My Life As A 28-Year Old Intern

- i am older than all of the junior staff members.

- i was discussing fashion with my 20-year old co-intern, when she disdainfully described a dress she tried on as 'something a 30-year old would wear'.

- my peers are the five people who bought lindsay lohan's record.

- 24 to 28 is the perfect age to get married. anything beyond that and you'll be dead before your kids get to college.

- the intern in the cubicle next to mine was born in 1988. i got my period in 1988.

Lookin' Goooooooood

As if it is not already awkward and embarrassing enough to walk out of the public bathroom at work with your shirt accidentally tucked partway into the waistband of your pants... please picture that scene occurring whilst wearing maternity pants with a waistband made of flesh-tone elasticy stuff that is pulled all the way up to just under your boobs.

I am the prettiest girl in Chicago.

Cankle Mania 2008!

Nothing makes a lady look or feel quite so glamorous and lovely as a sweet pair of cankles.

I know that it's summer, it's humid and hot, and things can get a little bloaty anyway - then you throw in some pregnant, and there you have it - a perfect cankle-growing environment. Totally expected, totally normal, but holy sweet mother of christ, this is beyond ridiculous.

My calf/ankle/foot/cankle region has begun to resemble Jabba the Hut, were he to be found reclining on a bed of canned ham. Too much more of this shit, and I'm going to start finding people to feed to the rancor monster. And it's only June.

August is going to be fantastic.

Knocked Up

I don't feel like starting a whole new blog to chronicle the indignities and distinctly unglamorous situations one faces when one finds herself unexpectedly knocked up, so henceforth My Glamorous Adult Lifestyle is going to have a lot of pregnant talk. Oh well.

KURWA!

So here I am, sitting at my computer, chatting about baseball online, and there's a knock at my door. I open it, and it's my 86-year-old Polish upstairs neighbor Halina. Halina lives alone, and I'm not quite sure how she pays her rent, but I suspect she sells drugs of some sort, be they pharmaceutical or otherwise. Anyway, Halina's first line to me is, "Do you have a knife?" I look at her puzzled, and she explains to me in her best English (which isn't very good) that she has locked herself out of her apartment. Without waiting for a response, she walks into my apartment (which she's never been in before) and heads to the kitchen, where she grabs a paring knife, a screwdriver, and a corkscrew. "Can you help?" she asks. I shrug, always up for adventure, and follow her to her place, where she proceeds to ruin the paring knife, screwdriver and corkscrew trying to pick her lock and somehow jimmy open her door.

After about 15 minutes of swearing in English and Polish she suggests we go around back, where there are four windows, including one on the back door. she ruins yet another lock, while continuing to ruin the implements she has borrowed from me, while I just stand there trying not to laugh. She keeps saying, "You try! Could you try?" I tell her I will not be responsible for destruction of her property, but these words don't translate well.

After about 15 more minutes, I tell Halina that I need to go get ready for work, and to call the police. Oh, by the way, the landlord is out of town, and I don't have an emergency number to call a maintenance guy or something. Anyway, I leave her standing at her back door, looking utterly helpless.

About five minutes later, she knocks on my door one last time. To ask for a hammer. "Follow me," she says, and I'm kind of wondering whether she intends to brain me for not being able to break into her apartment.

We go upstairs, and I get the rare pleasure of watching an 86-year-old Polish woman break her own window and get showered in glass.

It was awesome.

I Have Seen the Face of the Devil

and his name is Premium Carpet Tack Strip.

Jack Black + CT = True Love 4-Evah

The grave of romance was officially dug up and peed on this weekend when I was informed by my dearest, darling husband (who was, I would very much like to point out, watching Nacho Libre in a hungover stupor whilst attired in a bright red union suit) that "You and Jack Black are like totally the same person. aha ha ha hahahahahahahaha. Wait, I mean, you don't LOOK like him. Oh shit."

According to Mr. Astute Observer, my SoulMate, Mr. Black, and I are both partial to fart sounds, random song singing, too much cursing, falling down frequently, physical buffoonery, and general loud behavior. Oh, and after he read this post, I was reminded to add "butt crackery".

The sad thing is, I can't deny it. DAMMIT. That jackass is totally right. And now I'm mad that the fat guy is famous and I'm not.


Though, that boy should really think twice before mocking me about anything. Seriously.