- I have not made a single meal for myself this entire week, save for my signature dish, "cereal and milk." The start of the quarter, especially fall quarter, is THE time to scam free food. Three student mixers, two lunch lectures, and a workshop on how to write an effective resume later, I may have actually gained weight this week. Does the Freshman 15 apply to grad school?
- Because I'm a grown-up grad student, I'm making an effort to un-schlub my daily ensembles. This has included a number of dress & tights combos. I stopped in the ladies' room after a meeting with my preceptor and yes, pulled a classic tuck-the-dress-in-the-tights move. The wacky-aunt-like department secretary, bless her, was also in the restroom and caught me before I sabotaged my entire academic career in Week 1. I've been avoiding her since because, well, she saw my butt and that is weird.
- I find myself flirting with undergraduates for no other reason than they think I'm 19, too.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Dollar Beer Night
So a few weeks ago after a long day at work followed by a class I get talked into going to Delilah’s. It was a Monday night, $1 beer night, which should have been the first sign that it could be an interesting crowd. I get to the bar sit down with some friends and almost immediately a young man who looks to be pretty intoxicated invites himself to sit with us. Not wanting to be rude we tried to be polite in showing our lack of interest but he doesn’t catch on and joins us anyway. He doesn’t speak just sits there and stares. So we go on with our conversation and about the time I had completely ignored the fact that he was still sitting there I got a reminder all over my arm… projectile vomit!!
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Lunch can suck it.
Today's Glamorous Lunch:
I went down to the garage this morning and discovered that my car had a flat tire. This put a huge cramp in my plan to go procure proper adult food for lunch. Fuck this.
- Instant Oatmeal
- Cheetos
- Peanut M&Ms
I went down to the garage this morning and discovered that my car had a flat tire. This put a huge cramp in my plan to go procure proper adult food for lunch. Fuck this.
Hope Less
Last night I was up until 2 in the morning. Was I:
a) At a show?
b) Out too late drinking?
c) Enjoying a trip to the Bone Zone?
d) None of the above.
The answer is:
d) None of the above.
I was watching fucking Hope Floats.
And enjoying it. Someone please shoot me.
a) At a show?
b) Out too late drinking?
c) Enjoying a trip to the Bone Zone?
d) None of the above.
The answer is:
d) None of the above.
I was watching fucking Hope Floats.
And enjoying it. Someone please shoot me.
Monday, September 17, 2007
The Most Washable Substance on Earth
There is no need to pad this little anecdote to make it more verbose or palatable to the reader. It is what it is.
I was walking an elderly basset hound named Annie when she realized, suddenly, that she had to poop. So she pooped. On the sidewalk. In front of a cop. It was then that I realized I was out of bags. What is a professional dog walker to do? There was no garbage around like there usually is on the ground in Chicago. I took the only available option, and cleaned up after my little canine friend using the two pooper scoopers at the ends of my wrists that I was born with.
I did receive a modicum of satisfaction from the fact that the copper was grossed out. According to him, my act was "...fucking disgusting!"
I was walking an elderly basset hound named Annie when she realized, suddenly, that she had to poop. So she pooped. On the sidewalk. In front of a cop. It was then that I realized I was out of bags. What is a professional dog walker to do? There was no garbage around like there usually is on the ground in Chicago. I took the only available option, and cleaned up after my little canine friend using the two pooper scoopers at the ends of my wrists that I was born with.
I did receive a modicum of satisfaction from the fact that the copper was grossed out. According to him, my act was "...fucking disgusting!"
Saturday, September 15, 2007
The Bees Knees
One particularly glamorous Saturday evening, while The Boyfriend was off on tour somewhere, I had a date with a pizza, a six-pack, and the National Hockey League playoffs. Fat pants in effect. Mine are a particularly comfy combo of button/velcro closure and wide-leg cuffs. After I stopped pretending I was still going to go out, I got up for a fourth, quite unnecessary slice. Well, in my zealous leap for cheese, I tripped on the wide opening of my pants, my foot stuck inside while my forward progress dropped me like a plank. Meanwhile, my hands are full holding a ceramic plate and beer bottle, neither of which I cared to have shatter on the floor or my face, so I had nothing to break my fall except the floor. My face ended up slamming into the plate, along with my wrist getting jammed, my toe stubbed, and both knees impressively black-and-blued. Moral of the story: Capri fat pants.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Peculiar Presents
(I am very sorry my posts always revert back to this subject matter)
I am not lying when I tell you that yesterday I returned home from work to find a plastic sandwich baggie filled with poo on the first step of my front porch. Yeah, what the hell?!
Later that evening, after bowling a few games at Diversy Rock n' Bowl, I walked out to my car to find a woman (who I had seen in the bowling alley) crouched down, pants around her ankles, peeing next to my car. Again, what the hell?!
Toilet gods, I am not amused.
I am not lying when I tell you that yesterday I returned home from work to find a plastic sandwich baggie filled with poo on the first step of my front porch. Yeah, what the hell?!
Later that evening, after bowling a few games at Diversy Rock n' Bowl, I walked out to my car to find a woman (who I had seen in the bowling alley) crouched down, pants around her ankles, peeing next to my car. Again, what the hell?!
Toilet gods, I am not amused.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Money Laundering
So I don't claim to understand my soon-to-be-ex-roommate. I barely know her. I didn't know her last name for the first two months she lived with me. I only have her cell phone number and I think the only information she's ever given me is false (as far as I can tell she was NOT a famous soap opera star and host of a TRL-like show in Peru). but still some things she does are just weird. (blizzard of a bedroom, fingernail clippings on the coffee table) I get into the shower today, like everyday, and accidently bump into her giant sized bottles of Herbal Essences and I see a penny. weird. It looked like it had been there a while, it was a little rusty and discolored (ok fine- I haven't really cleaned very well in the last few weeks) but then I started thinking "how on earth does a penny get in the shower"!!?!?! I'm normally not wearing anything when start a shower. I don't know where a penny could hide...stuck between your toes? in your ear? hidden in your hair? wtf? how? how?
(I)
I just dropped my pants to take a call on line 1 in my private office, and heard a plunk just as I was sitting down. That would have been the lanyard attached to my work ID, which was hanging out of my pocket before it landed in the toilet.
Of course there was somebody else inside to hear me cussing and muttering while I attempted to detach the contaminated lanyard from the ID. They also heard the resounding toot I released while engaged in this exercise. Sigh.
Of course there was somebody else inside to hear me cussing and muttering while I attempted to detach the contaminated lanyard from the ID. They also heard the resounding toot I released while engaged in this exercise. Sigh.
Perfect Timing
Last night I threw together a lovely, fresh veg filled, three course dinner for my new bf and I to enjoy before we headed out for a cocktail at the Green Mill (a place I had never been even though I've lived in Chicago for over two years now). After finishing the meal, I was feeling pretty good about myself and the total romantico feat I had accomplished. As my bf stretched and began to brag about my tofu seasoning skills, in bounded Milez (my very large, orange, feline friend). He had the crazy eye. The scittery, ears back, "I'm about to do something that will really piss you off" maniacal stare.
Without a second thought, the dude leaps into his litterbox (which I stupidly put in the little pantry off of the kitchen...I have a small apartment) and without any reservation whatsoever drops the smelliest. nastiest. dump. evar. and races out of kitchen.
bastard.cat.
Without a second thought, the dude leaps into his litterbox (which I stupidly put in the little pantry off of the kitchen...I have a small apartment) and without any reservation whatsoever drops the smelliest. nastiest. dump. evar. and races out of kitchen.
bastard.cat.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Leaving the car this morning
I dropped my phone into a puddle by the curb, then picked it up to smell it and it definitely smelled like pee. So did my hands, from picking it up. How do you sterilize cell phones?
(Note that it never occurs to me to buy a new phone since the peepee phone works perfectly well.)
(Note that it never occurs to me to buy a new phone since the peepee phone works perfectly well.)
But You Smell So Delicious!
On Sunday, I went to the Upright Citizens Brigade improv show, Asssscat 3000 in New York. It features some people from SNL, 30 Rock, and each week, a guest “monologist.” An audience member yells out a topic, and the guest gives a monologue on said topic, which is then the basis for the improv act. My friend Lori’s pal Samm (from Freaks and Geeks) was the guest last week, and he reserved us some seats for the show this week. Bear with me, this is long, but sadly indicative of M. G. A. L. Also, I thought to write it down so I don't forget details..
We arrive at the theatre, and there’s a mini row of five seats reserved, but there’re only four of us, sooo... empty seat. And I’m on the end. Enter That Guy, who, in retrospect, bears a remarkable resemblance to that giggly fellow from the Volkswagen commercial. Round around the edges, obnoxious but definitely not infectious laugh, had half a six-pack stuffed his shorts pockets and obviously downed the other half on the way to the show. Yet, inexplicably, he smelled delicious, like Cinnabons.
That Guy would not shut up. Before the show, at slow moments in the show, during intermission. After the killer opening line, “Nice glasses,” That Guy proceeds to tell me He’s been to this show every week for like, the past month, and Woah! Hey, isn’t that the guy from Freaks and Geeks and Didn’t he do the monologue last week, Cool, he was hilarious, Oh, you're visiting from Chicago? I’m from Indiana, Ever go to Improv Olympic? Man I love that nut place, New York's the best, I just moved into this new place, really more like an artist’s loft so I can, you know, set up my drums because I used to play in a band, in Indiana, So like, do you do art? Yeah, MOMA, Richard Serra, he does those little miniature box things right? No, oh yeah, well, I just finished fixing up my bike, You bike? Cool, yeah, I just sawed off my handlebars and flipped them over, it’s so sweet...
Sweet like Cinnabon breath!
Cut to the second act. That Guy with his That Laugh, decides to yell out this act’s monologue topic, MACGYER! to which the guest responds, What the motherfuck? But, props to our host, he pulls it off and makes me a pee a little. About a minute and a half into his tale, I look over and That Guy is passed the eff out, like, head rolled into the row behind us passed out. He saddles this poor dude with a bullshit topic then checks out.
That Guy remains unconscious throughout the entire second act, through uproarious laughter I might add. The show ends, hands clap, lights come up, and That Guy finally emerges from his slumber, does a big bear stretch and yawn, turns to me and says,
“Do you want to add me on MySpace?”
This, this is what hits on me these days.
Ad. i: During this little escapade, Lori is trying to save me, but failing because she’s not trying that hard. I bring her up to speed while we’re in the bathroom. A girl in the next stall is giggling along because, well, shit was funny. She leaves first. We get outside, and That Girl is about twenty feet ahead of us, walking with THAT GUY.
Ad. ii: At intermission, This Girl sitting in front of us turns around and says to Samm, “You don’t know this, but we’re MySpace friends.”
We arrive at the theatre, and there’s a mini row of five seats reserved, but there’re only four of us, sooo... empty seat. And I’m on the end. Enter That Guy, who, in retrospect, bears a remarkable resemblance to that giggly fellow from the Volkswagen commercial. Round around the edges, obnoxious but definitely not infectious laugh, had half a six-pack stuffed his shorts pockets and obviously downed the other half on the way to the show. Yet, inexplicably, he smelled delicious, like Cinnabons.
That Guy would not shut up. Before the show, at slow moments in the show, during intermission. After the killer opening line, “Nice glasses,” That Guy proceeds to tell me He’s been to this show every week for like, the past month, and Woah! Hey, isn’t that the guy from Freaks and Geeks and Didn’t he do the monologue last week, Cool, he was hilarious, Oh, you're visiting from Chicago? I’m from Indiana, Ever go to Improv Olympic? Man I love that nut place, New York's the best, I just moved into this new place, really more like an artist’s loft so I can, you know, set up my drums because I used to play in a band, in Indiana, So like, do you do art? Yeah, MOMA, Richard Serra, he does those little miniature box things right? No, oh yeah, well, I just finished fixing up my bike, You bike? Cool, yeah, I just sawed off my handlebars and flipped them over, it’s so sweet...
Sweet like Cinnabon breath!
Cut to the second act. That Guy with his That Laugh, decides to yell out this act’s monologue topic, MACGYER! to which the guest responds, What the motherfuck? But, props to our host, he pulls it off and makes me a pee a little. About a minute and a half into his tale, I look over and That Guy is passed the eff out, like, head rolled into the row behind us passed out. He saddles this poor dude with a bullshit topic then checks out.
That Guy remains unconscious throughout the entire second act, through uproarious laughter I might add. The show ends, hands clap, lights come up, and That Guy finally emerges from his slumber, does a big bear stretch and yawn, turns to me and says,
“Do you want to add me on MySpace?”
This, this is what hits on me these days.
Ad. i: During this little escapade, Lori is trying to save me, but failing because she’s not trying that hard. I bring her up to speed while we’re in the bathroom. A girl in the next stall is giggling along because, well, shit was funny. She leaves first. We get outside, and That Girl is about twenty feet ahead of us, walking with THAT GUY.
Ad. ii: At intermission, This Girl sitting in front of us turns around and says to Samm, “You don’t know this, but we’re MySpace friends.”
The Pooping Bandit
I walk dogs for a living. Professionally. This job allows me to spend days (for better or worse, depending on the weather) hanging out in the park with dogs, being loved unconditionally by them. This job also gives me a choice of several different rich-people toilets to choose from daily, accompanied by big vacant houses with which to take care of business and not worry about grossing the lady friend out of the apartment. Needless to say, I take full advantage of this luxury, and my body clock has adjusted to making daily deposits in richies' houses.
A few months ago I was making such a deposit when I heard the door open. I knew that the lady who owned the condo had been trying to sell it, but usually we get a heads-up that there may be an agent and prospective buyers over on certain days. This day we did not receive such a warning. Since I had fully expected to have the house to myself, I had the bathroom door open. When I heard the door open, I sprang to my feet and attempted to sprint to the bathroom door (it's kind of a large bathroom) to close it before the real estate agent could make it to the bathroom. In my haste to do so I tripped over my pants and my momentum carried me into the door, slamming it with ferocity.
I quickly composed myself, flushed and ran the sink for a minute. Exiting the bathroom with a half-smile, tomato-red in the face, I mumbled something about needing to wash my hands. I grabbed the leash and scurried out the door with the dog, but there was no mistaking the smell in the air of that bathroom. It was not hand soap.
A few months ago I was making such a deposit when I heard the door open. I knew that the lady who owned the condo had been trying to sell it, but usually we get a heads-up that there may be an agent and prospective buyers over on certain days. This day we did not receive such a warning. Since I had fully expected to have the house to myself, I had the bathroom door open. When I heard the door open, I sprang to my feet and attempted to sprint to the bathroom door (it's kind of a large bathroom) to close it before the real estate agent could make it to the bathroom. In my haste to do so I tripped over my pants and my momentum carried me into the door, slamming it with ferocity.
I quickly composed myself, flushed and ran the sink for a minute. Exiting the bathroom with a half-smile, tomato-red in the face, I mumbled something about needing to wash my hands. I grabbed the leash and scurried out the door with the dog, but there was no mistaking the smell in the air of that bathroom. It was not hand soap.
Monday, September 10, 2007
My Lesbian Kiddie Camper
Some of you might know that recent times have had me making frequent treks back to the motherland. Evansville, Indiana that magical little river town where at any given moment while driving, if you peer into a neighboring vehicle, you will notice that the driver and/or passenger is consuming a sandwich with a diligence and fervor only a real Hoosier can understand. Or, fried chicken. Or, a sandwich with a side of fried chicken. Yep, those are my people. (They also recently discovered a way to deep fry Pepsi, but that is for another entry).
I'll start by stating that deciding to eat at the Indian restaurant in Evansville is ALWAYS a bad idea. Unless, of course, you are seeking a day's ride on the poo poo choo choo. All aboard!
Anyway, a friend and I moronically decided last Saturday that trying the Indian place was probably the best idea ever. With visions of Masala dancing in our heads, we cruised down Green River Road ("the strip" for high school kids seeking a fuck, a fight, or a place to display their vast assortment of Confederate apparel). We found the place, took our booth, and perused the menu which included "Eastern Fries" and "Kurry (with an K?!?!) Chicken Fingers". Yeah. That bad.
It was then my friend's face completely dropped, shortly after a couple of early twenty looking girls walked by. One of them was a girl he had dated. The other, I soon realized, was a girl who had been my little camper at a YMCA camp where I worked when I was 16. She had also been the prissiest, most high maintenance, scream at the top of her lungs at any insect sighting, make me want to club her in her sleep little red headed nightmare. A camper of legends. She had to be about 20 or 21 now. My friend promptly informed me that the girl he had dated had decided to "switch teams", and was currently "doin it" with my little camper. Who, incidentally, is now adorned with dreadlocks (bright red) a mustache (again, bright red), and armpit hair (yeah, flamin'). I'm not judgin', I'm just sayin'. Neither of us really wanted to face the situation, so we slid our menus in front of our faces all Meg Ryan rom com style, and silently contemplated these now fully realized facts:
A. We are fucking old
B. We are fucking retarded
and the kicker
C. We are two old retards sitting in a McIndian joint on Green River Road avoiding 20 year transitional lesbians.
Without a word we got up from the teal pleather elephant patterned booth, and bolted for the door (all the while trying not to pee our pants in hysterics as we hit the parking lot and jumped into my bright red Chevy Impala geriatric rental mobile).
That my friends, was far from glamorous.
I'll start by stating that deciding to eat at the Indian restaurant in Evansville is ALWAYS a bad idea. Unless, of course, you are seeking a day's ride on the poo poo choo choo. All aboard!
Anyway, a friend and I moronically decided last Saturday that trying the Indian place was probably the best idea ever. With visions of Masala dancing in our heads, we cruised down Green River Road ("the strip" for high school kids seeking a fuck, a fight, or a place to display their vast assortment of Confederate apparel). We found the place, took our booth, and perused the menu which included "Eastern Fries" and "Kurry (with an K?!?!) Chicken Fingers". Yeah. That bad.
It was then my friend's face completely dropped, shortly after a couple of early twenty looking girls walked by. One of them was a girl he had dated. The other, I soon realized, was a girl who had been my little camper at a YMCA camp where I worked when I was 16. She had also been the prissiest, most high maintenance, scream at the top of her lungs at any insect sighting, make me want to club her in her sleep little red headed nightmare. A camper of legends. She had to be about 20 or 21 now. My friend promptly informed me that the girl he had dated had decided to "switch teams", and was currently "doin it" with my little camper. Who, incidentally, is now adorned with dreadlocks (bright red) a mustache (again, bright red), and armpit hair (yeah, flamin'). I'm not judgin', I'm just sayin'. Neither of us really wanted to face the situation, so we slid our menus in front of our faces all Meg Ryan rom com style, and silently contemplated these now fully realized facts:
A. We are fucking old
B. We are fucking retarded
and the kicker
C. We are two old retards sitting in a McIndian joint on Green River Road avoiding 20 year transitional lesbians.
Without a word we got up from the teal pleather elephant patterned booth, and bolted for the door (all the while trying not to pee our pants in hysterics as we hit the parking lot and jumped into my bright red Chevy Impala geriatric rental mobile).
That my friends, was far from glamorous.
There is nothing glamorous about wedding planning
Sunday afternoon found me bawling, drinking bourbon and opening my door to find this on the front porch:
You try taking yourself seriously after that.
You try taking yourself seriously after that.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Reaching New Levels of Intimacy
1) I can't believe I'm blogging a cat story.
2) It probably won't be the last.
Last night after a few drinks at Chez Owings & Goodwillie, the desperate urge to pee hit just as I got home. I almost stepped on poor Chubs on my sprint to the bathroom, which apparently didn't deter his desperate urge for attention one bit, as he promptly jumped in my lap and began to snuggle. While I was on the toilet. Peeing. I never knew something could be so adorable and completely fucking creepy at the same time, but then little dude's nuzzly head got disturbingly close to the hooha... I sent a phone pic to his daddy. I'll spare you the visual.
2) It probably won't be the last.
Last night after a few drinks at Chez Owings & Goodwillie, the desperate urge to pee hit just as I got home. I almost stepped on poor Chubs on my sprint to the bathroom, which apparently didn't deter his desperate urge for attention one bit, as he promptly jumped in my lap and began to snuggle. While I was on the toilet. Peeing. I never knew something could be so adorable and completely fucking creepy at the same time, but then little dude's nuzzly head got disturbingly close to the hooha... I sent a phone pic to his daddy. I'll spare you the visual.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Cookie Queen
Things have reached an entirely new level of stupid when I find myself thinking back fondly on my high school job at the Original Cookie Company at the mall. I mean, for the love of Jeebus, it's a job at the fucking mall. I obviously didn't care for the wildly unattractive uniform of red baseball caps and polo shirts, and I have super self-esteem boosting memories of, on more than one occasion, being called "sir" by fatass mall patrons. Pretty! Shockingly, not so much love for the customer service or the handling of money either. Ahem.
However, coming in before the mall was open and playing stupid music (Gorilla Biscuits and various other hardcore favorites. hilarious.) and baking everything while it was all dark and quiet and weird and full of doddering, elderly mall walkers and then hiding out in the back decorating insanely tacky stupid ass cookie cakes seems immensely appealing right now. Pitiful and retarded.
Though, that bitch, Mrs. Fields, has claimed dominion over the Mall Cookie Empire, so I guess I'm not all that interested after all. Crap.
However, coming in before the mall was open and playing stupid music (Gorilla Biscuits and various other hardcore favorites. hilarious.) and baking everything while it was all dark and quiet and weird and full of doddering, elderly mall walkers and then hiding out in the back decorating insanely tacky stupid ass cookie cakes seems immensely appealing right now. Pitiful and retarded.
Though, that bitch, Mrs. Fields, has claimed dominion over the Mall Cookie Empire, so I guess I'm not all that interested after all. Crap.
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