. (If you need a visual, think Gilmore Girls meets American Graffitti.) We ducked into a sports bar and I ordered a tall Blue Moon and then ran to the Walgreen's at the behest of KC to purchase some smokey treats ( for a mere $3.50 my friends--anyone interested in going in on a black market enterprise?) We gobbled our food, moved to the bar where we ignored by two Tara Reid wannabee bartenders, and then headed back to the platform to see if the 8:13 was going to materialize.

In a crisis, it's amazing how strangers can bond. Commuters who had been standing there for hours gave us updates on what was happening. Which was nothing. Because the Metra announcer who comes over the P.A. apparently fills his mouth with peanut butter and crackers before getting on the mike; this is what you hear:

"Attshen Mera Shumaldlk! Dadkashmmudhdi shidruiop sildk. Blug uialkd Shakd. We apologize for any inconvenience."

Bastards!

We discussed sharing cabs to Oak Park where we could get on the Green line el. Together, we all had our hopes raised, then quickly dashed as train lights creeping toward us turned out to be a freight train. KC found her inner hobo, when she suggested we jump on one of the empty flat beds moving by us. A train coming from the city moved passed us slowly, filled with weary Loop workers who were now just shells of the people they were when they left their families that morning.

While I was taking all this in, my three tall Blue Moons (and 3/4 of a regular one) quicked in so I ran into a Chinese Restaurant to pee. I was on the toilet, when I received a frantic call from KC.

"HURRY UP! HURRY UP! THERE'S A TRAIN COMING AND WE DON'T KNOW IF IT IS A FREIGHT TRAIN OR WHAT! AHHGHGHGHH!"

I finished my business, ran through the restaurant, took off my shoes and sprinted to the train.

A train that would finally get me home.

I hate you Metra. I really do.

How in the world are they going to find this guy?

This has got to be the single worst police sketch ever.
This "artist" must have watched one too many episodes of Fat Albert.

Random

I finally got my first sketch assignment last night at my Second City class. The class goes until 10 pm, and the assignment came at 9:55. I had been up since 5:30 a.m. , and (imagine Ralphie getting his theme assignment in A Christmas Story) when the teacher gave the order, I started conjuring up all these brilliant ideas and started to space out, but my eyes remained focused on the teacher’s face. I didn’t snap out of it until he said, ‘Angie, Angie. . . uh, you look like you have a question?” Embarassing, yet funny.


I was talking to myself this morning in a very odd fashion. Example: “Mamma’s going to be late!” “Mamma doesn’t have a thing to wear!” I shared my concerns about this with a coworker, and she said, “Well you are the woman of the house.” True true.

There was a middle aged white guy walking like George Jefferson down Halsted in Greektown. I wonder what his deal was.

There seems to be a rogue hair dresser in China Town. Interesting styles coming out of that hood, lemme tell ya.

I gave my coworker a hard time about the drama surrounding her wearing contacts for the first time (I’ve had them for about 18 or 20 years). I said, “Hey, you’re acting like you had a heart transplant or something!” She didn’t laugh. And I didn’t even know she wore glasses.

I just hung up with a salesman here at work. When the phone rang I decided to be very nice to him and he said, “Geez, no one talks to me like this at the office. All they do is eat my food and drink my soda (it’s true we drank all his Diet Coke one day when the delivery guy forgot our drinks)” He then said someone took his food and replaced it with a sign that said “Fuck you.” I doubt that, but we are all stressed lately. I did end our conversation with a direct order that he is to bring me a Diet Coke if he comes in this afternoon.

She's blogging about produce?

The benefits of living alone are many. Besides being able to practice your secret single rituals with reckless abandon (i.e. witchcraft, infant sacrifices, etc.) the thermostat is always the way you like it, a clothing optional policy is acceptable, and you get to know yourself so well, you begin to finish your own sentences.

Life for the most part, is good.

But then a day like yesterday came along. It just seemed like a fine day for some watermelon. (About a week ago I started yet another health kick—one where beer and the occasional cigarette is always going to be ok—so consequently I’ve been fruits and veggied-out. After dinner and a movie with pals, I tagged along with my car owner friend Janel to the Jewels.

I grabbed some bananas, and then to the big box where those lovely green orbs sit. I picked one up (mother effin heavy, my God!) and the incredulous Janel was all like, you are sure going to have A LOT OF watermelon to which I immediately dismissed her and said, oh I’ll just cut it up and put it in containers. It’ll keep.

Good Christ, was she right.

That watermelon has been in my life for less than 24 hours and if I never see another piece again it will be too soon. Would half a watermelon make a suitable Welcome-to-the Building gift?