The big guy weighs in

>-----Original Message-----
>> >From: God
> >To: America, UK, France, Germany, Italy, Israel, Russia, Lebanon, Jordan, Egypt, Syria, Japan, China
> >Subject: You stupid assholes
> >Date: Mon, 31 Jul 2006 09:00 a.m

First of all, someone forward this to Iran. I don’t the right email address.

You all think you’re really something, don’t you? DON’T YOU? You know, I used to be kind of flattered with all of you worshipping me and getting all worked up over whose religion is better and all that. You silly, simple creatures are quite entertaining let me tell you.

I just don’t get you people, which is saying something considering I’m responsible for the train wreck that is mankind and now I’m more than a little fed up. I was over at Abraham Lincoln and Gandhi’s place last night. They live together but it’s completely platonic—believe me, I would know. (Abe was a blubbering idiot after Mary Todd ran off with Richard Nixon and Gandhi helped him through the MESSY breakup. Thank, well Me, because I could only take so much of, “Why him, why not me . . . wah wah!”)

Anyway, I was kind of picking their brains on what I should do. Lincoln thinks I should just wait it out, and thinks you morons will come around soon enough. But Gandhi—and this is totally out of character—thinks I should “do what I have to do” to wipe the slate clean.” Wowza. Just fyi, Jesus has NO desire to come back down there. He was like, been there, done that.

I’d rather you figure this out on your own, but if you can’t, I promise you'll see a whole new brand of ugly.


Later,
God

Who does a girl have to fuck to get some blog traffic around here?

Little known Angie Tee fact: I was a published author at the age of six.

In first grade my original story, "The Sandwich That Talked," appeared in some bulletin at Lincoln School in Oglesby, Illinois. The brief though high concept piece chronicled the life of a sandwich that when given the chance to speak, did infact, not want to be eaten.

I was an amazingly gifted child or maybe I was just hungry. Who knows. But the seed for writing was planted.

Like anyone, I wanted to be a million different things growing up: doctor, teacher, archeologist, President, artist, taxidermist, etc. But as I got older it all centered on figuring out a way to let people know what I thought about stuff. There were a lot of stops and starts over the years--journalism school, weak attempts at chick lit, and something that vaguely resembled about five pages of a screenplay.

And then came the blogging thing. And I likes. Do I think I'm an F. Scott Fitzgerald or something because I spew nonsense on this site from time to time? Absolutely.

Seriously friends, we all know a ton of crap makes it into print and onto movie screens all the time. Unfunny, unimaginative crap. Frequently talent seems to be an afterthought. If I was a struggling screenwriter in LA, I would have blown my brains out the moment that movie about the remote control opened.

I'm just saying.

So I've decided that since I'm the girl who wrote a fucking talking sandwich story at the tender age of six, I ain't begging a soul to publish me. I'll keep blogging and working on my super secret Operation Make Angie a Star.

Part of phase one is this comedy writing class at The Second City I'm starting Monday night. At the end of the program I guess we write our own show and cast actors to perform it. At that point, I will beseech all of you to come and see it.

And you in Nova Scotia, you can sleep over at my place, ok?

Emergency?

After last summer’s Hurricane Katrina hullabaloo, it finally dawned on me that I should have a store of batteries, decent flashlights, candles, first aid kit, etc. If anything, I thought it would a good idea to have some waterproof matches and a poncho in case Pilsen floods and I need a cigarette while awaiting rescue on my roof.

Last night some of this stuff came in handy when I came home around 11:30 to a pitch black apartment. Yippee. I was going to seek refuge with my drinking partner from earlier in the evening, since she hung out at my place when her air went out last week. I called Com Ed, found out it was coming back on within the hour so I decided to tough it out.

About 10 minutes with no radio or TV, I got real bored and went to my window to see what was on.

Crazy belligerent drunk with a half a six pack yelling at the wall of a building across the street. Hmmm, rerun. It was a hot night and the street lights were on so I thought people would be hanging out like the time our power went out last summer. I started to water my flower boxes when I heard a siren getting closer and closer. I leaned out the window a bit to see an ambulance stop in front of the apartment building across from mine.

If you think paramedics will rush to your aid, think twice. These guys got out and walked slowly toward the building like a couple of timid Avon ladies. One kept looking at a paper in his hand and walking up and down the length of the building. The other knocked on one of the many doors. Heads started to pop out of their upper floor windows. Neighbors trickled out of their doorways to see what the matter was, and one gentleman pointed the paramedics to a side door.

They shuffled slowly in that direction. A door opened and they went in with an orange stretcher thing in tow.

So there I was on my knees with my head stuck out the window waiting for something real interesting to happen. A axe-wielding maniac with half a face running out perhaps. No such luck.

A couple of minutes later, the door opened again and the paramedics walk back out, ever so slowly with a young woman following them. She is carrying her purse and turns to lock her door, looking fit as ever, at least from my vantage point and the three of them climb into the ambulance and speed away.

Um, ok. . .

I wondered what her 911 call like.

Dispatcher: Chicago 911, what’s your emergency?
Girl: Can you send some paramedics over?
Dispatcher: What’s wrong?
Girl: Nun-ya
Dispatcher: What?
Girl: It’s for me to know, and them to find out. Are they like coming, or what?
Dispatcher: Uh, sure. . . I guess . . .

Bad Hair Day

If you find yourself wondering what I look like, today I could pass for her twin. Here's a snippet of a phone conversation I had this morning.

Me: This is Angie.

Smart ass Co-worker: You have a few hairs standing up.

Me: I'm having a bad hair day.

Co-worker: Bad hair day?Uh, you look like you brushed your hair with an M-80

Me: Fuck you.

He then came over to my cube and said he was taking up an office collection to buy me a comb. Last I checked he had 75 cents and said he could get me something "real nice at Walgreens."

I have a hair appoinment on Saturday.

Burlesque dancers and puddles of puke

Or otherwise known as my Friday night.

Last night was the fourth installment of Schadenfreude's Rent Party, the thinking and drinking woman's Friday night of choice (well at least every third Friday of the month.)

I told Justin I thought last night was the best, to which he seemed a little incredulous, or maybe it was too soon for analysis. Who knows. The kid was still a little shell shocked from being too close to the Ass that goes pow!*Anyway it was a great show, and if you live in Chicago, get your arse to the next one and we'll hang out and get silly on $2 beers. Just stand up on your stool, and scream "Angie, Angie, wherefore art thou Angie!" and I'll find you. It's a small place, so no problem.

We left the Gallery Cabaret and piled into a cab, giving the jerko cabbie a stroke for daring to suggest two of us sit in the front with him. We were on our way to the Liars Club to remind ourselves what it feels like to stick to the floor of a bar and see how close we could get to having our asses go POW! We were moderately successful.

After last call at a 2 a.m. bar like Liars Club it's time to figure out where to go next. Or maybe it's time to perform an assessment of your level of sobriety, and wonder if any late night friends with benefits places might be open. We were discussing said business while standing outside of the club, a place one friend says where, "nothing good ever comes out of a night there) when I walked out into the street to look for cabs.

Immediately, something didn't seem right. The ground felt slippery beneath my sandals, almost as if I was standing in a puddle of beef stew or a triple thick milk shake. I stood there for a moment trying to figure out what it was, but for some reason I didn't take the obvious next step, like um, maybe . . . LOOKING DOWN?

"ANGIE YOU ARE STANDING IN A PILE OF PUKE! OH MY GOD!!! AHHHHHH!!!" My hangers on screamed.

I looked down at my feet. They were were right. I was indeed standing in a puddle of pink and cream colored chunky vomit, splattered on Fullerton like a Jackson Pollock painting.

Motherfuck.

To the owner of that puke, I ask you this: Sir or Madam, you were about 2 feet away from a perfectly good alley. Couldn't you have tried a little harder to hurl in a more appropriate place? Where's your sense of decency and brotherhood?

Well anyway, lesson learned. I really have to start paying more attention.

***Chicago based burlesque dancer Michelle L'Amour is heading back to LA this week to tape America's Got Talent. I don't watch the show, but I will now because she was really cool and she says Brandy (who should be a judge on America's Got Ugly) was less than receptive to her strip tease prowess. So if you watch it, make sure you vote for the hometown girl who can shake what her mother gave her.

Blogdiggidy's Person of the Week: Angela Merkel, Chancellor of Germany

I guess I spend too much time living under a rock. Cuz I missed this one. In this age of anything goes, our President trying to out creep Vladimir Putin doesn't warrant much media coverage.

Angela, we can't take our President anywhere. Sorry. If he ever tries it again, you have my permission to slug the slimeball.

Check out Youtube for the video.

Bloggers can be losers

Today is my blog's first birthday.

One year ago today I went to blogger.com and in about 6 minutes and 12 seconds, the magic that happens on on this url three to four times a week--was first spat out into the blogosphere.

It all began with my friend Jennifer who was a devotee last summer to this now defunct NYC blog and urged me to check it out. I did, laughed at it a bit, and then thought to myself, "well fuck, I need to get me one of these things."

There were a few things at the outset that I swore I would not do. One was bore anyone with the mundane details of work--I'm not a bounty hunter or a sex surrogate so who really cares what I do, right? Second, I wasn't going to use my little corner of the internet to whine about boys. Lame. Correction. Extremely lame. I did break down though with this post once when I had gone way too long without . . . well, read it if you're curious. Now that's not to say that I haven't shared things with my fellow bloggers in one of our hilarious little email exchanges. If I wasn't sworn to secrecy many times over, I would have some top notch blog material. But I am a woman of my word.

So that left me with spinning yarns about boozing, laughing, and just living with this amazing city as a backdrop. Oh, and of course there's my occasional post about my hillbilly family and my disdain for our illustrious President.

I like making people laugh. I love people telling me I'm funny. My friend Kim told me she likes reading the blog to find out what's in my head. Brave girl. The thing is, I thought blogging would help me clear some of the stuff out.

And it does, but goddamn it, there's always new stuff creeping right back in.

I should get a job at the UN

Here are a few of my ideas to help resolve the Mideast crisis du jour:

-Can’t seem to get the warring armies to get a little perspective? Lock major Mideast players in a room and make them watch a slideshow of the Jolie-Pitt family set to Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror.” (Hey, they said the arrival of Baby Shiloh was the most anticipated birth since Jesus.)

-Ensuring the safety of civilians is easy. Just morph them back into stem cells—that way the Bush administration will move heaven and earth to make sure they don’t meet their demise.

-Loan out Rumsfeld to Lebanon. They would not be in this mess if they would have disarmed and put down Hezbollah—you know, like how we’ve disarmed and put down Al Qaeda.

-Offer up the Bush twins as a swap for the two Israeli officers. I can’t imagine any nation going to war over those skanks.

-Introduce the 10-run rule in war. Right now it’s Israel: 300 Lebanese civilians, Hezbollah: 29 Israelis. Game over. Israel, you won. Good job!

Anyone else have any ideas?

Honestly Mr. President, You Were THAT Hungry?

I could give a shit less that our President used the word "shit" yesterday at the G8. If I was in this man's shoes, the language coming out of my mouth would be so foul, flowers would wilt in my wake. Surprisingly the media is missing the boat yet again, and not surprisingly I have it all figured out.

Please dear reader, I beg you, go to CNN.com and watch the entire clip if you haven't seen it yet. The edited version aired on network and local TV last night does not do this justice.

What you'll see is this: a man so annoyed that his lunch is being interrupted, and so bothered by Prime Minister Blair's questions about THE WORLD HOVERING ON THE BRINK OF FUCKING DISASTER that he can't put his goddamned food down for a moment and talk to his coalition-of-the-willing BFF.

A conversation between intimates? Hardly. Bush was frustrated, cutting Blair off at every turn with Blair struggling to get a coherent response out of the leader of the free world. It was like watching a parent or teacher trying to explain something to child. Painful.


Some closing thoughts. One, I hope Bush staffers learn from this and carry some snacks around for this tool. Some goldfish maybe? A couple of luncheables or power bars? I don't know what he likes, but he really needs to be able to move on this stuff whether or not his tummy is rumbling. And two, since we live in an increaslingly insane world where up is down and a retarded man can be elected President, I'm awfully close to chucking the whole "I must pay attention to the world" thing and just focus on beer, hooking up, and finding a new couch.

The girls are at it again

>-----Original Message----->
From: America>
Sent: Friday, July 14, 2006 9:00 AM>
To: Israel
>Subject: What part of “do as I say, not as I do” don’t you get?

Blowing up Lebanon? Did I not tell you I’d send some special forces your way to get your guys back? Did you not see Munich? What if I can get you the same guys that got Jessica Lynch out?

Dude, chill the fuck out. Call me on my cell. Stat. And Spielberg is on the way.

-America

P/S: Canada says you let your Ritalin prescription run out. Is that true?

>-----Original Message-----
>From: Israel
>Sent: Friday, July 14, 2006 9:15AM
>To: America
>Bcc: Italy, Japan, UK, Germany, Canada,
>Subject: RE: What part of “do as I say, not as I do” don’t you get?

Oh, WhatEVER. I’ve got one word for you: Iraq.

I’ll call you in hell..

-Israel

PS: Tell Condi to lose my number. And ask her since when does sending a Vermont Teddy Bear work in quelling international firestorms??

>-----Original Message-----
>From: France
>Sent: Friday, July 14, 2006 10:15AM
>To: Israel
>cc: America, Italy, Japan, Canada, Germany, UK
>Subject: Drama Queen!

I totally thought you were just drunk when you said you wanted to start World War III last weekend at Germany’s G8 bash. I mean you had like three bottles of Chardonnay! And you still owe me a pack of smokes btw (I thought you quit!)

Come to Paris. We’ll all shop, hang out, get a massage. We can work this out, no?

-France

>-----Original Message-----
>From: UK
>Sent: Friday, July 14, 2006 10:25AM
>To: America, Italy, Japan, Canada, Germany, Israel, France
>Subject: RE: Drama Queen!

Just got off the phone with Lebanon. Said Hezbollah will give up the soldiers if Tom Cruise will appear on Oprah with baby Suri.

Weird, right? America, can you make this happen?

>-----Original Message-----
>From: America
>Sent: Friday, July 14, 2006 10:36 AM
>To: Italy, Japan, Canada, Germany, Israel, France, UK
>cc: Lebanon, Syria, Iran
>Subject: RE: Drama Queen!

God you guys! Why do I always have to be the one to settle things down? What are you going to do if I’m not around! LOL!

I’ll see what I can do. Another world crisis averted. Sigh.

Read more email exchanges from the girls here.

Blogdiggidy's Person of the Week: Girl I saw at the Villa Park train station yesterday

You should have seen her. About 12 or 13, fresh from swimming with her matted wet hair, flip flops, blood shot eyes, and rolled up towel under her chunky arm.

She looked way too aggravated for her young age and she was wearing a Tshirt that read: Hold my goggles so I can kiss your boyfriend.

She obviously gets it.

Girl I saw at the Villa Park train station yesterday, you rock!

Holy World War III Batman!

I was starting to get really FREAKED out by the skirmish between Israel and Lebanon. And then I remembered. We have this brilliant, capable, and respected administration that will help iron things out. Pillars of diplomacy, these guys.

I'm so stopping off for some beer and smokes tonight.

Nuclear winter is infinitely more bearable drunk, I suspect. It might be time to dust off Operation Red Dawn.

A few of my irrational fears

1. My ass will unwittingly become some TV station’s B-roll for one of those “America is getting fatter” stories.

2. That I’ll be one those women who have NO idea they’re pregnant and end up giving birth in line at the Jewel one day. Then I’d have to lug the kid AND my groceries home. Fuck.

3. That I’ll stumble upon a dead body one day while rushing to work and have to take the day off to deal with the media, police, etc. On second thought. . . maybe that’s not all that irrational.

4. That when I finally reach the big time and David Letterman wants to interview me, I'll have to drink a lot beforehand to loosen up, I'll drink way too much and he'll never want me to come back.

No she didn't! You're kidding me! Tell me more!

In bizarro world, I’m on my second husband. Just right behind Christie Brinkley and JLo.

Because I can’t go a single, solitary summer weekend without pissing in a port-o-potty, I did my part to support Amtrak and went to the big BoDeans concert in breathtaking Peru, Ill-a-noise.

I was wandering around the crowd there on Saturday, trying to find my “friends” who ditched me like an unwanted child at the Taste when I went to meet up with my sister (“They’ll text me or call, I just know it,” I repeated to myself hopefully).

From behind me I heard, “Hey! Did you get married again?”

I turned to find this guy I knew from back in the day. He apparently thought I married this buffoon from college (and consequently took his name) and then remarried recently. There’s an Angie Buffoon in town, thus the confusion. I set him straight and went on my quest to find Drunk, Drunker, and Drunkest. I was somewhere in between Drunker and Drunkest, fyi.

Anyway, I’ve decided to put my fabulous imagination to work and concoct a sordid past that I’ll have friends spread about me. What I’ve really been up to during the past 10-15 years is awfully bland, well most of it is. So if anyone has any ideas . . . let ‘em rip!

Scary stuff

As my train rolled into Ogilvie yesterday about 5:50 p.m., this is what I saw underneath me.

And here's what a fellow Metra commuter says to me and my coworker:

"Maybe they're filming a movie!"

Dude. Come on.

Besides the obvious thanks to the higher powers that be that this was just some sort of slacker mechanical error on the part of the CTA and not something worse--much, much worse--it was unsettling to see ambulance after ambulance speeding from the scene and not having a clue what was happening.

Blogdiggidy's Person of the Week: Vladimir Putin

Please tell me you heard about this.

Last week Russian President Vladimir Putin sees this five-year-old boy, Nikita, in a crowd and decides to drop to his knees and kiss the kids belly.

How drunk was this guy?

And his spin? "He seemed very independent and serious... I wanted to cuddle him like a kitten and it came out in this gesture. He seemed so nice," he said, according to BBC World.

I really hope there were a few things lost in translation.

Summerfest vs. the Taste

The two weeks surrounding Independence Day is the time for two major competing Lake Michigan eat/drink/music extravaganzas. We have our Taste of Chicago, and our chubbier cousins to the north have their Milwaukee Summerfest.

This is my 10th summer living in Chicago and since I grew up just 90 miles away, I’ve been to the Taste a bajillion times. Regardless of your moral fiber or drinking ability, the Taste is a madhouse. Think six thousand degrees, three million sweaty people milling around you, and everyone is covered in barbecue sauce from head to toe.

Highlights:
At 15, a license-less friend of mine took her mom’s Taurus, picked up me and another friend, and the three of us headed to Chicago for stuff on a stick, and a trip up the Sears Tower elevator.

At 19, I was back with two pals and one of their boyfriends. A freak storm (so bad trees were uprooted in Grant Park) cut our Taste visit short and sent us wet and muddy into Miller’s Pub on Wabash. The dirt probably made us look legal as we had no problem getting served there—and consequently way overserved. I remember sitting next to this guy—in his mid-30s—and insisting to him that he looked like a Kennedy. He was dressed in a suit and I remarked at how uncomfortable he must be.

“Why don’t you come back to my hotel room with me so I can change?” He asked. At 19 I was scandalized.

“No way!” I said and sauntered away to sit down next to another stranger and started eating his food. Some time passed while I was visiting with my new friend when I realized I was missing my single pal.

I searched the bar and found her with the Kennedy lookalike, who was now sporting shorts and a polo shirt. She returned to college knowing what the inside of a Palmer House room looked like.

In the mid 90s, we were a bit more mature so we drank our weights in Mai Tais (more ladylike) instead of beer. Yet there was nothing ladylike about us fighting over the last drink tickets and someone ending up with Mai Tai in the eye. And we were filthy from sitting in the trampled grass near Petrillo. Nothing more attractive than a bunch of dirty, drunk girls.

As for Summerfest--if I had an ounce of government cheese for every time I was told to go to Milwaukee instead of the Taste (It’s soooooo clean!!!! The bands are awesome!!!!!!!) , I’d have like a pound of government cheese.

So this weekend I went to the glorious and heavenly Summerfest. On Friday I was talking to a potential vendor about my impending trip when she began to go on and on about this thing. “Oh, it’s so great! I’m so jealous that you’re going! There’s like no bums. No one eating out of the garbage! It’s so clean!”

Clean. There’s a lot of this clean thing you’ll hear in regards to Summerfest. After going I realized by clean, I think many people mean white. See here’s the kicker—they charge $15 to get in, while the Taste is free. $15 dollars is a lot for a family to pay per head to enjoy something like this—it keeps a lot of people away, I’m sure. That’s all this Communist is saying.

Anyway on Saturday, I was expecting a veritable Utopia. But what I found was something like Navy Pier on steroids. Like Coney Island maybe, except I’ve never been to Coney Island so I can't say that conclusively.

Did I have a good time? Of course, with enough beer and my crazy friends, it’s a sure thing regardless of where we go. We had a conversation that was the furthest thing from clean ever. We saw the Go-Go’s up close and personal, and I ate a mighty tasty bratwurst. When I accidentally dropped the cup that contained my sauerkraut, I quickly picked it up.

“I want to leave Wisconsin exactly how I found it.” I said.

That's SO Osama!

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Bin Laden needs a publicist. If I had the job, I'd make him hit the 18-25 set and hit them hard. They're the ones being shipped off to fight his army, so he should talk to directly to them.

I would recommend him learning English, maybe sending him to the Discovery Center for one of those quick and dirty classes. Then we'd woo away some hot shot Leo Burnett copywriter to spruce up his scripts. God willing this. . . martyr that. . . tired stuff, Osama.

To stay hot and connected, I'd produce regular Podcasts for the guy.

And God willing, an appearance or two on TRL.

It could always be worse. .

In my nearly 34 years, I've heard that over and over and over. Mainly from family who love to marinate themselves in a puddle of misery. Teenaged cousin gives birth to litter of bastard children? It could always be worse. You have to wait 120 days for your latest frivolous lawsuit settlement?It could always be worse. I roll my pant legs up and wade in shit stew from time to time as holidays and hometown visits dictate, while I cling to the belief things could always be better.

But I do have my poor-me moments. Wanna hear?

The aftershocks of a rough weekend spilled into Monday morning when I prayed for the courage to call in sick to work but instead took a later train. (I am grown up enough to know it's easiest to just show up for stuff. Just haven't gotten the puncuality thing down.) Tuesday I got to the train station early--an entire hour!--to make up for my Monday morning lateness but as luck would have it--the 6:57 was cancelled. Oh, the humanity!

And then this morning my power goes out which meant no alarmo for your amiga. Woke up 40 minutes late and I was kind of wondering if it had something to do with me ignoring a 1 a.m. phone call from a man in the electrical arts. Regardless, I attempted to go for it. Quick shower--no electricity meant no music and no blow dryer--the stuff that can slow a girl down in the a.m. Since my job is now light years away--my coworkers have gotten quite used to Wash-n-go Angie. I would have made it, if it wasn't for this cheerful considerate bus driver who had to wait not once, but twice for straggling passengers bolting across the street to hop on.

"STEP ON THE GAS. STEP ON THE GAS. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STEP ON THE GAS!" I screamed in my head at the driver. He didn't hear me.

Late again.

Yep, I was left feeling a bit sorry for myself as the train rolled out west this morning. And then it hit me. . . it could always be worse. I could be the woman for whom Rush Limbaugh uses Viagra.

A city of neighborhoods

I try to avoid the Gold Coast like an unwanted pregnancy, but this morning I had to meet a friend there to get an important package. (Email me if you really want to know what it is. And I promise not give everyone a different story.) So I take the 60 from my modest neighborhood and get off in the Loop to take a nice, long walk up to Division and Dearborn where the dropoff was scheduled. It's one of those rare, pristine days in Chicago (face it, we ain't known for glorious weather) and once you get past brutal hotspots like Excalibur, the area is quite beautiful. Almost like being in a different city. At Division and Dearborn there was this lovely farmer's market. For some reason it pissed me off. I called my friend to let her know I arrived. "I'm here. There's a farmer's market? Why do you rich people get all the good stuff?" I said, only 1/3 kidding. The closest thing I have to a farmer's market is a bunch of Mexicans selling produce out of the back of a truck (lovely stuff by the way), or Maxwell Street where I can buy tube socks or stolen electronics. "Oh yeah, I forgot that was going on today," She said. "Come on, we're not rich." They're not. But I needed to lash out. Three pretty young girls were playing chamber music near me. Couples with their imported Chinese daughters milled about. "They're playing violins! This is fucking disgusting." Oh, o.k. It was nice. And yeah, I'll probably go back.

I've finally lost it, and I've got UPN to thank

So last night I was watching My Date with Drew on UPN (all you suckers paying for cable probably don't know what quality TV you can get for free) when I realized what was missing in my life--another blog.

Here it is.

Let's just get this over with, shall we?

So against my better judgment, I watched Frontline's The Dark Side last night. At this point, I pretty much try to avoid aggravating myself further over the Iraq war and the lies that brought us in to it.

Color me a glutton for punishment. Since I knew it would be tough to watch, I lit some incense and got the yoga mat out (no need to have a stroke now) for some downward dog and an earful of how a drunk Iraqi code named "Curve Ball" was the lone source for the adminstration's WMD claims.

I was left with a couple of questions for the smarty pants Frontline producers and the former CIA folks. A-Does it really matter anymore that top level CIA brass are tripping over themselves to get on camera and tell us that thousands of U.S. soldiers died for bullshit and make believe? And two-Gentlemen, for godsakes, where were you when we needed ya?

Am I a complete asshole . .

If I laughed (I tried not too, really) when I clicked on this?

On second thought, don't answer that.

I got the music in me

On Friday night I was hanging out in this sweat lodge smoking peyote and drinking beer with the Kaufmann Brothers--a tres sexy but little known vaudeville act--and the rest of the beautiful people surrounding Schadenfreude--when I got a hankering to sing karaoke. They weren't having it, so I filed the idea away for Saturday. I did get an interesting offer involving a futon and chocolate sauce though.

So Saturday I met up with some friends made a few weeks back when a pal and I crashed a speed dating event shitfaced and nookin for nub. The PBR had lost its luster at CANS, and since I put the night together I decided I could boss everyone.

"Let's go to Louie's!"

I got a collective, "uh, ok." So off we went. As we made our way there (the whining four blocks can cause!) my mind started to race. Hmmm. What to sing. What to sing. Madonna? No, too obvious. Frank Sinatra? Only if they have Summer Wind. Earlier that day I was belting out Elton John's Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me alone in my apartment, but changed it to Just Let Your Son Go Down on Me. I got quite a laugh off of that. Several times a day I can't believe how funny I am. Seriously. What a bit would that be!

So we get in the bar, I go to the list and there's no Elton John. But I find a Stevie Wonder song I like.

"For Once in My Life, please!" I tell the bartender.

"You want to sing now?" My eagerness apparently was evident.

"No, I need some time to prepare."

A few songs later, I was up. And I rocked, of course. Actually I kind of rapped. Strange. This guy got up and helped me out a bit, urging me to "TAKE IT HOME!" toward the end of the song.

And boy did I ever.

Texas can suck George Bush's dick*

Hey, I didn’t say it, Madonna did--last night during her show, that mouthy little thing. But it would have been funnier if she said that while she was hanging on the cross with her crown of thorns instead of while she was singing some lame song about how much she loves New York.

Now that would have had some punch.

So yesterday I’m toiling away at work when a coworker called and offered me a couple of last minute tickets to the concert at the United Center. The one and only Madonna show I’ve ever seen was awesome and the astronomical tickets were half-price, so yep I was in and so was ol’ girl Janel.

With a vertigo and $7.50 beer fueled buzz, I was ready to shake what my momma gave me when Madonna hopped out on stage. She was wearing a wacked out riding outfit and huge screens were flashing what I guess is one of her latest videos behind her. I’m not 100% sure though, as I haven’t had MTV or VH1 in years and kind of checked out after Ray of Light.

“She is a FREAK!” I said, loving every minute of it. Janel agreed.

As the show continued, what Madonna wanted, Madonna got.

“HEY MOTHERFUCKERS! PUT SOME EFFORT IN THIS!” She shouted at a couple of rows on the floor that wasn’t standing up and doing the obligatory rocking out. “IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE MY FRONT ROW BITCHES, YOU’D BETTER ACT LIKE IT!” I was wondering if she kisses her rabbi with that mouth.


And anyway, no shit Madonna. We had some retards sitting behind us who actually asked me to sit down if I wasn’t going to dance. The girls on the left of me (also sitting down) seemed a little exasperated when we went for a beer run or a pee break. (Whatever ladies, this wasn’t the gynecologist’s waiting room. It’s a Madonna concert.)

After the concert I told Janel we had to go out for a bit. I love to boss her. I told her Madonna would want us to go out, causing her hesitation to lift. I was fully aware that it was a school night but for a split second, I actually entertained going to Crobar with these chicks from Bulgaria Janel bummed a cigarette off of. They seemed like they'd be a blast to hangout with, and most importantly they thought I was a genius because I know what the capital of their homeland is.

“Sofia is the capital!” I shouted like Rain Man after they told us where they were from.

“OH MY GOD! HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT?” They were geniunely shocked.

I didn’t realize it was a secret.

*Now a co-worker maintains that she said, "George Bush can suck my dick." But I think my version is more plausible.

Thicker than water

I found out over the weekend that my nomadic aunt and uncle—a corpulent and litigious pair—have just sold their California trailer, and are moving back to Illinois. A couple of years ago, Calfornie was the place they out to be, but no more I guess.

“Yeah, they sold their trailer, bought a new one on the Internet—in Eureka—and they’re coming back,” said my brother.

“How they getting here? Covered wagon? Circus Train?” I asked.

“Nope, they’re taking the Crown Vic.”

My mom is always bursting with news of her siblings, their spouses, and their children. Since the stories play out like a Jerry Springer marathon, I almost never want to hear about them.

On Friday night as she wore on, and on about the her sister, I clamped my hands tightly over my ears closed my eyes and gave her the, “La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La.” treatment. She laughed, got the hint, and we got back to talking about what matters.

Like how Jennifer Aniston must be handling the arrival of baby Shiloh.

No Green Zone Kinkos?

Al-Zarqawi's dead mug in a frame presented to world is a little much. Ya know if they could, Rumsfeld and the gang would have loved to put the dude's head on a stake (think Lord of the Flies.) But these are kindler, gentler times, and the Pentagon does have a well-funded matting and frame shop.

I know a wee bit about marketing and public relations, and I think the picture laminated on a nice piece of foamcore would have been a better choice. Understated and serious. Kinkos does a bang up job, and it works great for tradeshows. Oh, and this was Plan B--using a page from Jenna Bush's scrap book to prove to us that the dude was indeed dead.

6-6-6

Last night I recruited my friend Bob to join me to go see The Omen. I was actually entertaining the idea of going it alone, thinking no one was as nuts as me to be desperate to see the flick on opening night and on 6-6-6. But Bob is pretty odd, so I thought it was worth a shot. He was an easy sell and he’s super sacrilegious—saying things like the Baby Jesus wanted us to have the primo free parking space we found miraculously.

It was a packed house at Webster Place as expected. We were a bit early, and I got our tickets on the web, which is kind of useless when you have the inevitable late comers crawling all over you. And I can’t tell you how much I love it when couples think others should move—others who got to the theatre on time—so they can hold hands or whatever. Here’s a little sampler.

Girlfriend No. 1 to pair of dudes sitting behind us: Um, can you move down so me and my boyfriend can sit together?

Dude: No.

Me (in head): Rock on. Why should they pushed over to the wall and make an already mediocre seat, crappy?

Girlfriend walks away in a huff.

As the previews wore on, the dudes were approached several times. And each time the encroachers were denied, I was secretly happy. But shit, as they say, was about to go down.

A big gun was called in—an assistant to the assistant theatre manager I’ll bet—to get the guys to move down for a married couple this time.

Power Trip: YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO MOVE, THIS IS A FULL THEATRE!

Dude: No. I. Am. NOT! We got here on time. And it’s not fair to make us move. There are seats left, just not together.

Usher: WELL THEN I'M CALLING THE POLICE!!!!!!!!!

He seriously threatened this. I couldn’t believe it. And I’m sure the Baby Jesus was dumbfounded as well.

Dude: WELL CALL THEM!

As you can guess no cops came, the guys behind us sat comfortably with two empty seats on either side and we all settled in to watch the son of Satan do his thing. It was a fairly scary movie, but with people laughing when folks are getting their heads lopped off, it’s hard to get too shaken.

What you can accomplish during a virtually alcohol free weekend

1. All laundry can be washed and put away--even that old flannel sheet you just found stuffed in a beach bag and thrown in the back of a closet at the end of last summer.

2. Copious amounts of restful sleep can be had. (Sleeping it off isn't really sleep kiddies)

3. You can download this song off of iTunes, a song that used to send you and your friends into a beer-fueled frenzy whenever it was played. With my big black boots and an old suitcase, indeed.

4. You will actually attempt and mostly succeed in eating healthy, regular meals.

5. You can dust your bookshelves and remind yourself of the all the books you still have to read like, What If? Eminent Historians Imagine What Might Have Been. What if I actually read that book?

6. You can pretend you're a serious career woman and monitor your company's new search engine marketing campaign and web visits (Da man better not get used to THAT, believe you me.)

7. You can trek up to the Lincoln Park Home Depot's roof top garden and buy your flowers for your window boxes. You can also get your tomato plants and herbs that you'll put on your fire escape so when you lean out to water them, hot neighbor will call up to you and say, "Hey, this is just like West Side Story!"

8. You can get up early on a Sunday and have time to mop wood floors that had become to look like packed earth, get coffee and the paper, and still have time and energy to meet friends for lunch and the Printers Row Book Fair.

9. You can make pesto that has way too much garlic and even freeze some like the magazines tell you to. You can make a solemn vow to make pesto all summer with the aforementioned basil plant that is growing on your fire escape.

10. You can plan what you're going to do during your next not-in-the-least-bit alcohol free weekend!

Not sure where babies come from? Don't ask my brother

If you live in my 7-year-old nephew Zach’s world, babies come out of women’s butts. And he thinks that because his retarded father told him so. I guess I should say “thought” because I put an end to that last Friday when he and Chad picked me up from the train last Friday.

There we were, riding along in silence when Zach bursts out.

“Babies come out of your butt, did you know that?” Zach said.

Hmm. I certainly didn’t know that, and I was curious how the little guy came to believe this. I looked at Chad, a now nervous father staring straight down the road. The air thickened in the cab of his white pickup.

Mystery solved.

Zach went on to describe—in graphic detail mind you—how these alleged rectal births play out. “Yeah, the baby is pushed out some and then the doctor helps pull it out all the way and it’s covered in poop.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “Close though.”

“Shut up Angie. Shut up Angie.” Chad said, laying down the gauntlet. But I didn’t care. How is my nephew going to be the go-to guy next fall in third grade if he’s walking around thinking babies drop out of your ass?

“Zach, there’s an opening close by there in women where the baby comes out,” I say. Zach seemed a little squeamish. Why this seemed grosser to him than the ass version, I’ll never know.

“What’s it called?” Zach asked.

“I AM GOING TO KILL YOUR AUNT!” Chad said, but the only way he was going to stop me from saying the “V” word, was if he drove the three of us into oncoming traffic.

Now this part was surprisingly hard. I really hesitated, knowing that it wasn't my place to go where I was going. . .but babies being crapped out? Come on.

“It’s a vagina Zach. A vagina!” There, my work was finished.

“A VAJENDA?”

Chad and I busted out laughing causing Zach to think I made up the word.

More than likely, we're back to square one.

18th and Blue Island

There's always a little something going on there. Whether it's a bunch of local dudes and their pigeon friends hanging out, a drum circle, or even a mariachi band, it's an intersection unlike no other in a neighborhood that has one hell of a personality.

Last week I was deplaning off the 60 when I looked over across the street and saw a bunch of white tents. Hmmm. What have we here, I thought. Pilsen Fashion Week? Nah. An open air orgy? Maybe, it is May afterall. While I stood there and squinted at the sign hanging near the tent, a gentleman handed me a flyer explaining what was going on.

It was a hunger strike. Two women--Elvira Arellano and Flor Crisostomo--are on said strike until President Bush declares a moratorium on deportations. Geez, I thought, I should check this hunger strike out. There was a problem though.

I was really, really hungry. Starving actually.

Am I bad person? I wanted to go home and eat dinner and I figured they'd be around for awhile. Even though I was going out of town for a couple of days, I thought they weren't going anywhere because God knows the only moratorium Bush declared is one on intelligence, decency, and the hope that America will ever be respected again.

Well here it is a week later and I left the grocery store (no food, just laundry soap and some awesome $1 dryer sheets) and walked past the tents tonight. There was an NBC5 truck and a few people--everyone looked in reasonably good health. But I didn't stop.

Because I had no idea how one "checks out" a hunger strike.

Sorry Jen, didn't mean to trample ya

I now know how I would react when mob rule takes over a crowd. After just the teeniest tiniest bit of hesitation, I’ll go right along with the flow.

Yesterday I was part of that throng of stalkers hanging out by the Music Box to star gaze. I’ve had a long time love affair with Vince Vaughan (I started dating him in my head after JFK Jr. died) and was like, “HELL YEAH!” when my friend Jennifer called and asked if I was in for checking out our first big-time movie premiere. Janel (yes, she made the blog again) took no convincing to join us either. And as Jennifer we put it, we’ve been training all our lives for this moment, what with reading volumes of celebrity magazines, hours of watching EXTRA!, and sitting through Oscar telecast after telecast each year.

While we grabbed a bite beforehand (we needed some sustenance for all that pushing and shoving we were in for) we tried to list the stars we’d thought we’d see. Jon Favreau, John Cusack, David Schwimmer. . . maybe even George Clooney--Jennifer’s only-in-her-head boyfriend.

But what we got was that kid from Ed, you know that guy who’s in those new Mac commercials? And Rod Blagojevich—possibly the nation’s dorkiest Governor—was rightfully booed when he got out of his vehicle and tried to work the crowd. (Dude, you’re killing me enough as Governor. Stay out of my celebrity fantasy land.)

We did see what we really came for—Vince and Jennifer Aniston. And I want personally to apologize to Jennifer for that mad rush that almost swallowed the little gal up when she got out of her limo. But it wasn’t our fault. There wasn’t nearly enough cops to hold our insurgency back. I guess Don Rumsfeld must have coordinated the security.

When the crowd initially ran into Southport, Janel and I paused for second and looked at each other—Jennifer was long gone, probably making out with Vince at this point—and we shrugged and ran up with the rest of the herd.

As we watched some idiots climb up on an SUV to take pictures, Janel said, “They didn’t do a very good job controlling us, did they?”

I thought that was pretty funny.

Boobs

Today when I left Northwest train station (I know, it's been Ogilvie for like a decade) I made the decision that I was going to hate everyone on my bus. Most days I'm indifferent, somedays I'm all "wow, isn't life grand and how cool it is that we can all coexist" and shit, but today I was going to be a hater. And I was going to start while I was waiting for the 60.

Since my iPod battery crapped out about two minutes into my train ride, I was quite glad that I remembered to bring some reading along to thwart off any potential small talkers. And I was most thankful that my bus wait was coinciding with a rare pocket of clear weather. While I was both cursing the shitty job I did last night with the self tanning lotion (my feet look really fucking odd) and enjoying this very good book I hear this off to my left:

"Hey pretty! Preetttttyyyy!"

Pretty? Clearly someone was talking to me. I turned my head.

"Are you a new momma?" the dude asked, gestering to my breasts with his eyes. I looked down at my chest to make sure I left the "open for public comment" sign I usually wear around my neck at the office. Nope. No sign.

Derelict or not, I was pissed.

"Am I a new momma? No, I am not a new momma!"

"Oh." He wasn't finished. "I know you know my face."

He was right. I've seen him on the bus before. "Yep. Seen ya on the bus," I snapped and went back to my book.

Now if I was half the man I claim to be, I would have said the following:

Yeah, I know who you fucking are. You are that total wierdo who can't seem to shut the fuck up for a single second once you get your sorry ass on the 60. And that day you sat near me last month and ate those disgusting pork rinds from Madison all the way to Roosevelt? Brutal. And then that chick totally took some when you offered them to her? I wanted to throw up. Oh, and could you please tell me why you need to carry on a conversation with the driver when you ARE STANDING ALL THE WAY IN THE BACK?"

Maybe I'll see him tomorrow.

It's 8:58 P.M. Do you know why there's someone playing an accordion outside your window?

Yep, just a regular Tuesday night in Pilsen.

Why you gotta be down on Opie?

I think everyone owes Opie Cunningham an apology. I saw Da Vinci Code yesterday, and it wasn't so bad. I, infact liked it, didn't love it or anything like that, but liked it. Just a perfectly respectable movie based on an O.K. book that had a very interesting premise. Tom Hanks' hair deserved a one-star demotion to be sure, and I'm personally not a fan of French accents. But other than that, I find this backlash curious.

I honestly don't know what's worse--people who can't bear anything resembling a challenge to their religion, or the critics/literati/know it all's who can't let me read crap books and see preposterous films in peace without trying to make me feel dumb.

The negative buzz leading up to the Da Vinci Code opening made me think of an old classmate from my days at Columbia. Catherine--a hyperactive, narcissistic cinematography student--told our seminar one day about how horrified she was when she went to see Moulin Rouge and a few middle-aged women were bad mouthing the film afterwards. She proudly declared to everyone, "And I told them, 'YOUR IGNORANCE IS BLINDING!'" The class seemed stunned.

"I fucking hated that movie. I couldn't finish it," I said.

And then I shot the sniveling little bitch.

Blessed are the drunk

Among my friends, we have a rule. When going out, never EVER say aloud that you plan on taking it easy, you're just having a couple of beers, you want to get up early the next day, etc.. Because as soon as someone utters anything to that effect, you've challenged fate. The barley and hops gods will become displeased and the night, most likely will end up butt-ugly. You'll take everyone down with you and even prayers to St. Intoxicatius--the patron saint of the drunk and disorderly--will not save you.

Last night I dragged a friend out whose name pops up on this blog frequently. Janel met me at the train station and we preemptively grabbed some food to ensure that we didn't end up in a gutter, in an E.R, or worse yet--speed dating. On the agenda was the Schadenfruede's Rent Party (the greedy bastards are making this a regular thing now--cool cuz now I know what I'll be doing every third Friday until 2036 when that asteroid hits Earth.)

Janel had plans to go out of town later today so she wanted to take things easy. "I'm not staying out late tonight," she cautioned.

Uh-oh. Now she did it. Immediately I knew there would be no rising before noon today.

"Ok. Sure. Whatever." I said and we both knew never to speak of it again.

After sitting at the Bucktown bar where Schadenfruede all at once terrified, enthralled, and entertained the masses gathered to help them pay the rent on their studio, we went to a post-show gathering at a bar a few blocks over on Damen. We weren't there very long before I noticed a pair of legs laying on the floor. I quickly made sure Janel was upright. She was, and dancing a little so all was good.

The girl was helped over to a chair near where we were standing. While she tried to get her shit together, I noticed Janel was kind of staring at her. Not only that, she was dancing--slightly at this point--while she was staring at Passed Out girl. It was pretty weird.

"Dude, cut it out!" I said. There is a drinkers code of ethics we adhere to. We never act soberer than thou if someone can't hold their liquor as well as corn-fed small town Illinois girls.

We continued our circuit training of beer beer cigarette beer cigarette cigabeerette beer when the incomparable Justin from Schadenfreude worked himself into a jukebox frenzy. (note: Jukebox Frenzy is a condition I identified in 1993 where one shovels a lot of dough into a jukebox in order to (a) play all their favorite songs from age 10 on, and (2) completely monopolize the joint's music so hillbilly skanks can't play Tobey Keith).

Now to the untrained eye, Janel and I dancing last night to Salt and Peppa's "Shoop" might have seemed like we thought we are good dancers. But in fact, it was an AUDITION for the next Schadenfreude show. A post modern study of the mother/whore dichotomy challenging the misogynist culture of Bucktown bars if you will.

And Justin, how'd we do?

Moronic slob: Now the official mindset of America

I’m not going to waste anyone’s time with a post invoking the Statue of Liberty on this English-as-our-official-language shit being crapped out of Congress. I haven’t the energy and I’m supposed to be working right now anyway.

But I have three words, kids. DISTRACTION. DISTRACTION. MOTHERFUCKINGDISTRACTION.

Are we nation of toddlers whose attention can be snagged by waving a shiny object in front of our face? This trainwreck of an administration can do whatever the hell it wants because all they need to do is trot out non issue after non issue and all is forgotten.

Apparently the American public can only sustain passion on a question when it comes to whether or not a couple of lesbians can get married, or how quickly Jorge Martinez can learn English. Starting ill-planned wars on a hunch? Eh, whatever.

The Republicans better start getting creative. Gays and immigrants: so easy. What are they going to do after the first bombs on Iran are dropped?

It had better be good. If only for the entertainment value.

Oh, and this is what they don't want us to pay attention to.
Ramadi vay-kay anyone?

All Aboard?

This is week three of the "Days When I Commuted to the Burbs" chapter of my life.

Initially I planned to carpool with a barely-21 year old coworker when my company moved from downtown to the Western suburbs. It sounded like a good idea at first. And it lasted about a week until I realized that if I wanted to live to see 34, I'd better think long and hard about taking the train. When the guy driving you says, "You might want to hold on, this part's gonna get rough," and the only thing between you and a concrete barrier is a prayer, it's time to get it out.

I told Mr. Nascar if I could be drunk during our rides, I'd be able to handle his driving (80 mph, driving on shoulders, creative lane changes, etc.) Loading up on bloodys for breakfast isn't terribly conducive to being a productive employee, so it was time for plan B. And besides, I'm saving drinking at my desk for my 40s.

So week two kicked off with me buying a Metra pass, getting up at 5 a.m., and officially moving one major step closer to becoming one of "them." What do I mean by them? Wednesday I saw this woman on the bus with her comfortable shoes, windbreaker, no fuss hair cut, and various transit passes hanging smartly around her neck. She is obviously good at this sort of commute. I don't want to get the hang of it. I don't want to be one of them. God help me.

Some of you may think, especially my suburban brothers and sistas, "Wowza, can this girl whine. Just go to work already! Fair enough but for 10 years my intercity commute is when I've done some of my best thinking. The city is inspiring. In early 1997, I singlehandedly solved all the world's problems one morning between Belmont and Jackson on the Blue Line. And I know exactly what I'd say when I'm interviewed by David Letterman upon release of my new, yet unwritten, yet unpublished book. I figured that out one afternoon years back taking the 7 from Columbia back to my old apartment on Lexington Ave.

So at present my time is spent worrying that I'm going to leave my $95 pass sitting in that clippy thing on the seat in front of me. Or that I'm going to miss my stop. Worse still, the Metra trains on the reverse commute run once every 34 years so I can't risk stopping for coffee for fear of missing the train.

And a decaffeinated Angie is not a happy Angie.

You told number two we sleep together?!

Once in a while, you end your day in a way that is miles from how you imagined it.

About two weeks ago I got an Evite from a friend to attend his Second City Improv class end-of-session show for Saturday afternoon. He told me to bring some friends, so I asked my pal Janel to go, using the magic word "bender" as we would begin cocktailing at precisely 2 p.m.

After Mr. Improv's show (very funny btw) we attended the post-show party and then jetted across the street to a pub to get some food and plan the rest of the day. There was a full house near the bar, so I scanned the place and found an empty table in the back. I asked the guys at the neighboring table if the spot was vacant, they nodded yes and the six of us became fast friends. BFFs even.

There was Dan and Jeff, who had just finished their beginners improv show. They also do stand up along with Bob. And Brian--a corporate whore by trade--gets to attend all their shows, cheer them on, and try to romance comedy groupies I suspect.

We drank a lot, laughed a lot, forgot about eating, and since I consider myself to pretty funny, I enjoyed the competitive nature of trying to one up eachother. The guys asked us what we were doing with the rest of the evening.

Janel and I looked at eachother, then at our beers, and then at eachother.

"Uh, this pretty much," I said.

"We're going speed dating," Brian said. He wasn't joking. We we're hanging out with veteran speed daters apparently.

A drunken lightbulb appeared above my head. I was pretty sure Janel saw it and began to rethink her friendship with me.

"Well if you're going speed dating, then we're going speed dating!" My mind started conjuring up the stories that could come out of this.

"No way. Fuck that. I am not going speed dating." Janel said.

"Dude, WE ARE GOING SPEED DATING!" I was going to win this one.

After explaining to her how important this was going to be for my career (don't ask) and acknowleding that my blog has suffered as of late--and after plying her and myself with more alcohol, she agreed. We exchanged numbers and told the guys we'd meet them at Lucille's.

We sucked up our beers and a couple of cigarettes and soon found ourselves in the 2400 block of North Lincoln Avenue. We walked into the restaurant/bar and began to revisit my decision when I saw white tablecloths, candles, numbered spots and women who showed up early and who clearly took some time to make themselves presentable.

Presentable. Now that's a concept. Janel and I were both in jeans, reeking of smoke, and pretty darned drunk at this point. I asked the cruise director if it was too late to get in on the action.

"Uh, we want to speed date."

"No problem. You're a friend of a member?"

"Yeah."

"What's his name?"

"I don't know. Lemme call him real quick."

Thankfully, they were close behind. And they would have been there sooner, if one hadn't stopped to change clothes and douse himself in cologne. We all registered, grabbed our sheets to track our 3 minute dates, and hit the open bar.

Turns out I was right. There's a lot of material to be had at a speed dating event. Example. A middle aged guy gravitated to our table during the pre-dating cocktail hour. In his hand was a plate loaded with appetizers. One of guys gave him a stern warning:

"Don't over do it, man. This is speed dating. You don't want to cramp up."

Once we took our seats and the guys started moving from table to table, the fun really started.

Janel was several feet away from me, but with her beyond audible voice, I was able to keep tabs on her closely. This even over the din of 70 people chatting eachother up. I even missed a few guys, ignoring them, because I was so amused with watching her.

"That's my friend over there," I told one guy. "She's an asshole." We thought it was very funny to bad mouth each other to the bachelors.

I was talking to another guy, when I heard a familiar shriek.

"WHAT DID THAT FUCKING BITCH SAY?"

We were definitely making some lasting impressions.

I actually ended up interested in a couple of guys. One, a gentlemen from Sweden, seemed geniunely captivated by me declaring my undying love for IKEA. Later I heard Janel ask him, "What are you, Scottish?"

Another, a guy who had a bit of an allergy attack while we talked, was awfully cute and quite a departure from my usual meat head tastes.

"I have to tell you that I'm not hypoallergenic," I said while he sneezed and rubbed his eyes. "Nor have I been tested on animals."

"Well you should have a label then," he said.

"Yes, I should. And I swear a lot." I said.

"You sweat a lot?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"NO. SWEAR."

"Oh, well that's ok." he said.

I gave him a once over. "I'm putting you down as a yes."

He left the table, and I leaned over to the girl next to me and said. "You better stay away from him."

"Uh, don't worry,"she said.

After the dating was over, we met back at a table where the guys filled us in on their conquests. Apparently Brian was hurting Bob's chances by telling girls they had a relationship that was more than just friends. And Janel didn't fill out her sheet at all, prompting Bob and Jeff to fill it out for her--marking down every guy as a yes.

They turned it in.

Here's a picture of me on the #60 taken today at 6 pm

"It's warmer in the interior of Alaska than it is here in Chicago," said Tom Skilling, WGN weatherman extraordinare, about five minutes ago. Right now it's 42 degrees outside my window, but it feels like 33 degrees. I really shouldn't be expected to go to work tomorrow.

Enduring crappy weather is our solemn duty in Chicago. But can someone explain to me how, no matter what direction you are walking in, the icy wet wind will always be blowing right into your sleep-deprived face? Anyone?

No more boze!

A co-worker of mine, and now fellow city to suburbs train commuter was not her usual chipper self when I plopped down in the seat next to her.

“Hey,” I said, greeting her at the God-forsaken hour of 6:50 a.m.

“I feel like SHIT.”

“You got a cold or something?” I asked, not realizing that it’s entirely possible that I’m not the only one capable of coming to work hungover.

“I’m hungoverrrrrrr,” She replied and then ran down the list of stuff she drank last night. Shots of Jameson, beer after beer after beer. I was going to throw up just listening to her.

We have a car pick us up every morning for the last leg of the journey. While I entertained our driver with my morning rants about the state of the world, woozy whiskey girl started coughing like a emphysema patient.

“Ah, man. I sure hope I don’t barf or something awful like that,” She said. “We have such a nice bathroom." She's right. We just moved from a century-old warehouse near the Chicago River. We're still amazed at our working plumbing and squeaky-clean environs.

Looks like someone hasn't learned her lesson. She might be at it again soon--the following message just popped up:

"I just got an invite to go to the Kit Kat club tomorrow night at 9! I am going to die! No more boze (sic)!"

Ah, the all-too-familiar No more boze pledge.

Funky Town: Now a suburb of Chicago

Last night I spent the evening in the Northwest suburbs with some lady friends who dwell out in those parts. We had two objectives: one was to see one pal's new apartment and drink her beer, and the other was to bust out a mother of two who had spent the day with her family at Elmopalooza.

We settled in at Durty Nelle's in Palatine where the menu included burger, beer, and three decades of cover bands.

The 70s band (pictured above during a WGN appearance) called the Aphrodisiacs were decked out in Disco Stu attire, theatrical, and fun to watch. The guys then repackaged themselves as the Spasmatics to cover the 80s with the lead singer wearing a neckbrace. While I was thinking that I didn't quite get that part of his costume, he must of read my mind because he dropped to his knees and started simulating how he performs oral sex on a woman, while noting that the neck brace helped him in that endeavor. It was a shocking display as I was sure oral sex is illegal in the suburbs.

The last band of the night--covering 90s and more recent heavily played radio songs--really took their job seriously. And by really, I mean REALLY. Since I wasn't drunk, just awfully relaxed and slightly silly, I had the presence of mind to stand there and be as judgy and critical as possible. And yes, I still shook my ass from time to time, so they weren't all that bad.

"WE'RE FUCKING PARTYING!" Hissed the lead singer, who was wearing a T-shirt that read, I love rock. But the word "love" was represented by a pentagram, encased in a circle. This guy was bad ass. He continued to massage the crowd.

"RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE!" someone yelled behind me. He was ignored.

"WE'RE IN THE PILL, MAN! FUCKING PALATINE, ILLINOIS!" Mr. Bad Ass shouted, "WE'RE IN THE PILL!"

I'm in the pill? I looked at my friend, Elmopalooza mom and she said, "Hey, I don't live here."

When the band struck up the beginning of The White Stripes' Seven Nation Army, Mr. Bad Ass bit his bottom lip and started to punch the air with both arms to the drum beat, almost as if he was doing bench presses. He urged the crowd to follow suit. One of my friends immediately obliged.

"Don't do what he tells you to do," I said, scolding her.

She immediately stopped and looked down at her feet.

Then he started to sing, prompting someone on stage to push the "CHOICE VOCAL EFFECTS" button, because this is what I heard:

I'm going to fight 'em off
A seven nation army couldn't hold me back
They're gonna rip it off. off off off off off off off off off off off off off off

Doctors now prescribing Jim Beam

Full disclosure. I love the Kennedys. Unless one of them drives me off a bridge or into a barricade, I don't see that changing. Ever. And while I loves me some Kennedys, I know enough to never, ever accept a ride home from one.

Clearly, Patrick Kennedy was still drunk when he offered up an explanation for his accident. He said prescription medication made him all loopy and out of sorts.

"Sometime around 2:45 a.m., I drove the few blocks to the Capitol complex believing I needed to vote," he said. "Apparently, I was disoriented from the medication."

Oh, Patrick, dear drunk Patrick. At least we know even inebriated, this Kennedy has his constituents first and foremost on his booze-soaked mind.

It's too bad he couldn't hire away some of Cheney's spin team. I sure hope he tried.

Vagina Monologue

To get the stink of the suburbs off of me (because I apparently work there now) I took an awfully long walk after work tonight.

While hoofing it up Halsted, my shuffle started playing "Fat Bottomed Girls," as if to goad me into walking faster. Stupid shuffle. I skipped ahead to the next song and just tried to suck up the citiness of it all. Traffic, pedestrians, homeless, cops, half-built kajillion dollar single family homes off the Dan Ryan Expressway. Ahhh. Life was good again.

Before I knew it, I was up in my old neighborhood--Little Italy-- and decided to pay my old bosses a visit on Taylor Street. Jeez, Ang, that's quite a walk you're on, they said and I helped myself to some bottled water, grabbed a seat to shoot the breeze, Taylor Street style.

There was lot of "@#$%" and some of "&%$#@!" and then someone said, well, "@#%^@%!!" And then I said, "you ain't kiddin." Before long it was time for me to head home to avoid the whole nightfall and danger lurking around every corner thing.

So off I went.

Heading back down Halsted, I ducked into a 7/11 because I needed some tampons. I walked over to the beyond-over-priced section where they keep the stuff you should get at Target, but you didn't last Friday because apparently you forgot you had a vagina. There I see just about everything--pads, this, that, and the other--but no tampons.

Bold as can be I walked up to the counter. And there they were, safely guarded by the 7/11 guy. These tampons would not be getting into the wrong hands, thanks to the convenience store powers-that-be.

"I'll take a box of regular tampax," I said, unaffected as if I was ordering a latte.

7/11 guy got all spastic and stumbled over to the boxes. Regular tampax?

"Uh, the yellow ones. Yep. . . Them. That's cool."

"That'll be $3.05," he said, not looking me in the eye.

Anyway, that exchange made my day. Or at the very least, my early evening.

Finally, a winning strategy for Iraq

In today's Chicago Sun-Times, crime reporter Frank Main writes about Chicago gangbangers who are serving in Iraq. Our hometown heroes, according to the article, are making us proud with their graffiti and all around wholesome gangsta nature. (Picture at right is the work of a Latin King, a Little Village gang.)

It turns out the military's new found we'll-take-anyone approach to recruiting has given us soldiers who have criminal backgrounds, and known gang ties before entering the military. And even better, gang bangers wearing the uniform are saying their leaders urged them to join so they could bring their urban warfare skills home to Chicago, L.A., and New York, among other places.

A familiar quandry, no? Haven't we been concerned for the last few years about Al Qaeda sending their guys into Iraq for training?

When I read this, I thought, "man, just when you think you couldn't be more pissed off about this war." But, inherently I'm a positive gal. Maybe this is a good thing. The insurgents will get up close and personal with the craziest American bastards we can serve up, and probably more importantly, gangbangers will become better shots and hit their targets--eachother--instead of kids playing in parks.

Show it to Angie, she'll buy anything

I’m convinced there’s a picture of me hanging in the conference room at the ad agency responsible for marketing useless shit to consumers.

“What’s Angie buying this week?”

“Uh, just got the numbers, sir. Let’s see, some headbands she’ll never wear. Sweaters that are too big, but we priced them right, so she bought two. And avocado oil.”

“I bet she has no idea what to do with that,eh?”

“Nope.”

“God, I love her.”

Last night at my neighborhood grocery store, La Casa Del Pueblo, I almost bought something called saliva soap, but then put it back when I realized it was “savila” soap. At this store I’ve finally realized my threshold for impulse buys. Items like pig hooves, 6-ft lengths of sugar cane, and calf stomach lining don’t find their way into my cart.

But there is lots of stuff at Mexican grocery stores that I never realized I had to have until I laid my eyes on it.

Like jalapeno shampoo. Makes me look just like Salma Hayek after use. And a medicinal tea called Smooth Move. Don’t think I have to explain that one, do I?

I think we missed our exit

Months back my bosses--these would be my adorable and surprisingly easy to impress bosses---told me that they were moving our office out to the suburbs. Immediately I was filled with disgust and dread and made it quite clear that it would be a bitter pill for me to swallow. Kicking and screaming, I'd go. . . maybe, I thought. Regardless, I was going to make them suffer dearly.

But then the days, turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into. . (you guessed it!) months and here I am less than a week away from COMMUTING TO THE SUBURBS and ya know what?

I'm O.K.

There's been no panic attacks. No fits of crying. No waking in up in the middle of the night screaming because I dreamt I was trapped in an Olive Garden and I couldn't get out. I'm really O.K. Not even an iota of self-loathing because I didn't run out and snag me some brilliant job that would make everyone who knows me pea green with envy.

I've completely suprised the shit out of myself.

I'm going to give this carpool thing an honest to goodness try. Which is prompting me to brew up a big ol' post on my momentary farewell to rush hour public transit--I'm thinking three parter--because I can pretty much predict what any expressway commute post would say:

Yeah, co-worker dude picked me up late again today. BUMPER TO BUMPER traffic, man. Then this ugly guy totally winked at me in the toll lane, and then we were at work or whatever. I thought that Channel 9 bitch said 35 minutes to the Tri-State? What is she on?

Luckily for the guys, not only do they treat me like a human being, they realize my genius. Can you really ask for more?

What brings you to see Road Angel?

Plot: Angie goes to her hometown for the weekend to attend her nephew’s 16th birthday party. She and friends Mr. and Mrs. P have dinner after the party and make plans to go out for a couple of cocktails–just a few as Angie has to get up early to return to Chicago and the Ps need to be responsible homeowners and plant flowers or whatever.

Cast (in order of appearance)
Angelatee----------Angie
Kimpee----------Kim
Jeffpee----------Jeff
Drunken Motorcycle Dude--------Butch
RitaEmm----------Aunt Rita
Lisatee----------Cousin Lisa
Ronniedee-----------Cousin Ronnie
Jimmydubya-----------Cousin Jimmy
Chardonnay, cigarettes, beer----------Hangover

Angie, Kim, and Jeff have well surpassed "just a few" and are belly up at the third-to-the-last bar of the night.

Enter stumbling, drunken motorcyle dude

Butch: AHHH. WHATTHEFUCK. WHATTHEFUCK? WHAT. .. . THE . . . FUCK. Ahhhhhgrrghhh

He sits down on the stool next to Angie

Angie: Hi!

Butch: Do you know how to drive a Harley? (hiccups)

Angie: No.

Butch: Wellwhythehellnot? What the fuck?

Angie: Ok. (she turns back to Kim) I bet you 10 bucks if we go the bar across the street (the scary one with motorcycles lined up out front) I’ll be related to at least one person.

Kim: Let’s go.

Jeff: Let’s go.

The trio leave and cross the street coming upon several, very pleasant bikers out front of the bar where Angie is convinced she’ll find her kin.

Angie: Good evening gentlemen!

Bikers (in unison): Good evening!

They enter the bar where they’re immediately struck by the number of patrons crammed inside and the not-so-lovely ladies suggestively dancing on the bar, unsightly bulges spilling to and fro. Angie spies a familiar face.

Angie: AUNT RITA!

Rita: ARASHDY DHGIH BLUP GOOHIN! (Struck by seeing her niece, she’s beyond words.)

Angie: Yes, Aunt Rita, yes. COUSIN LISA!!!!!!

Lisa: Hi. It’s been a long time. Ronnie’s here.

Angie: COUSIN RONNIE!

Ronnie: I love you!!!Ahhhhh! (Gives Angie a big hug. Aunt Rita grabs her and tries to dance)

Rita: GHOSDKH BLOOOTH GAAARBLE? HERTHU CLOP DLAOOG?

Angie: I’d love a cigarette, thank you. No I don’t think that cowboy is cute. I’m not really into cowboys all that much. Let’s do a shot!

Angie purchases four shots of tequila and brings them back for a "family shot." Her cousins and Aunt thank her profusely. Angie, Kim and Jeff leave for one last bar. At the new bar, a band is entertaining the crowd. Jeff and Kim go to shake their money makers on the dance floor. Angie is at the bar. A man approaches her as her back is turned.

Jimmy: So what brings you to see Road Angel?

Angie: COUSIN JIMMY! (They hug) What’s a Road Angel?

Jimmy: It’s the band. I thought the name was really cheesy so Jackie and I came out. Hey, we’re moving to Chicago. (Jimmy is a brilliant artist and his girlfriend is finishing graduate school)

Angie: (at this point she has caught whatever was ailing Aunt Rita) You have to shake the dust of this crummy little town off your feet and SEE THE WORLD!

Jimmy: (realizing she stole the line from It’s a Wonderful Life) Merry Christmas, Movie House! Merry Christmas, Emporium! Merry Christmas, Old Building and Loan!

Jimmy exits. Enter hangover.

THE END

I don't do busy

This morning was an air dry the hair and put on the glasses kind of morning. I rarely RARELY (did I mention rarely?) have something going on every night of week, and this morning I felt physical pain opening my eyes when the alarm went off.

I was out of town last weekend, and will be shoving off again tonight. My apartment is such a disaster that a family of orangutans have taken up residence. I know this because I got about a foot away from my pantry curtain this morning when a hairy arm sprung out and handed me the Cheerios. And I’m plum out of bananas. Obvious conclusion, no?

Last night was well worth any added grogginess. If you live in Chicago RUN, don’t walk to the next performance of the improv group Schadenfruede. And pay particular attention to Justin Kaufman, someone who has talent oozing from his pores (among other stuff maybe but I don’t know him that well). He’s also someone I had the pleasure of greeting every morning when I was a receptionist at WBEZ. Justin, it was the way I answered the phone that made me so special, right? A friend and I went to Schadenfruede’s Rent Party—nothing whatsoever to do with that brutal musical—where we drank $1.50 beers and were blown away by such performances as a Karate Kid-inspired Rock Opera. Beyond funny.

Why the better to head bunt you with

On Easter Sunday I was at my brother’s house sitting on my ass while he was busy cooking a dinner that I told him he needed to host. Talking to his son Zach is always a trip so I was more than happy to pass the time with what has to be the world’s most unusual 7-year-old.

A couple of months back when Zach and Chad picked me up from the train station, Zach told me that in order to get a true measure of the weight of your head, he’d have to cut it off. That’s cool, I said, why did he care anyway? Well he weighs his head quite a bit, he said, but being the stickler to detail that he is, he knows he’ll never get the accuracy he craves. Again, cool, I said and decided not to talk to him the rest of the way home.

So on Sunday I notice him with both hands on either side of his dear little head, patting away with a concerned look on his face.

“Do I have a big head? Kaylla says I have a melon head,” Zach asked, not remotely sad or shy about it. Just very matter-of-fact.

Now as an adult, I should have assured him or tried the change the subject, but this kid is beyond his years and we get along best when I’m totally straight up.

“Uh, Kaylla has a big head. We all do. That’s why we’re so freaking smart.”

He laughed. He’s a gorgeous kid and he knows it.

For the most part, my immediate family has robust, shanty Irish-sized heads. We’re by no means freaks, and we all manage to attract the opposite sex so it’s certainly not an issue but it when it comes to hats and stuff, well it can be a problem.

I’ve actually kept this in mind when I think of the man I’ll possibly pro-create with. He must have a pea-head so our children will have the chance at a normal life. Thank God things didn’t work out with this one guy whose head was so big, his high school football coach had to order a special helmet for him.

T.G.I.G.F

Mel Gibson has nothing on the folks of Pilsen! I just saw these pics on the Chicago Tribune Web site, and now I'm glad I worked yesterday.

Reenactments of any ilk freak me out. I still haven't recovered from a Lincoln-Douglas debate I saw in Ottawa, Ill., in 1995.

Ode to my hot neighbor

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.

I'd like to invite Vanderbilt Ignoble, poet laureate of Bored for Now, to critique my first poem.

You think YOU have problems?

A coworker of mine has been dealing with an unruly daughter in her terrible eighteens. Unsavory boyfriends, friends with undue influence--all is driving the woman batty. In an attempt to make her feel a little better today, I shared--at least some of--the story of a cousin who is two months younger than me but has lived a life James Frey would kill for.

My brother and I have two cousins who are the same age as us, and we spent a lot of time with them growing up. While my brother and I were fairly sedate and well behaved, these two were animals. And while I can't speak for Chad, I have to wonder what my life would be like if they didn't move out of our hometown 23 years ago.

Hanging out with Dawn always ended in disaster and/or illicit activity. I had my first drink of booze with her when she moved back from California the summer of 1980. When we were outside playing she'd get bored and say things like, "let's hitchhike" and I'd say things like, "ok!" We got caught shoplifting at the IGA (her idea). I smoked pot (I definitely didn't inhale) for the first time at age 10 with her. We practiced the drinking game quarters with Grape Koolaid. She was very good at it, and I was throwing up the shit all night. Her mom teased me saying, "Geez, Angie sure can't hold her Koolaid." Dawn even tried huffing the cooking spray Pam, one of the few things I said no to in the those days.

Late in my 7th grade year, Dawn called me and said she was picking me up in her grandma's beige Topaz. I thought she was kidding. She wasn't. We spent the day driving around, and we had plenty of money since Dawn had written one of her grandma's checks to the local grocery store for cash. There was a fifth of Jack Daniels in the glove compartment and a gun under the driver's seat.

I wish I was making this up.

I'm not.

And to this day I can picture the two of us at the corner of 3rd and Joliet Streets in LaSalle, ready to make a left turn when I saw a very familiar blue station wagon with one of my normal friend's mother behind the wheel coming toward us. I slumped down and prayed. I think that's the day I decided there was a God.

That Thanksgiving my mom let me head down to their even smaller town to spend the holiday with her. I rode down with her grandma, the gun toting alcoholic who had a serious gambling problem. On the way, the old lady who was loaded, suggested we stop for a steak dinner.

"Uh, Nancy, aren't going to have dinner at their house?" I asked.

"Ahhhhhgguh. I'll buy."

I'm 12. Isn't that a given, I thought.

I talked her out of it and we continued on to one of the most fucked-up Thanksgivings I ever had the pleasure of being part. Dawn's drug addict mom, apparently clean at the moment and possessing a conscience, had a problem with her mother showing up drunk with a minor in tow. Major fighting ensued which resulted in Dawn pushing Nancy in the kitchen, who in turn fell backward into the garbage can.

Again, not making this up.

At its core, this story is really very sad. Dawn had a mother who not only abused just about every substance she could get her hands on, but she pushed it on her children (and her visiting niece on occasion). I luckily had the chip that taught me how to deal with some of the more fucked-up adults around me. Pity them, piss them off by exhaling instead of inhaling on their one-hitter and blowing all their pot all over their car, but don’t emulate them.

As I write this, I have no idea where Dawn is. Over the last 18 years or so, I’ve seen her half a dozen times. Once when she was pregnant at 16, she greeted me at the door with a Bud in one hand and a joint in the other. About 10 years later we got together after her family was busted by the Feds for operating a Meth lab. She told me about the day when she walked out of their trailer and was met by dozens of agents with guns drawn, from just about every agency you can imagine.

Me: DEA?
Dawn: yep.
Me: ATF?
Dawn: (pauses) yep.
Me: FBI?
Dawn: Of course.
Me: Were they hot?
Dawn: Actually, yeah. They were.

Jesus freaks and ice cream trucks

An onslaught of bible-thumpers hits the streets in my neighborhood once winter says its final goodbye. I think those people, and the relentless parade of ice cream trucks playing “Pop Goes the Weasel” are far more detrimental to my well-being than anything the mean streets of Chicago can throw my way.

On Saturday I left my apartment to suck up some free WiFi and caffeine when I saw packs of evangelists knocking on doors and stopping folks on the sidewalk, to spread the good word. I’ve always tried to be polite in the past if I’m approached, but Saturday I was feeling a bit combative.

Churchie: (in Spanish, handing me some leaflet): Hello, do you have a moment?

Me: I don’t speak Spanish. I’m in a hurry. I’m not interested.

Then I kicked her.

Churchie: You don’t have time for Jesus, you heathen! Ever hear of eternal damnation?

Alright, she really didn’t say that. But I know that’s what she meant when she thanked me nicely and let me pass. And yea, I didn’t really kick her.

I’ve always been of the mind that if you are truly confident and at peace about the choices you made in your life then you will not be remotely compelled to make others follow suit. Devoted your life to God? Rock on and leave me the hell alone. And besides that, I much prefer the Catholic flying-under-the-radar approach to expanding their membership by fighting the expansion of birth control in the 3rd World.

Can I get an Amen? And how about an ice cream sandwich while you’re at it.

HARRY TAYLOR FOR PRESIDENT!

Just who is this Harry Taylor guy, the man who stood up to Mr.-I-still-can't-believe-he's-President Bush at a North Carolina townhall meeting? I've googled him hi and low, and it seem like he's maybe just some regular American who told Bush exactly what he thought of him.

Here's what he said in case you missed it:

"I feel like, despite your rhetoric, that compassion and common sense have been left far behind during your administration," he told Bush. "And I would hope, from time to time, that you have the humility and the grace to be ashamed of yourself."

A president getting an earful isn't unusual. It's that this president did. See, Bush events are planted with like-minded, functionally illiterate yokels who pose questions to him like, "Mr. President, why are you so great?" And yes, staged events are not exclusive to the GOP, but the Democrats never quite got the logistics down as well as they did. Remember when Clinton was handed an aborted fetus? Yeah, them Dems aren't too good at insulating their candidates...

Anyway, if I ever see this Harry Taylor guy, the beers are on me. And here's to hoping that the lame ass Democrats will learn to understand the impact of a few, honest, straight-from-the-gut words.

"And now we will chant 'Ohm' three times. . ."

If I’m not able to put my feet behind my head by Memorial Day, I’m demanding a refund from my yoga instructor.

I took my first real yoga class last night, and after an hour and 45 minutes of downward dog, happy baby, and warrior two poses, I walked out of the River West studio feeling like I was 6 inches taller and made of Jello.

I had my doubts, however. Going into this super-calm, incense-tinged studio immediately made me tense.

I was greeted by this annoyingly mellow receptionist who spoke to me in near whispers. I filled out my paperwork, handed over my dough and sat next to an open window to wait for my class.

As the minutes ticked by, I have to tell you, I can’t remember the last time I felt more uptight.

Chanting could be heard from the classroom finishing up. I started to get creeped out. Barefoot Gwyneth Paltrow wannabes began filing in wearing cute yoga outfits and clutching Prada yoga mats. I looked down at my 12-year-old Georgetown T-shirt and started to panic. Shit. This was supposed to be a beginners class!

I ran over to the desk.

Captain Spastic: Thisisthebeginnersclassright? IdonthaveamatcanIborrowamat?WheredoIgoagain?

Moon Unit: Yes, this is the beginner's class. It will start soon and you’ll find everything you need along the back of the wall. Just through that door.

I felt a little better and did I ever need a yoga class after all that.

I'm grounded

So there I was at home, on Friday night clipping my toenails and listening to Guns and Roses' Paradise City when I had an epiphany.

What, in God's name I thought, was a relatively young-oh by the way this is my 100th post, yay me--single woman doing giving herself a pedicure when she should be out tearing up one of the world's greatest cities?

And then I remembered. . See this ol' gal to the right? This is how I feel after I tear anything up, much less after throwing back a few cocktails and staying out past my bedtime of 10 p.m. To those rock stars who can go out four and five nights a week, make it to work, and who aren't still being claimed on someone else's taxes, I say: you go, this Christian Rock Star is staying home.

But I'm kind of a forgetful person and Sunday night I attended a work dinner out in a suburb. I think the town was called Timbuktubrook? Anyway, since I had missed Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy, I thought it best to go out with a co-worker and her fiance once we got back in the city.

Let's just say a hangover exacerbated by that daylight savings bullshit, made for a less-than-sunny Monday morning for me.

I've truly earned the number one Google result when you search "degenerate alcoholic."