Here I am!

Forgive me James Brown, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last post. I haven't a viable excuse to offer for my absence. It is my longest to date, and I feel awful!

So anyway, I met this fella you see here this weekend at the Kane County Flea Market. Think Lemon Shake-ups, funnel cakes, chocolate covered bannas . . . oh, and mint condition, recently deceased R & B singers! (I didn't buy him, I swear, although I need to spice up my cubicle at work.) The perfect end to a day of flea marketing was a six pack of PBR and a smattering of smokey treats on Rusty's porch.

I have been hurting for blog material as of late. With a job that has yet to illicit any feeling from me one way or the other, a short commute that hasn't produced anything remotely blog-worthy, and a feeling that maybe beer soaked tales aren't that funny, I'm kind of tapped out. I did ask a new pal (an Atlanta transplant) if I could use one of her stories, and she obliged. I'll try and capture her voice (imagine drunken southern drawl, peppered with hiccupy giggles) Editor's notes are in parentheses.

"So I was with a bunch of guys from work at (I forget the name of the restaurant) in North Carolina (or maybe South Carolina). Bubba (forgot his name) said it was a great place for fried chicken. We hadn't ordered yet, so I went to the ladies room. It was a small bathroom, but it had a stall and I walk in and see this woman with her pants pulled down DRYING HER ASS. I said, 'Oh, I'm so sorry!' and start to leave, but she tells me it's ok, I can stay. Horrified I went back to the table. The ass dryer soon exited the bathroom and WENT BACK TO WORK."

Where is Dateline NBC where you need them?

Operation Overkill

I'm with the Little Village folks who are pissed off at the way the federales handled the fake id raid yesterday.

Immigration officers hit a mall, wearing the garb you see here, toting rifles and machine guns, and stopped 150 people, the Tribune says. It freaked a lot of people out. They're saying this big show was put on to intimidate Mexicans, and with an immigration rally scheduled for next week, well, the timing is mucho peculiar.

Now they did arrest 22 people, including the leader who is wanted for conspiring to commit murder. But acting like Little Village is Baghdad? Not a good idea. An already police-weary demographic doesn't need another reason to not attend a community police meeting, or call 911 when something is wrong in their hood.

I've watched enough cop shows to know that if you really anticipated some big "fire fight" that would have warranted all that heavy artillery* and military uniforms, this raid wouldn't have happened with all those innocent people milling about. And if you really wanted to hit pay dirt with the illegals, why don't you raid some condo developer's job site next time, or any of kitchens of the fancy downtown restaurants?

Yeah, that won't happen.

Unfortunately Pat Fitzgerald was at the center of this. Maybe he's losing his edge after coming up empty on the CIA leak case.

Pat, ok, fine. You got a bad guy. But at what price?

*I made that up. I have no idea what heavy artillery is.

Can now check "Add Godzilla to skyline" off to-do list

What is that pointy white thing in the background?

About a year and a half ago I was sitting in my friend Jennifer's North side condo doing what we've done about a billion times before over the past ten years. Drinking beer, talking, and hanging out with her dogs. It was a couple of weeks before her wedding and Jennifer asked me if I wanted to move West with her and her soon-to-be-husband Scott.

"West? Uh sure. Like Irving Park?"

That actually wasn't what she had in mind. I was thinking she meant the West side of Chicago, and she was talking about Portland, Oregon.

As in half-way-across-the-country-Portland, Oregon.

As in you'll have to get on a plane and set your watch back and use different money to be able to hang out and drink beer and speak in code and annoy everyone around you Portland, Oregon.

They were serious. It was Portland or bust.

Anyway as they say, time flies when you are having fun and by golly if Jennifer and Scott didn't go and buy a house in Portland. The day of reckoning is here. They close tomorrow. Then they come back to Chicago, pack up their dogs and drive west to an adorable house built in 1910, complete with a yard, ghosts, and trees! (I'm a little jealous about the yard and the ghosts, btw)

On Friday, I enjoyed some Mexican food and dangerously strong beers at the Map Room with Jennifer, Scott, and his friends Steve, Chris, and Jeff. It wasn't a late night, so when the former Chicagoans decided it was time to go I declared that I must say goodbye to her in a bar and not on a cold Bucktown corner. So that's what we did. We hugged, I sobbed and said "I wish I knew how to quit you!" she slapped me and told me to snap out of it, and then we stood back, waved and watched Jennifer and Scott leave.

We were speechless for a bit. They really did it. I guess maybe there was a little part of me after all, that was ready to call their bluff. Like maybe they'd run back in laughing and say, "Portland? Are you kidding me?"

Chris spoke first. "Hmmm," he said, "if I knew they were really moving, I would have bought their dinner tonight." I thought that was pretty funny.

In an effort to stay strong, we did a shot of tequila in their honor, swore to continue fighting the good fight without them, and then I went out and hailed a cab on that Bucktown street alone.

Did I mention that I have my own room at the new house?

Bar hopping with Phil Cline

God, I am on a freakin roll with this law enforcement celeb spotting. Last night I was at Hawkeye's completely captivating my friends with my dramatic Fitzgerald story, and wouldn't ya know it? The soon-to-be-jobless Chicago Police Superintendent Phil Cline walked by our table.

As a friend of the police, I had to greet him. He was quite personable and didn't try to beat us up once. Jennifer was pee-oh'd because she was in the john when I stopped him and she wanted to tell him she thought he got the shaft, what with his "early retirement" and all. I wanted to send him over a drink, but he snuck out.

Later when I was in the cab going home, I called Jennifer to tell her Rusty and I were at Dugan's with Phil Cline.

Today when I left my job the very nice hr lady told me to come to her with anything, anytime. She said I was "part of the family" now. I thought that was sweet. But the one family I have now is plenty. Back in the day when we used to fraternize (not canoodle, there was never any canoodling) with middle-aged homicide detectives, we were invited into their "family." That was a second family I did want, because there were perks like cigarettes and beer and armed escorts home into your questionable neighborhood and promises of getting off if you ever killed someone.

Of all the girls on all the streets of Chicago, he had to walk by me

I am the world's biggest spaz. And possibly now one of the FBI's 10 Most Wanted.

At approximately 12:48 p.m. CST, Patrick Fitzgerald passed me on Jackson somewhere between State and Wabash. I couldn't believe it. I did a double take, and stopped for second, and tried to get my shit together. I wasn't sure what I should do. Of course, I quickly began to think of the implications for my blog. .

Do I take a picture? Do I chase after him? Do I continue on to Walgreen's to buy toilet paper and shampoo like a normal person would?

Fuck that.

I decided follow him. Now, don't get excited, I didn't have to run or anything. He hadn't gotten that far, I just had to walk fast. Pretty fast actually.

The Federal Building is just a couple of blocks away from my office (something I seriously didn't think about when I accepted my job, I swear) and apparently he was hungry and popped into the Cosi at State and Wabash.

I snuck in the line behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He had just taken out his PDA and thought I was trying to get ahead in line. He gestured for me to move ahead.

Now for the second time in my life, I proceeded to act like the biggest dork in front of Patrick Fitzgerald. I said something to a long the lines of "I'm a big fan" and "I really appreciate the work you do." And he said something like, "I'm not the only one, there are a lot of people working with me." I shook his hand, told him to enjoy his lunch, and bolted.

I had to get out of there. It was too much. I had originally planned to act cool and buy a soda or even a second lunch but I couldn't.

That poor guy, he probably gets out for lunch like once every year and he had to run into me.

And anyway, the timing with a new job couldn't be worse. I couldn't come back and email my friends or update my blog with this breaking news. Instead, I was forced to tell a group of new coworkers sitting in the kitchen when I got back to the office. It's way too early to "just be myself."

"Hey, how is it outside?" One asked.

"IT'S GREAT! I JUST SAW PATRICK FITZGERALD!" I exclaimed, not too loudly though because our employee handbook warns against being "boisterous" in the office.

Silence. Blank stares. More silence. I went to my desk.

Later one of the gals came up to me and said they all kind of talked about me after I left the kitchen.

"Most didn't know who he was. Or they thought you said Peter Fitzgerald."

"What? Patrick Fitzgerald! PATRICK FITZGERALD!"

She smiled. I think she likes me. And who wouldn't like the crazy new girl who stalks public officials and causes them to look a little scared when they're in line to buy food?

Easter Themed Image Gallery

This one of a 80s era Jesus closing a deal is my favorite.

Good night and good luck

I just sent my mom’s resume to CBS in case Katie Couric needs an understudy for her nightly news cast. Now Rhonda has no formal jounalism training, but she does have vast experience delivering the news of our family in a very unique fashion. Our family news is what my teachers at Columbia would call hard news. Crime, drugs, mayhem, with maybe a little tale of redemption thrown in here and there.

My old lady, she's so transparent. There's the I-got-something-good-but-I-promised-not-to-say-anything tone she'll have right off the bat. Like I'll call, we'll talk for two minutes and she'll blurt out, "Did you talk to Chad?" Uh, no I didn't, why? "Oh nothing." WHY? "Noth. . alright I wasn't supposed to say anything, but---"

You get the idea. Tonight's phone call was her shrewdly trying to interweave disturbing news with the mundane. I don't know if she's either trying to test whether or not I'm listening to her, or she's secretly hoping I'll miss these nuggets and she's only telling me because she feels obligated. Here's how it went:

Mom: You coming home for Easter?

Me: Yep, and I don't want any ham, you hear me!

Mom: I don't care. you're cooking. I had to turn my heat on today. Are you warm enough? Sammy's getting married next week*. How's your job?

Me: Whoa.

Mom: Natalie wants everyone to call Clarence on his birthday*. Kenny's in the hospital, his colon looks like cottage cheese*.

Me: I'm eating!

Mom: What are you eating?

Me: Eggs.

Mom: Eggs? Why? How's everyone doing? Are you being careful? I know, your my city mouse, and I'm just a country mouse. I think Kenny has AIDS.

Me: How can someone's colon look like cottage cheese*?

Anyway, with that I swayed the conversation back to what we were going to eat for Easter and then I pretended I had to go number two.

*My cousin Sammy is 23, lives at home, is a total jagoff and shouldn't be allowed to marry anyone.
*Kenny is my Aunt Laurie's brother-in-law. Kenny has been in a long term relationship with a gentleman named Leon for the last 30 years, at least.
*I haven't talked to my cousin Clarence in over 10 years.
*Seriously, how can this happen?

I just spent the last 30 minutes trying to memorize this:

"In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad, known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories."

I'm alway thinking up fun things to do to keep myself occupied. When people ask me my hobbies, I say: writing, watching TV, painting pictures, burning President Bush in effigy, drinking beer, gossiping, shrinking from my responsibilities as an American, and oh yeah, wasting big blocks of time.

I hate this fucking blog

Alright, not really. But I am completely blogged out. I thought not having a job was going to seriously make my blog like the champagne of blogs, but I've come to realize that being relaxed and happy is terrible for my art. I've lost my muse. I need to be miserable again.

To that end, I went back to work today. I achieved my simple dream of a job in the Loop, an hour lunch, and casual Fridays. I was back on the ol '60 this morning and I think everyone was glad to have me back. Except the hot guy who gets the bus in Little Italy. Tomorrow I'm going to push my way to him, throw his Wall Street Journal to the ground, and scream "WHY WON'T YOU LOVE ME?"

What, too much? Hey, at least I'll get a blog out of it.

This is awesome

From the Chicago Tribune:
Attorney General Alberto Gonzales' former chief of staff D. Kyle Sampson suggested firing Chicago federal prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald in a 2006 meeting with then-White House counsel Harriet Miers, Sampson told the Senate Judiciary Committee this afternoon.
Sampson proposed adding Fitzgerald's name to a list of U.S. attorneys slated for dismissal, but was greeted by silence from Miers and another White House lawyer, Bill Kelley. "They just looked at me." Sampson, under questioning by Illinois Sen. Dick Durbin, said he immediately realized that bringing up Fitzgerald's name was inappropriate and he regrets mentioning him to this day.

He's hot

Seriously, I'm all over the Comptroller General. If Joseph P. Kennedy and FDR had a child together. . . this is we'd you'd get. He's really pissed about the HUGE national debt, fyi.

A new crew for The View

Alright, so I've been off work for eight weeks now so today I'm celebrating by watching The View. Twenty- three minutes into the show and I'm ready to jump out my window. Or get on the next flight to NYC and kill them. It's brutal. They're yelling over each other, struggling to sound remotely intelligent while debating the U.S. attorney firing scandal.

Now my friends and I have been known banter back and forth about the issues of the day. Usually drunk, always funny and engaging, I'm thinking we need to replace Rosie, Joy, Barbara, and Elizabeth. What follows is a fictionalized transcript of a debate on the same topic The View ladies are attempting to tackle.

Angie: I can't beLIEVE they said my boyfriend is like doing a bad job or whatever.

Rusty: What are you talking about dude. . . whose round it is?

Jennifer: Whose round it is? I got the last one.

Angie: FITZGERALD FUCKING ROCKS!

Jennifer: I miss Bubba.

Angie: Let's call someone!

Red: Give me your phone.

Rusty: Let's call Canada!

Angie: I can call whoever I WANT! It's a free country. . . for like another week or so at least. .

Rusty: Ha! You're funny dude. Here, here's that Toronto guy's number. .

Angie: It's his voicemail. . . hello Canada? This is the United States of America calling. Please call us back at your earliest convenience.

Red: Alright, another round?

Rusty: YEAH!

Angie: Seriously, Bush blows. The world's going to end. Who cares if I get a job. I need a cigarette.

Rusty: Whatever dude, you always say that.

Red: Whatever.

Jennifer: I miss Bubba.

What is wrong with this picture?

Do you remember that scene from Ferris Bueller's Day off when Matthew Broderick disappears and then when his friends find him, he's floating by in a parade?

Well yesterday in Greektown, the two troubled youths you see here with the red arrows kinda did just that. Perhaps I need to get out more, but it was one of the funniest fucking things I've ever seen.

Yesterday began ordinarily enough. I woke up, had a little coffee, and met Rusty to head to Grant Park to watch Maria (the troubled youth on the right) run in the Shamrock Shuffle. We collected our runner at the end of the race, went to Miller's for lunch and beers and met Bradley (troubled youth on the left) who has abstained from beer for like a year. This of course, inspired us to ply him with as beer as possible (or it at least inspired me.)

After lunch, it was off to Greektown to Dugan's where we were surprised to find the neighborhood abuzz with some sort of Greek celebration. Halsted was lined with Greeks and Greek enthusiasts, but our beloved Irish bar had plenty of seating near the big open windows and $8 pitchers. With a sunny, 70 degree day on top of this, one cannot ask for more, I think.

The boring parade started, and then stopped inexpicably like five minutes later.

"What in world would bring this parade to screeching a halt?" Bradley queried. We were super pissed because the Cook County Treasurer's truck was blocking our view of the Jesse White Tumblers, who completely rock.

"Those fuckers can fly!" Maria said. We could see their legs speeding through the sky over the top of stupid Dorothy Brown's vehicle. The parade started moving again, the next hour or so was a series of pitcher, cigarette, pitcher, moderately entertaining float with Greek goddesses and Spartans, pitcher, pitcher, cigarette. . . you get the idea, right?

Then things started to get interesting. I was finishing up in the powder room when I heard a freight train bust through the door.

It was Maria.

"I'M GOING TO BE IN THE PARADE!" She said, running into a stall with a blue shirt in her hand. She slammed the stall door behind her. I was like, ok, whatever, shrugged my shoulders and went back to our table. Bradley was no where to be found as well.

Rusty, a lovely Irish gal named Maureen, and I waited to see the above scene flash by. It was too much. I honestly thought that maybe they'd walk by, buried in a group of people but nope, there they were on a float, waving their Greek flags with a fevered passion for their new found heritage. Bradley said later he was waving and pointing at people saying, "I'm waving at you, yes you. I'm waving at YOU!"

I was never so proud to be a Chicagoan.

Last night at the anti-war rally

Oh no he di-int!

I know you all know that I want to take Fitzgerald behind the middle school and get him pregnant. I am, I'll admit, very biased on this U.S. Attorney story. But I hope the above story (click on the headline to read it) hopefully sways a couple of Bushies to realize the people they voted for, and defend at every turn, are a bunch of maniacs.



Putting my boyfriend Patrick Fitzgerald on a mediocre, not-distinguished list is hilarious. I think I'm the only one he hasn't prosecuted here in Chicago (because love isn't a federal crime....ha!) Democrats, Republicans, mobsters, gang bangers, white collar criminals. . . Ol' Fitz is bringing them all down.

Doesn't KSM look good?

Someone (whose name rhymes with smangie ) has way too much time on their hands.

I want to be a vegetarian

How can I get President Bush and his adminstration to stop saying things like "I serve at the pleasure of the president." Or, "the U.S. attorneys serve at my pleasure." You are not a king, sir. All you dickheads serve at MY pleasure (and the pleasure of those who read my blog.) It's like nails on a chalkboard.

I gave up meat for Lent, and its been smooth sailing. I'm still eating fish and eggs, and as of yesterday, I'm going to try and give dairy the heave ho as well. Am I the only one who never considered the fact that cow's milk was meant for to turn calves into fat cows and it has naturally occuring growth hormones in it that's not good for humans (especially women) to be drinking? It's interesting that soy milk and yogurt is almost twice as expensive as cow's milk and I'm sure that more to do with our agricultural policy and the dairy lobby than real production costs. Anyway, I'm going to give it a try and I promise to slap any of my friends or family (who serve at my pleasure) with a big, infected, cow udder if they roll their eyes.

This just in. . . Regis is up and doing well after his bypass surgery. Kelly Ripa is acting all choked up and happy, but I think really she wanted the show all to herself.

Read this blog today

I don't feel like posting. . . That crazy biotch from Dlisted will keep you entertained.

Finally, a candidate I can support

After the 2006 State of the Union, I posted this, telling everyone that in my world of lollipops and rainbows, the inflatable pilot from Airplane! is our president.

Well his name is Otto, and he wants to run for re-election.

Don't let the uniform fool you. Otto is pretty liberal. He supports gay marriage and universal health care. He's still smarting from the time when Reagan fired his air traffic controller buddies in the 80s, so he's a union man through and through. He does have a bit of a problem with the hootch, but he's working on it. We got the John Edwards camp to agree to keep the time Otto kicked his ass in a bar brawl on the down low--because hell, Edwards doesn't need to look any more girly.

Made out of vinyl, Otto is 100 percent committed to finding a way to turn back global warming. His carbon footprint is non existent, because most nights he's deflated and placed in his handy carrying pouch. There's no sprawling, energy guzzling mansion to explain here. He did, however have an affair during Bill Clinton's impeachment trial. But we got his goomad to promise to keep her trap shut.

He wasn't a POW like McCain, but he was MIA from 1998-2001. Someone left him in a cabana at a pool party and he was mistaken for a toy. He was sold at a garage sale for a quarter, and ended up on ebay where he was rescued. He doesn't like to talk about it.

Well, we're still scrambling to decide where he should formally declare. I say The View would be a good show for him to start getting over his play boy image, but he's a big Charlie Rose fan. . .

Tracy Morgan Wasted on Live TV

Regis is having bypass surgery

That's why I'm late with my post. I'm beside myself right now. And I'm a little thrown off with the time change.

Good morning!

Spring has sprung and everyone is going crazy. I love it. Fifty-degrees and we were all walking around yesterday like it was Death Valley. People were in shorts, drinking lemonade and cursing the heat (just kidding.) I went on a five mile walk, starting at the coffeehouse where I grabbed a large (yes large, I live in the last neighborhood where there are no Starbucks) coffee and headed east toward the Target on Roosevelt. I forgot that it was Maxwell Street market day, so I took a little rest to peruse the vast array of stolen power tools. I'm always on the lookout for a good deal on a table saw.

The U.S. Olympic Committee guys are long gone, I guess. I'm sure Mayor Daley and Chicago 2016 impressed the pants off them last week. I'm very much in the pro-Olympics camp, or I was until I realized I'm going to be 44 in 2016. That's depressing. Do you think my robot husband will want to go to watch rhythmic gymnastics? Maybe they'll have a cure for being 44 in the year 2016. Let's hope. Oh, and all that belly-aching about Chicago taxpayers being on the hook for $500 million, is whatever. Let's show the world we're not a bunch of cheap bastards!

So now I have to be weary of homeless ladies wearing bags on their feet? That Wrigleyville fire story is just awful. Those poor kids. Reading the Tribune coverage just reaffirms that news reporting wouldn't be for me. The piece mentions that the families of two of the victims (who were burnt beyond recognition) didn't want to comment because the Medical Examiner hadn't confirmed that their children were in fact, dead. Pressing people for comment in situations like that, not a fun job. I had to call the mother of a girl once who was brutally murdered and raped in the mid-80's because the guys who were convicted turned out to be innocent. I felt like an idiot asking her, "so what's your reaction?"

I am livid. LIVID!

You know how you can get so mad you can't see straight, let alone type? I wake up this morning, turn on the computer, and see this headline:

Gingrich had affair during Clinton probe

Oh my fucking God! I wanted to throw my laptop out the window. I can only hope that by writing about this on my blog, I will begin to see how funny this all is. I need help right now. Do I call 911? What? What do I do? How can I function in a world where Republicans and their moronic followers also live, and not want to kill them? Seriously, I have an interview this afternoon at this place where they help people take over other people. What am I going to do? How can I not tell the lady, "Uh, lady, this job sounds nice and all, but I will not be able to speak to, work near, or share the same water cooler with anyone who voted Republican in the 20th or 21st centuries." (I have no quarrel with Chester Arthur supporters.)

Read the Gingrich story. It's sickening. Gingrich fucking another woman, not his wife, while lampooning a man for infidelity is really something. And of course he says he's not a hypocrite, because they were going after Clinton, not for the blow jobs, but for lying about the blow jobs. Bull shit. Bull shit. Bull shit! They were like this bunch of fucking high school geeks pissed at the cool, popular guy who didn't trip over himself like they had hoped, so they had to scramble to sabotage him. And of course, it was about the sex--it always was, and with them it always will be. I don't know why it is this way, but it is.

And then we have Mr. Bush still sitting pretty in the White House. Starts a war on a hunch, blows billions of dollars, kills thousands of soldiers, embarasses his country at every turn, yeah THIS guy was never in any danger of going anywhere.

Have a great day.

Today is National Crazy Cat Lady Day

I love her

Cubicle shmubicle

For those of you keeping track, it's week five of recess. I was talking to Rusty last night, telling her it seems all at once like it has been longer than the 4.5 weeks, and shorter. Without the weeklong drudgery that keeps you looking forward to the weekend, each day is just that, a day. Oh it's Wednesday, you say? What's a Wednesday?

I am looking for one those regular "job" things I've been hearing so much about. I'm also going to pursue freelance work, because regardless of the intermittent longing for someone to ask me "what are you doing for lunch?" or say "Bob's being a total dick today!" there's nothing like working in your underwear. I had an interview on Monday and I even made a point of asking them what their bedhead and flip flop policy was.

In order to get my head on straight while I ponder my next step in life, I thought it would be a good idea to list some of the jobs I've had in the past to help regroup and refocus.

At age 13, I spent two weeks mid-summer "corn detassling" for minimum wage and maximum fatigue, sunburn, and inspiration to never have to do manual labor ever again

At age 15, I washed dishes at Vicki's restaurant, essentially a roadhouse in the middle of nowhere. How I got the job? My mom's derelict friends showed up one day and asked, "Does Angie need a job?" My mom's like, "sure does." And off I went.

At age 16, I stuffed the ads into the Saturday paper at the LaSalle News Tribune. You stood on your feet for hours, lost several pints of blood from paper cuts, and nearly hurled from the smell of newsprint and soy ink.

At age 17, I flipped burgers at the Hardee's. Highlights include cleaning a fryer, and encouraging a co-worker to spit in the food of a girl we didn't like from the Catholic high school.

At age 18-I worked at Walmart. Was promoted from the snack bar to fabrics and crafts.

At age 21-I rented tents and equipment to fraternities at the campus outing center. Brutal.

At age 23-Temp work. Favorite job including the midnight shift at the hospital switchboard. Major duty included paging the priest and checking out people when they died. Seriously, phone would ring and it was, "Mr. Thompson in 312." I'd interrupt, "Dead?"

Quite a resume, eh?

I killed a few brain cells

Take the test, don't cheat, and post the results here!

The posts get later and later

This dude sitting about three feet away from me at the cafe has all his hair piled on top of his head ala Marge Simpson.

Not a good look.

Good morning! I have a few things to report:

I just called Team Spears and asked if Britney needed a roomate at Promises. I had a rough ROUGH night on Saturday night and I blame it all on Jesus dying for our sins. Seriously. I had two friends over, one of whom gave up beer for Lent, so she substituted vodka. And I suggested wine. And Blue Moon made an appearance.

So let's do the math:
Wine + Blue Moon +Vodka + 2,332 marlboro lights + three thirsty, bored ladies + phones = (drinking and dialing) X (all sorts of insanity)

It was gross and best forgotten. But writing about it today feels somewhat cathartic. And I must say even at 34 I still have the ability to order up boys late at night. The boy store hasn't closed.

I'm doing a little freelance reportage for a monthly paper and covered a community meeting last night. I thought it was going to be BORING! But I saw an Alderman nearly cry, a guy from the Department of Planning and Development whine about how he worked on Pulaski Day, and a crazy man talk about tomahawks. Good times. And a little insider information for you: if you plan on buying a condo in a yet-to-be-built development ask if they have secured the permits (in fact, call the city) and find out if the neighbors want to firebomb your future home. Seriously. I can't believe a developer can sell 3/4 of a development and then hear the Alderman say the kabosh has been put on the permits because the neighbors are (rightfully) flipping out about huge, grotesque towers sprouting up in the middle their low-rise hood. At least ask these questions of your developer if there's an election going on.

And now onto laundry detergent. This is a bottle of $1.89 soap I picked up at the local store. I will be cleaning my clothes with the essence of Baby Seal. Who needs the Tide pen in their purses, when you can just pull a Baby Seal out of your purse and get that soup stain out of your blouse.

Oh, so THAT'S why he hasn't called. He's in the pokey!

Meet Hillard Jay Quint, aka Matthew Goldstein, a chap who appeared in a Cook County Court today for allegedly scamming ladies he met on the internets, out of some serious dough.

Read the story here. What's hilarious to me (and I don't mean to call out the women he scammed, especially the one who gave him over $160K) is the terrible Photoshop work he did to support his crazy claims. I love that fucking program, and I take issue with anyone who uses it for evil.

Take the picture you see here. After telling one of his victims he was named "Achiever of the Year" by Success Magazine (Achiever?) he sent this email:


What a creep. And the grayscale? Nice touch asshole.

So What's Going On?

My friend Nikki, 34, is a traveling snake oil saleswoman. She has to go to Texas frequently, and always seems to have problems getting out of there. Her latest trip has her stuck in Houston since like 1997.

I called her this morning to find out what's going on after seeing the following email from ol' girl Nik.

A little story...

Girl travels to TX for work. Girl has a flight out of Austin at 5:45pm. Girl sees a flight delay until 7:30. Girl has many flight delays out of TX. Girl's flight out of Austin was cancelled because of no flight crew. Girl then rents a car, finds another flight out of Houston, drives 2 1/2 hours to Houston, spends the night in a Hotel, goes to the wrong airport, takes a cab to the right airport, just makes checkin for her 7:30am flight, gets to the gate and ... you guessed it, flight delayed. Someone up there hates me!!!

Public Service Announcement

Thanks to Maria for this:

Rules to Drinking and Dialing

1. Only drunk dial when you are drunk. Everything else is false advertisement.
2. It is okay to call someone 27 times in one night. If you don’t remember it, it didn't’t happen.
3. If you are going to drunk dial a family member, say something nice. Ex. “Mom, I’m in McDonald’s and they’re playing our song. I love you.”
4. Dirty talk while drunk dialing is always preferred. Who doesn't’t want to hear your best raspy, phone sex voice at 3 in the A.M. asking to bend them over something??
5. Voicemails are always better. This way your friend can let their friends have fun at your expense for days, even weeks to come.
6. Drunk texting is alright… if you are prepared to read what you wrote the next day when you are sober.
7. It is definitely a good idea to call all of your exes and remind them that you were the best lover they’ve ever had and everything they know, they learned from you. This way you can sleep well at night.
8. You can also call this same ex and let him/her know, that you know that he/she still loves you. Then explain to him/her that “I would still love me too!”
9. If you are a frequent dialer, never get mad if someone dials you. Be happy they thought of you in this special time.
10. It is always a good idea to sing on someone’s answering machine or voicemail. Especially a show tune.
11. Drunk dialing should be fun and light hearted or dirty and sex crazed… never angry.
12. Most likely you will never drunk dial your best friends. They are usually the ones taking your phone away and reminding you that “you have a problem”.
13. If you deleted a number sober, it was probably for a good reason. Do not try to retrieve this number. Nothing good can come from it.
14. Always call someone you know. Finding random numbers in phone books is bad and usually leads to angry dialing.
15. If your cell phone dies, remember everything happens for a reason. Never borrow a friend’s phone to do your dialing.
16. Drunk dialing to a foreign country is usually too costly to be a good idea. But, if you really feel like if you don’t call this person you’ll just die, break rule 15 and use a friend’s phone.
17. Drunk dialing may lead to drunk muffin stuffing… be prepared.
18. When dialing remember that “hanging out” at 3 in the a.m. usually doesn't’t involve cards it’s probably going to be more like cheap lube and handcuffs.
19. Don’t drunk dial in the pool, tub, or rainstorm. It only ends up with you blow drying your phone when your far too drunk to be using electronics and you won’t be able to drunk dial anymore that night.
20. Never, I repeat, never drunk dial your boss, preacher, grandpa, or friend’s parents. If you are that hard up to call someone, there is an 800 number on Budweiser boxes

So What's Going On?

Inspired by an episode of Frontline last night, I've decided to up the ante with my citizen journalist endeavors. This is the first installment in my "What's Going On?" series where I call people I know who have jobs and ask them, uh, "What's Going On?" Studs Terkel, you and your masterpiece, Working, can both EAT. MY. SHORTS.

My brother Chad, 33, is an Operations Manager at a place where they work on stuff. He's the boss of a bunch of guys who are considerably older than him. According to Chad, he's won over his charges.

I called Chad this morning about 9:15.

"So Chad, what's going on?"

"Nothing right now. I'm not doing a whole lot."

"Why not?"

"Cuz I hurt my finger."

"Yeah right. Nothing's going on? You've got to have something going on?"

"Well we got an engine pulled. And we pulled a trans out of a cat."

"And by cat, you mean. . . "

"Uh, a transmission out of a Caterpillar?"

"Oh. Cool. What else is going on?"

"Ted threw a fit because I leaned a load backrest against his toolbox."

"You're an ass."

"Yeah, I started crying like a baby to mock him and he stormed out. And then this guy we have here who acts like he's our pyschologist was all worried and I said, 'That motherfucker, I'm going to fire his ass.' Later I talked to Ted, and he was cool. They think I'm nuts."

You want your city back? Take it! Dig it!

Don't forget to vote today!

A steaming plate of Oscar re-hash

Thumbs up:

Alan Arkin winning Best Supporting Actor. He's a sexy, funny old man. I'd let him French kiss me, and maybe grab a boob.

Ellen DeGeneres was 99.7 % hilarious, which is quite an accomplishment. Loved the bringing of the script to Martin Score-says. Vacuuming around the front row of ladies was pretty funny too.

The Pan's Labryinth Mexicans were adorable. I'd love to party with them.

Will Ferrell and Jack Black and the guy with three names. . . brilliant. "Ryan Gosling, you're hip and now. . . Well I'm going to break your hip RIGHT NOW!" Loved it.

Phillip Seymour Hoffman's crusty, matted hair was gorgeous. Now my pal Rusty text messaged, "Did he just crawl out of the trash?" when Hoffman took the stage, but I think it's cool. Maybe he is sick of everyone giving him movie offers and wants to be left alone.

Al Gore finally FINALLY got the acknowledgement he deserves for his tireless, decades-long struggle against climate change. Seriously, what a guy. And who says Powerpoint can't change the world? Remember how he and Bill Clinton refused to take big campaign checks from polluters? And then how they fought globalization and the mass exodus of manufacturing jobs to countries with no environmental laws? Oh, wait a minute. That wasn't them?

Thumbs down:

Leo DiCaprio was a total hypocrite on this Global Warming thing (which coincidentally started to get worse around the time he was born.) If he wasn't so incredibly HOT, I bet those polar ice caps would be around for another couple hundred years. GodDAMN is that kid aging well.

Nicole Kidman and Gwynnie Paltrow sporting the Marcia Brady hair do's. Long, stringy, and off to the side doesn't look very hygienic to me. I hope they had to wear hair nets at the Governor's Ball.

Tom Cruise, trying and failing, to hypnotize a billion people when he introduced Sherry "The Creepy, Drugged out Robot" Lansing last night. When he said, "In 1982, Sherry was named president of Paramount Pictures," what he meant was "You will all now bow to me and I will lead us back to our home planet." And was it just me, or did he have to like activate Sherry before she spoke? He whispered some weirdness into her ears, I'm sure.

What was the deal with Abigail Breslin's little girl dress? She looked like the ballerina from those cheap jewelry boxes that twirls around when you open the lid (I used to keep cookies in mine.) And that make-up job? All subtle and appropriate? Alright, I'm kidding. I thought it would be funny to make fun of a 10-year-old kid, the little loser.

I want to take Netflix behind the middle school and get it pregnant

If you didn't watch 30 Rock on Thursday, this blog headline may seem a bit curious.

No matter. I want everyone to know just how much I love Netflix. It's quite possibly one of the most healthy, and rewarding relationships I've had in years. It's going on like two months now, and we're in a really great place.

Netflix and me, we clicked immediately. In seconds, Netflix showed me just how much it knows what I like. Netflix says, hey we think you'd like this movie, Angie. And I'm all, hell yeah Netflix! Get that shit in my queue!

Netflix gets me. And I can count on Netflix.

When Netflix emails me and tells me that a movie is coming, I know I can count on Netflix to deliver. Netflix isn't selfish or mean. Netflix said it mailed me a movie (and I totally believe them) but it didn't show up. So I told them, and you know what?

Netflix didn't get all pissy or anything. They're like, that's cool do you still want to see Happy Hour with Eric Stoltz? And I said, uh yeah, I do. And they said, well goddamn no sweat. We're shipping it all the way to you from California!

I even introduced Netflix to my mom this weekend. She's real happy for me, I can tell.

How many anytime minutes with the Morning After Pill plan?

Now I know my support for Reproductive Freedom has a limit.

I got this email yesterday from Planned Parenthood, asking me to let them buy out my current wireless plan because they’ve gotten into the cell phone business.

Props are due, I guess, for a non-profit thinking outside the, ahem, box for fundraising ideas. But Planned Parenthood Wireless? No thanks.

I can just imagine those people having access to my phone records. The same gal who states, “DO NOT INSERT ANYTHING INTO YOUR VAGINA FOR 24 HOURS PRIOR TO YOUR PELVIC EXAM,” as plainly as someone who would order a cheeseburger does not need to know who I may or may not be calling.

Them: So Angie, what’s up with you and Mr. 312-555-1234? That was a pretty interesting text you sent last week. Did you give him your flower? You did, didn’t you?

Me: Uh, Planned Parenthood lady I don’t think that’s any of your concern.

Them: We liked Mr. 773-555-1234 for you. Why didn’t you call him back?

Me: Planned Parenthood lady, you wouldn’t happen to know if the NRA has a wireless plan?

Will Barack and Hilary destroy the loving artistic community that is Hollywood?

As a movie lover and proud consumer of celebrity gossip, I'm quite worried about how the Democratic presidential primary might tear Hollywood apart.

They're choosing sides already. Jennifer Aniston likes her some Obama, which means Brangelina will have to go with Hillary. David Geffen is making no bones about his disdain for the slippery Clintons. I'm even reading the name "Jackson Browne" in the news, a name I haven't seen since the guy was knocking ol' Darryl Hannah around. Publicists are likely tripping over themselves to get their charges on one team or the other. This primary could be the new Darfur spotlight grab. This primary could even be the new don't-wear-your-undies-and-flash-your-beaver spotlight grab.

It's all too much, too soon.

And it reminds me of a story I heard in junior high. During a study hall in the media center, a boy I had a little crush on told me about a great schism that had once divided his large group of friends in the 5th grade. Someone had introduced cigarettes to the mix.While a few boys decided to give them a try, others refused.

The great Smokers vs. The Non-Smoker battles of 1982 had begun. For a week or so, Jimmy said the Smokers and the Non-Smokers would meet after school at a nearby field and fight. Thankfully, they all came to their senses soon enough and remembered what they had in common:

A love for Led Zepplin and 5th grade girls.

This guy appears in my dreams if I eat spicy food too close to bedtime

Good morning!

A big Ash Wednesday shout out to a former Catholic school girl who called me last night at 11:45. She wanted to find out a where certain bar was, a bar that may or may not have been teeming with cops. Good luck getting through your work day, young lady. And you know, the baby Jesus really wants you home in bed by 9 each night.

I am in love with Frontline on PBS. Seriously. Last night I watched part two of their investigation of the media and the war and by 10 pm, I was ready to pack my shit and take whatever CTA bus ends up in Boston (I'd probably have to transfer.) I'll beg these people to let me get them coffee and mop the sweat off their brows. Dead on everytime, these guys. I really need to give Channel 11 some money. . . uh, maybe I'll catch them on the next pledge drive.

I'm heading to the library today to do some hard core, Frontline-caliber research on Relationship Marketing. It's funny how this stuff can apply to matters of a romantic ilk. This guy did a bang up job on his blog a while back with this. It is comforting to see data indicating nearly 70 percent of my "customers" can leave me, even if they're pleased with the service I've rendered. They don't need a good reason to stray, and now I know I have to work harder at building loyalty with my paramours. Perhaps sending regular service reminders, email newsletters, and frequent visitor discounts will help.

Happy Fat Tuesday!

I think I'm giving up voting in our city elections for Lent. This is a sampling of what we 25th ward-ers have to deal with:

"Medrano (who went to jail for 3 years) was recorded by the FBI telling his new found crooked cronies, "I WORK FOR YOU!!"

"It's 4705 of the Chinese Lunar Calendar, and Alderman Danny Solis is living high on the hog at the expense of Chicago taxpayers."

"Alderman Solis said Fred Roti, a convicted felon with mob ties, was a role model to him."

There's another brochure that never made it into my mailbox that said Solis helped Oscar D'Angelo (the Mayor of Little Italy) get a fence built between his property and Garibaldi park to keep the kids away. It even went as far as saying the next step would be an electric fence.

Hilarious.

I've seen the future, and I'm thinking we need to get into shape

We are a nation of fatties, so we'll probably be caught with our elasticized-waist pants down, when the shit starts hitting the fan. Last night I went to see The Children of Men, a lovely, feel-good movie that gets me really excited for what's to come. For a futuristic thriller that shows us a world on the not-so-distant horizon where society has collapsed and women haven't been able to conceive for nearly 20 years, it was fairly kick-ass. (Stop reading if you haven't seen it, but plan to)

I came out of the theater feeling a couple of things. One, I was glad the streets surrounding the 600 N. Michigan hadn't erupted into chaos in the couple of hours I was inside. And two, I think I'd want to be a gun-toting maniac who can kill her enemy with her bare hands when we the globe goes up for grabs.

To be honest, I've let myself go a bit. So I'm going to have to get on my Apocalypse regimen right now. And I'll urge my friends to join me. Rusty, who I know will need no convincing, will be my knife expert, and I have a bit of a fascination with fire (I'm a Leo) so I'll cover the explosives.

As far as our bodies and outfits, I'm thinking Linda Hamilton in the Terminator meets Sigourney Weaver in Alien. Julianne Moore in the Children of Men proved where walking around with blown out hair and Ralph Lauren clothes will get you. . .

And that would be dead in the first thirty minutes of the movie.

TGIF

It's already happening. Today I watched seven minutes of Live with Regis and Kelly. I spent nearly two hours surfing the web this morning, trying to come up with something to post, while I drank my coffee and had my new BFFs (The WGN a.m. news crew) on in the background. I didn't notice the switchover until it was too late. I looked up at the TV, and saw the bubbly Kelly Ripa bouncing on stage. I was immediately captivated. But I knew what I had to do. Got. To. Get. Up. Turn. Off. Television!What if it takes me EIGHT minutes to turn off the tube on Monday? What then?

Got another freelance gig yesterday. I have to write something called a white paper. And to celebrate, I'm going to see the 11 a.m. showing of Babel and maybe the Queen after that and then get my hair cut. I'm thinking I'll clock in about 4 or so this afternoon.

Despite my doctor's warning, I'm going to the suburbs tomorrow to see my friend and her two daughters who I think are like 18 and 16 by now. I made quite a ruckus when I left my job saying that I had to stay out of the burbs for exactly 9 months to balance out my 9 month commuting stint. I'm feeling pretty strong. I think I can handle it.

The City of Chicago will have elections soon. I had originally planned to volunteer for Daley thinking it would be a great way to get myself one of those jobs where you get paid, but you don't show up for. But then I remembered this whole Federal investigation thing into the city's hiring practices so I was like, forget it. Probably a good thing because the last time I volunteered for Daley it was 1995, and I got completely loaded at a fundraiser. I ended up at Gibsons with these rich guys, and called up my roomates to join us. There's nothing worse than waking up the next morning, critically hung over, and in a suburb called Park Brook, or Brook Lake, or Oak . . . whatever. One for the history books.

Happy Valentine's Day!

It wasn't so happy for these guys on Valentine's Day in 1929. I think we should all take a moment this morning and remember this famous Chicago mob killing. I really wish they had colored film then! Man.



And speaking of hot Streets and Sanitation Commissioners, behold Michael Picardi. Now he's hot for a Streets and San guy, and the last guy, Al Sanchez? Not so hot. Yo, Picardi! You can come plow my street anytime ya know what I mean?

I'm bored, does anyone want to come over and play?

Being snowed in is zero fun when you're alone and you don't feel like doing work? Suicide Blonde is playing on XRT right now. I'm surprised they haven't banned that song in deference to Anna Nicole. Actually, they shouldn't play it all considering how Michael Hutchence kicked it.

The internet sucks today. And I have writer's block. A grad school teacher once told me there's no such thing as writer's block... you're just ill prepared if you can't finish your shit. He was a stroke.

Like I said, I'm bored.

Marketing . . . where writers go to die

I had dinner last night with three freakishly smart, unbelievably funny friends. We all worked together a while back at a kid's magazine and like to catch up and share any gossip about our former employer. Our employer was an eccentric nut job, and in the fall of 2000, we quit within a few months of eachother. After we quit we kind of felt like those left were stuck behind the Iron Curtain.

I love our little meet ups. It's inspiring to hang out with people whose talent you admire, and hope rubs off on you. One gal, author of this blog headline and more humble than a bakery that only sells humble pie, told us she has a book deal at work. "I only get royalties," she said. Are you kidding me? That's $#@! awesome, I say. Library of Congress. . . Amazon.com. . . she is so there. When it comes out, I will devote no less than 10 blogs to this book.

Our other pal shared that Sun-Times ran a blurb about his recent career move. Again, no big deal. No. Total big deal. And on top of all that moving and shaking, he found the time to grow a beard. Amazing.

So that left me. The jobless blogger who wonders what the statute of limitations is on being able to say "I'm freelancing" for when I'm done with one project and waiting on the next. And there's my kindred spirit, a science writer who has been freelancing for a few years now and says she's having a bit of a dryspell workwise, so she's been checking out perfume and makeup blogs. She made it downtown early before our meeting and had sampled several new scents at Lord and Taylor.

"Hey," I told her, "at least you smell pretty good."

My name is Angie T, and I lose shit

Even though it has been AWOL for like the last two months, I've finally come to terms with the fact that I've lost my iPod shuffle.

I first fessed up to not knowing where it was to my pal KC who saw me with it everyday on the train. Even though I checked everywhere imaginable, I told her "Ya know, I just don't feel like it's really lost."

So I waited. It's gone. I'll admit it.

I've bought jewelry before and have honestly had the following conversation with my purchase:

Me: I love you, earrings. Too bad I'm going to lose you.

Earrings: (silence)

Me: I'll try to put you back in my jewelry box after each time I wear you, but let it be known that the day will come when I'll pass out wearing you and wake up a few hours later with sore ears. Then I'll take you out and throw you across my bedroom thinking I'll come find you after I've slept off whatever it was that made me pass out in the first place.

Earrings: (silence)

Last week I had lunch with Jennifer, who has become quite adept at knitting. She gave me a lovely purple chenille scarf that looks simply fabulous with my gorgeous, long black hair. On Saturday I met her and her husband for drinks and dinner. She asked me where the scarf was.

"You lost it, didn't you?" she asked.

"No! I just think it looks better with my dressier coat," I replied, half in horror.

"I don't believe you. I want proof you still have it. Like a picture of it with the current day's paper."

She's a tough one.

Where were you?

When you heard Anna Nicole Smith died?

I was taking a bit of a nap, listening to WXRT when the dj broke the news. The events of 2/8 made me think of some other notable "where were you when you heard" moments in the last couple of decades that has shaped our generation. Here's a brief list:

Yanni and Linda Evans announce their love to the world on the Oprah Winfrey show

Baby Jessica McClure resurfaces after being stuck in a well for 58 hours

Michael Jackson is burned while filming a commercial for Pepsi

Nancy Kerrigan takes a pipe to the shin just weeks before the Olympics

The girl from "My Sister Sam" killed by a stalker

William Kennedy Smith arrested on rape charges

Prince and Appollonia split, Apollonia gets role on Falcon Crest

US Forces invade Grenada

Transfats determined to be bad for America's health

Coke abandons "New Coke" and brings back the old school formula, calling it Coke Classic

A phone conversation is intercepted between Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles in which the Prince says he wishes he was a tampon so he could be completely encased in Camilla's whoo-ha

I've perused the Job Market forum on Craigslist so you don't have to

This is priceless:

Question re: L-1 visa holders < working_gal > 02/07 18:26:43 Okay... this may be coming from left field. I have a crush on a co-worker who holds an L-1 visa. He transferred from one of our foreign offices. He said he'd be around for 3 years (he's been with us for 1 year so far). Can he cut that short if he decides he wants to go back to his home country (Scotland)? Just wondering..

Of course < BottomChompinGnome > 02/07 18:32:42 L-1's are not enslaved, he can leave any time he wants once he's tired of vast abundance of obese chicks that is America. "n'ary an animal alive that can outrun a greased Scotsman!"

haha, funny but I'm not fat § < working_gal > 02/07 18:34:43

Does he have a crush on you too? Would it be < awkward-to-date > 02/07 18:53:32 someone you work with? Would you follow him to Scotland or Asia in 3 years?

I think he thinks I'm cute < working_gal > 02/07 19:00:32 but nothing has developed. Not sure about the other part of your question since nothing has really developed between us. We don't work on the same things and he sits on the other side of our department so we don't really see each other that much. (I worked only briefly with him, and he works with one of my bosses so we have phone contact and such.)

There's no such thing as "cute" American girls! < GrasshopperMoth > 02/07 21:09:53 Soon enough the lad will be back to Scotland or Asia to find attractive chicks!

OMG!!! I know you!!! < miss-violet-from-WiFo > 02/07 19:52:25 Is it you? The one who top-posts every Friday about her mundane interactions with this guy ("So today, I was at the machine making photocopies, and he totally walks right by me without saying anything! But then, the day before that, I was leaving the building and he was coming in and he said "Bundle up, it's cold out there" which obviously means that he was picturing me naked because I had on my winter coat at the time and I know he felt the heat between us so I'm not sure if there at the copier the attraction was just too much to handle or what. so what do you think, should I drive by his house tonight or not?") If so, it's good to see you expanding your repertoire here. If not, my apologies. But do check her out some weekend, if you're feeling nostalgic for junior high.

And with that, the thread came to an abrupt end.

Jobs are for suckers

Last Wednesday at approximately 8:15 a.m., I was stepping off a Metra train in Villa Park, Illinois.

This morning at approximately 8:15 a.m., I was dancing in my underwear to my new Chris Issac CD.

Last Wednesday afternoon, I was concerned about wrapping up three years of work.

This Wednesday afternoon, I'm concerned with shipping off a freelance article that's going to rock, and getting to see the Komodo Dragon at the Shedd that's completely going to scare the shit out of me.

Have fun at the office, kiddos!

Global Warming, Please!

Chicago, you are making it really hard for me to love you today.

If you're wondering what kind of jobless, carless idiot would have chosen to go out in this nightmare and walk 8 blocks to the coffee house, just scroll up and take a look at the header art on this blog.

What was I thinking?

It is so cold, if you dare breathe the air directly in your lungs you will find yourself coughing, no gagging, like a 13-year-old girl who took too big a hit off her cousin's water bong. It is so cold, that one false move can cause a single thread of your scarve to shift, thereby destroying your carefully constructed shield and leaving you vulnerable to death at the corner of 18th and Bishop. It is SO COLD that your glasses become completely frosted and you are convinced they are going to crack and stab you in both eyes, leaving you blind and vulnerable to death at the corner of 18th and Bishop.

All I need is five more degrees, and I'm going to make a break for it. Otherwise I'm stuck at this coffeehouse until Friday.

Ya don't see this in the suburbs

If I wasn't scared and frozen (it's -7 degrees today with the windchill) solid I would have taken a picture.

Imagine if you will, walking toward your bus stop and hearing a crazy man yelling in the middle of a million pigeons. Then as you get closer, said crazy man begins walking in your direction. In his left hand is a dead pigeon with its entrails hanging out. As you say "Fuck!" and veer as far to the left as you can without jumping into traffic, he says, confused, "I just like birds is all."

I love the smell of unemployment in the morning

I wanted to start documenting my sabbatical first thing this morning, but I got a little sidetracked.

First I text the following message to my now former coworker at about 7:15 a.m:

Have fun at work loser!

She immediately responded with:

Thanks butthead, now go back to bed.

This is the same poor girl, who as my last week wore on and it became increasingly clear that there were more than a few things I'd be unable to wrap up in time, will now be buried under a mound of work for the next 1,762 years.

Then I watched about 15 minutes of WGN "news." The broadcasters, who I think are pretty funny and basically run the show as if they think no one is watching, were badgering a couple of dorky Indy newscasters over Sunday's Superbowl when I turned the tv on. When they were sick of talking to the Indy folks, they started doing the "what? what? we can't hear you? wha. . .?" and then pulled the plug.

After that it was time to do something called "working out." I gave my apartment a whore bath, gave myself a whore bath and hit the coffeehouse where I'm now typing into the blogosphere.

Isn't this the sweetest cake ever?

My co workers gave me a lovely, and generous send off yesterday. The "Man" sprung for some pizza, and my fellow inmates bought the cake you see here.

When you're single, live alone, and only see your friends a few hours a week, by and large you are spending the bulk of your days with your colleagues. So in my mind, you sure as hell better like them and I did. Apparently they liked me as well.

It's 5 am, do you know why I'm up, blogging before the sun?

I certainly don't.

Good morning.

It's 16 degrees, it's dark, it's January, I'm up way too early, I'm going to be unemployed in 72 hours and yet. . . I couldn't be happier.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt died last night

Well in the book I was reading, he did. And I cried my liberal eyes out. I'm even kind of bummed today thinking about it. How weird is that?

Did you know he was with his goomad when he died? Not in a sexual way, just hanging out while an artist was working on his portrait. Enjoying a relaxing spring afternoon in his Georgia vacation home, He tells everyone they have 15 minutes left until lunch, and then grimaces with pain. He collapses (from a cerebral hemmorage) the goomad gets the doctor and then she and the artist friend have to high tail it out of there because Eleanor was on the way.

Anyway, I've always loved history, something I attribute in part to my grandmother. She adored history and documentaries and was an excellent story teller herself. She kept this trunk filled with her notebooks and old photographs, many of which I have now. I've posted a blurry picture of her, my grandfather, and Aunt Kate--circa the Roosevelt era, probably 1943 or 1944. You can't tell how happy she is in this picture because I don't have a scanner. My grandfather bailed very early in the marriage, and not one to consider age-appropriate stories for her grandkids, Grandma Marilyn said she never really loved him anyway. The guy she wanted, she told me, died in the Pacific, fighting World War II.

But somehow I always thought she was lying, that this dude you kind of see here was the one who broke her heart beyond repair.

Hogwash? Hogwash?

Why you gotta say such dumb crap all the time, Mr. Vice President? I got your hogwash right here:

The world is much safer today because of (the war)," Cheney said. "There have been three national elections in Iraq. There's a democracy established there, a constitution, a new democratically elected government. "Saddam has been brought to justice and executed, his sons are dead, his government is gone. And the world is better off for it," he said.

You are seriously killing me, dude.

Thank you Lloyd Dobbler

I'm meeting with a recruiter tomorrow and I think I've found the perfect career objective. Read below.

"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or... process anything sold, bought or processed, or repair anything sold, bought or processed, you know, as a career I don't want to do that"

He's totally thinking about me in this picture

My boyfriend, Patrick Fitzgerald, is already ROCKING HOUSE in the Liddy trial.

He's got something up his sleeve, this guy. I'm telling you. And I'm firing up this blog again for the duration of the trial. I'm blogging for love, friends.

Chicago Bears Super Bowl Shuffle

Chicago Bears Super Bowl XX Shuffle 1985. SHARE INTERNET VIDEOS With Your Friends And Make money. Details @ http://www.thevideosense.com/user/vids/

And She's Off!

Ok, so now that it's happened I guess I am a tiny weeny bit excited about a Hillary Clinton candidacy. Maybe it's all this reading I've been doing about FDR and Eleanor Roosevelt, a woman who's so completely my idol now. (sorry Ugly Betty)

I just loathe the name Hillary.

Seriously. Hillary? President Hillary? A Hillary can't be President.

Would it turn off the electorate if she changed her name to something like Golda or Margaret or Geraldine? I'm not hating on her because she's a woman and I'm projecting some sort of self loathing on a sister. If there was a Ned, or a Carl, a Donald, a Reginald, hell, I'd be bitching about that as well.

And does anyone else think it was kind of corny that she announced on her Web site instead of a press conference. Like, isn't she so with it in this age of blogs and U Tube or whatever.

Lame and transparent, I say. Web casts and live chats doesn't change the fact that she and her pals voted for the war in the first place.

But it is kind of cool to see her running just the same.

The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and the Virgin Mary hanging out in my Chia Herb Garden

I've bottomed out

Is there a 12-step program for people addicted to celebrity gossip? I hit rock bottom last night watching the Hollywood Insider, when it hit me that I, an educated, fairly happening 34-year-old, just rushed in from her kitchen to catch Kathie Lee singing a duet with Barry Manilow.

I've gotta quit, but how?

I've made some headway recently. In my effort to live off the land when my period of self-induced unemployment begins, I haven't purchased a single delicious copy of In Touch. I'm also heavy into Netflix, feeling really smart as I've been stacking up indies in my queue. I've even remembered that I've got a stack of unread books, and am actually enjoying an FDR biography.

But of course I'm finding the best parts to be about FDR's lady friends, and the lesbian AP writer who was all about Eleanor. The stuff about FDR getting America ready to face down Hitler, well that's just what you have to get through to get to the good parts.

And now that we're on the subject, did you know that there was a shipload of Jewish refugees who escaped Europe but ended up having to return, because no country (America included) wouldn't accept them? What a bunch of fucking jerks, we were.

In that I don't feel like working and decided to update my blog

Alright.

So if I was a lesbian, I'd hit this. She's effin hot and she's been on my "If I was a lesbian list," since day fucking one. J-Lo was on the list, circa Selena, but quickly fell off.

All my friends have such a list. Several years ago while we were sitting on the steps of a New Orleans police station, waiting for a tour guide, we shared our lists. Names like Charlize Theron, Jennifer Aniston, and Angie Everhart popped up.

Ladies, do you have such a list?

We're only at fucking Maywood?

When your commute causes you to want to tear at your own flesh, it's time to consider a new gig.

To that end, I have exactly 14 days left of my city to suburbs CTA/Metra jaunt from hell as I have quit my job. And, I hope you all are sitting down, because I don't have another one lined up.

Oh, the humanity!

Here's what happened. The week before Christmas I struggled as usual to make the train and one morning after pleading (in my head) with the 60 Blue Island bus driver to "DRIVE FASTER, SIR, OH PLEASE DRIVE FASTER!" I got to the platform just as the fucking train was pulling out. A familiar scene to me over the past 8 months.

I called my coworker who was on the train.

"I'm watching you pull away now. I need to be convinced to stay and wait for the 8:40," I told her.

"I'll send someone back for you Angie! Stay! Ahhgghh!" she said dramatically as if I was a soldier left behind enemy lines.

"Alright. Fuck." With my head down, I shuffled out onto the concourse, seriously on the verge of tears, which is about as ridiculous as it gets. So instead of grabbing coffee or a paper, my legs carried me out onto Madison St., and back on the bus that would take me home. I was done. The next day I went into work, gave my bosses six week's notice and we had a very amicable breakup. Of course, I told them that I'm totally open to break up sex after I leave. . .

Anyway, so now I'm looking for a new job and I need your help. What I'm looking for is a series of paying fantasy camps where you hold like 20 different jobs during the week. Maybe one day, I get to be a producer on Frontline. Then for a couple of hours I get to be an inspiring teacher that completely turns around the lives of street toughs with a lecture on the Gettysburg Address. I'd like to be a talk show host too for a spell. Hmmm. What else. A campaign advisor, a newspaper columnist, a screenwriter, a bartender, a chef, an antique dealer, a physicist, an NBA wife, Vince Vaughn's personal assistant, the host of Jeopardy, like all in one week. Anyway, if you see anything like this on Monster.com, please forward it to me. Otherwise, unfortunately, I'm going to have to go on interviews and pretend to care about things like "branding" and ROI.

I'm a dreamer who knows she lives in the real world. My needs are simple. I told my coworker and train pal that I'd seriously blow someone for a short commute, an hour lunch, and casual Fridays.

And I'm not kidding.

Well not entirely anyway. Some career objective, eh?

Oh, Canada!

Here are a few new friends we met last weekend while ringing in 2007 in Toronto.

This is Bruce, the Canadian who could become his country's minister of inebriation given his fabulous entertaining style. While I was outside smoking on New Year's Eve during our Toronto drinking vacation, this gentleman with the noise makers sprouting out of each ear, walked up to Red and Rusty and said:

"Ladies back in the day, you would NOT have had a chance." We loved Bruce. Bruce loved us. Well, he pretty much just loved Red as evidenced by his attempt to slip her the proverbial tongue at midnight.

Bruce, you had us at hello.

Meet the Canadian pint. It's a two hander, I tell ya. And if you drink too many, causing your voice to raise an octave or twenty, do not be surprised if you are scolded by the bartender in this land of liquor control and sky high booze taxes. I say if you're gonna serve us beers the size of my apartment, then it might get ugly. And besides, we were on a drinking vacation. A new genre of travel, I think.

This is Alka Seltzer's Morning Relief, my new best friend and one of the most important drugs on the market today if you ask me. Our first night in Toronto--rather rough even by our standards--would have kept most in their hotel beds. But I got up early, force fed this little miracle worker to Red and Rusty and we were on our way to find breakfast and bloody marys.

I'm sure I got everyone super excited with this post with tales of an impending New Year's road trip. We were going to take Red's SUV and drive from Chicago to find out exactly what's going on in that giant land mass to the North, and no I'm not talking about Wisconsin. But instead, the flights to Toronto came down a bit, and we remembered that the drive home may not be much fun so we ended up flying. I'm just glad I'm a procrastinator and never ended up burning 8 hours of songs. And I am a little pissed about spending .99 on iTunes for the Canadian National Anthem.

Anyway, we got there the day before New Year's Eve and stayed near Toronto's version of Time Square, a spot later a local would tell us is a little on the rough side, but it was close to everything and we were able to walk to most of our destinations. This guy said next time we should consider staying where we wouldn't get shot, which is complete bullshit because everyone knows there's no gun violence in Canada.

Back to the fun stuff. We had a lovely meal at a steakhouse, and after dinner, we went to a pub where we met the aforementioned ENORMOUS Hoeggardens and three very nice Canadian guys, who plied us with more liquor and even more importantly laughed at my jokes and Red and Rusty's antics. Sure, the bartender wasn't laughing, but I think she secretly thought we were awesome. Perhaps, deep down, she wished she too could be a loud, binge drinking, Bush-bashing, corn-fed American girl.

Or perhaps not.

Because they were in fact, born in a barn, Red and Rusty kept running outside to smoke and made new friends with each Marlboro Menthol Light. Dick and Ian, two Englishmen who looked and acted like they had been drinking since birth, stuck around solely I think, to get Rusty riled up. Ian told Rusty to chill out, or maybe it was Dick, because one or both of them had just been thrown out the week prior. When the bartender threatened to put Rusty in a timeout, we left with our five boyfriends from England and Canada for a Russian bar.

Of course everyone was well behaved at Pravda given the pictures of Stalin and Lenin staring at us from the walls and a mysterious deep freeze large enough to fit a body or two sitting in the hallway. At closing time we bid farewell to Dick and Ian and the Canadians got us back to our hotel safely so we could rest up for Day Two.

I had found a bar on the internet and made us reservations as a back up for New Year's Eve. It was quiet at first and with the owner's children running around and the rain coming down outside kind of locking us in, I got a little worried. But it turned out to be a blast. The bar, very similiar to a bar in Chicago's Greektown that we frequent, was filled with all locals who were very happy to ring in 2007 with their "American cousins" as one kept calling us. A strange kid whose girlfriend was more than twice his age, drafted us at midnight to set off fireworks with him--The Thunder King--at midnight.

Thanks for the great time Canada and trying not to overserve us. And sorry for being loud. We'll remember next time, inside voice.

Inside voice.