THE MOT JUSTE

I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

2006-07-21T20:27:00.000-07:00

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I don't really have a lot of experience with feelings. So when I get a little tingle that I think might be a feeling, my first instinct should not be to post about it on the Internet, where lack of visual cues and inflection leave everything open to misinterpretation.

There are a couple of options for preferable first instincts:

1.) Remind myself that I'm pretty much a robot, so that little tingle probably just means I have to sneeze or something.
2.) Let myself think it's a feeling, but remind myself that the Internet, even my personal forum, where five-and-maybe-even-more people might read it, is not the place for self-revelation.

So, while I decide which of those two options I like better (in the event that a feeling or feeling-like tingle should arise again), please enjoy the following completely neutral, non-feelings-related, highly-unlikely-to-be-misinterpreted-to-my-disadvantage post about kittens, puppies, and typos.

Oh, you did not make that typo!

2006-03-02T09:04:00.000-08:00

Cute Overload makes me smile daily and giggle out loud almost as often. I always try my darnedest to wait until the end of the day to look at the site, because then I can look at all the day's postings at once. I like the idea of hoarding all the cuteness and happiness and giggliness into one gigantic cute-happy-giggly moment at the end of a long day, but I almost never make it that long. So I usually end up checking things out around 10, giggling, checking for updates after noon, giggling at the same post that was up earlier, checking again at around 3, giggling at the one new post, then scrolling down and giggling at the post I've already giggled at twice. That's a lot of giggling; people are going to start to suspect... (I throw in an occasional "awwwwwwwn" too, just for good measure, and I've gotten a few people on the Cute bandwagon.)

One thing, though: I'm gonna have to bookmark the site eventually, because when I type in the site name, I always always type in "Cute Overlord" first. And then, of course, I giggle about that for awhile.

Baby Mama Drama

2006-02-15T19:51:00.000-08:00

Just about anyone who's spent more than five minutes with me in a public setting knows (and has come to love, I'm sure) That Look I get when there's a baby in the vicinity. That Look is not the stereotypical girly misty-eyed omigod I want one of those looks you're thinking of, those of you who haven't spent more than five minutes with me in a public setting. It's quite the opposite, I can assure you. That Look is a sneery, bottom lip jutted, shoulder cocked, chin pulled-in look that any other girl would use to convey "oh she did not show up carrying my Louie."

Rest assured, though: I'm working on it. Or, at least I'm working on not being so obvious about it. (It has come to my attention that most mothers love love love their babies and aren't at all appreciative of the occasional "Man, don't babies suck?" look I toss out. I thought for awhile there that I had some special, sympathetic insight, and I guess I always kind of expect a mom to be like, "THANK you! Sometimes babies do suck, even this one! I'm glad to see someone understands!")

Normally I wouldn't hide my disdain at all (I don't censor my facial expressions for non-moms. What? They expect me to ignore that merciless wailing and conceal my utter disdain?) but now I'm on a mission. That mission? Get on the list.

From a seemingly-casual conversation I had with Fernando the other day:

"I can never drink that much again, or I'm gonna be off some peoples' lists."
"What lists?"
"You know. Lists. Like 'Potential Baby Daddy' lists. You're a single girl; you've got to have a list."
"No. No, I don't think I know about that. People have lists?"
"Yeah. I have a list. There's like, three people on it. I mean, what if I really want kids someday, and I'm alone? What if you really want kids someday and you're alone?"
"I won't want kids someday and... wait, what do you mean 'if I'm alone?!' Who's on this list?"
"Just these people. People I know. Who have good genes."
"I have good genes. Good genes and high SAT scores. And! I'm a natural blonde. Everyone wants a smart blonde baby. Blondes with high SAT scores are in high demand, you know, in that baby harvesting market."
"You do have good genes."
"So, I'm on the list?"
"You don't want babies."
"Minor detail. I'm on the list, right?"
"I haven't known you long enough. And you don't want babies."
"Well! You're on my list."
"You don't have a list. You didn't even know about the list."
"I have a list. What if I someday, miraculously, against all odds, wake up and need to have a baby? And [inevitably] I'm alone? You ARE my list. You can't take yourself off my list. It's my list. And, I think it's only fair that because you're on my list, I should be on your list. We can have babies. Not now, but someday. Babies!"
"You hate babies, and you hate moms, and you don't have a list. And there's already people on my list, people I've talked to, people who will definitely, eventually want babies."

So there you have it: not only do I need to a.) start liking babies and b.) get on the list, I must also c.) beat out three other professed baby-lovers to get to the top of the list. I would never settle for fourth best, after all.

So riddle me this: am I really the only single girl in the world who hasn't been furtively auditioning every man in her life for the role of potential, somewhere-along-the-line sperm donor? Am I being furtively auditioned by every guy I meet? Are they sizing up my egg-harvesting potential and making mental tics in the minus column every time I order another beer? Does everyone really have a list? Do I need to get on this, like, yesterday? Gah!

Redemption is a dish best served with a pomegranate martini

2006-02-05T20:31:00.000-08:00

Or, in my case, six. Six pomegranate martinis.

So, remember the Chipotlame incident, the one that marked the official advent of the Total Erin Spazzfest™? I thought I'd never get over the shame. OK, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but I did think, "Whelp. There goes my one chance to dazzle a former* reality show star."

Lucky for me, though, that thought involved concepts related to impressing boys and having some degree of Game, so, naturally, I was wrong.

I scored an invite (via my freelancing job) to my first Swanky Chicago Party, hosted by this webzine to celebrate the launch of this T.V. show. Given the proximity to work and the lure of free drinks, I couldn't not go, so I put on my Trixie boots and clip-clopped my way to Salthaus. It's one of those restaurants with floor-to-ceiling windows and lots of little furniture and little tealight candles and little hors d'oeuvres served on little minimalist white plates. It was very hip, and everyone there was very shiny** and I felt very much like Carrie Effing Bradshaw, except with cheaper shoes and a cuter Stanford.

The Brunette Ryan Seacrest was there, as were some other Important Chicago People, whom my much-more-in-the-know date recognized imediately and whom I had never heard of. Apparently, Real World Jamie is considered a Marginally Important Chicago Person, so he too was invited to this Swanky Chicago Party.

After seeing him near the stairs, I did some quick social math: Real World Jamie + free pomegranate martinis ÷ Trixie boots = Second Chance to make a First Impression!

I was nervous, of course; I wasn't the only girl there in sequins and Trixie boots, after all. But my date scored me the perfect talking-to-Jamie wingman: Nick had a very European, bangs-involved haircut, some well-placed bling, and a curiosity about the whereabouts of New Orleans castmate Danny.***

We were very not-obvious about making eye contact, and eventually Jamie came over to talk to us. Even after Nick got the Danny report and dropped out, I was doing really well: we talked about Chicago and Northwestern, and our jobs ("jobs," since he "just wrapped filming on The Gauntlet 2 and is now marketing something called the UberTap that has to do with beer.) I found out he reads my magazine and thinks it's great, which rocks because either a.) he reads my magazine and thinks it's great or b.) he's never heard of my magazine but wants me to think he thinks it's great. I think. We talked about The Gauntlet, and I'm pretty sure he told me the outcome, even though there are still new episodes coming out. He brought me another (!) drink, and we talked about the Windy City Rollers, and I think I must have made some cute-dumb comment about how I'd actually really like to wear a plaid skirt and ripped fishnets and roller skates and kick other chicks' asses in the Derby ring, because at the end of the night, Jamie came back over to me and said, "You know, you really should try out for the Windy City Rollers." Um... thanks?

Anyway, aside from that potential debacle that didn't actually backfire, I was golden. I even resisted the urge to be all, "HEY! Remember that time I totally lost my shit at Chipotle and threw a hissy right in front of you? You don't remember? Oh, well, I guess it was just a big deal to me and all the people who read my blog, then." I'm pretty proud of that little fact.

* I suppose a better word would be "occasional."
** Chicago shiny is very different from Dallas shiny, I've decided.
*** I, too, wouldn't have minded more of a Danny update. There's always been something a little Timberlakian about him.

Four's my Lucky Num-bah

2006-01-25T22:03:00.000-08:00

Really. It is. All that numerology, add up the numbers of your birthdate, divide by your social security number nonsense always comes out to four for me. So... I guess I have to do this meme, courtesy of Kara:

Four jobs i’ve had in my life:
• Swim lesson instructor (freezing water + bitchy kids)
• Pop music writer (free concerts + bitchy celebs)
• Art slave at Black Hair magazine (free weave advice + bitchy editors)
• Art director (free pizza + bitchy-fabulous co-workers)

Four movies i can watch over and over:
• Bring It On
• Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
• Grosse Pointe Blank
• Home Alone

Four places i have lived:
• Hudson, Ohio
• Colleyville, Texas
• Evanston, IL
• Chicago, IL

Four tv shows i love to watch:
• CSI: (but not its spinoffs)
• America's Next Top Model
• There and Back, the comeback story of Ashley Parker Angel (Kidding!... well, OK, I watched it once. Shut up!)
• Seinfeld

Four places i’ve been on vacation:
• Cork, Ireland
• New Orleans/Mardi Gras '95 (I was 13... scandal ensued)
• Savannah, GA
• Vegas, baby!

Four websites i visit daily
• Flickr
• Television Without Pity
• What the Font? (Because I'm shit when it comes to identifying anything but Futura or Knockout)
• Chicagoist (Thanks for the tip-off, Kara!)

Four of my favorite foods:
• McDonald's fries with a Wendy's Frosty
• Tortilla chips with really hot salsa and a margarita (not technically food, but...?)
• Wild mushroom goat cheese quesadillas from Central Market in Dallas
• Anything peanut butter

Four places i would rather be right now:
• Somewhere Mediterranean
• Back in college, but learning to do something totally different, like forensic science
• Thee Fish Bowl in the apex of the Evanstonian Universe
• Basically anywhere besides my desk

Four bloggers i am tagging:
• I'm copping out like Meghan did; if you wanna fill this bitch out, by all means, I'd love to hear what you have to say. Just let me know that you said it.

Baby... One More Time

2006-01-23T22:27:00.000-08:00

Being on deadline, I've decided, is like being pregnant. Not that I know anything about the latter from personal experience or anything. But: I've watched enough T.V. and movies, read enough books and magazines, and known enough pregnancy-beleaguered people to have picked up on a thing or two, dispite my total baby-block. And thus... some truths that apply both to being on a remarkably rigorous magagzine deadline schedule and to being with child:

1.) Skin = haywire. Seriously, my skin isn't as bad as it was during the whole Yearbook debacle, but it's angry. This probably is not completely unrelated to...

2.) Cravings. I've (or I should say we've, because this was a team effort, Fernando) consumed more pizza in the past two weeks than a frat house probably consumes in two months. There's something supremely comforting in greasy, bubbly cheese and a crust that's just the right consistency (props here to Salerno's, who makes a mean pie that is as delicious as 10:30 p.m. deadline munchie leftovers as it is when first delivered.) But there's also such a thing as pizza overload. This is why, mid-deadline, my dinner menu looked something like this:

• Two vegetarian rolls from the pre-packaged foods case at Dominicks
• Three quarters of a huge bag of Swedish Fish
• One handful of El Ranchero "WITH SALT"-flavored tortilla chips slathered in Chipotle Tobasco sauce
• Two conversation hearts (one white, one purple)

That's right. Swedish Fish and conversation hearts. These, I think, were both impulse buys during our one zombified trip to the grocery store. I can't imagine actually saying, "You know, I have a wicked craving for... what is it? OH! Swedish Freaking Fish!" but I'm not entirely convinced it didn't happen. I must have craved Swedish Fish because I subconsciously knew they made me happy, and I needed to be happy because...

3.) Hormones = out of whack. I've been feeling the highs and lows pretty acutely the past couple of weeks. I think since it takes every last fiber of my already-questionable goodness not to rip some clients' (or coworkers') heads off, I've been almost insanely slap-happy at work, and then really really glum once I get home. On Saturday I could barely muster the will to get out of my pajamas, and I caught myself getting all misty at (wait for it...) First Daughter. (In my defense, he should have told her he was in the Secret Service before he let her fall in love with him! Shame on you, Riley!) Ever have one of those nights where you get home, supertired, and think, "I should go to bed... but I really don't want to because when I wake up I'm going to have to do this all over again"? It's not the best feeling.

Also not the best feeling? Going out to celebrate the end of deadline, getting trashed at a gay bar under the delusion that someone (someone) there is going to take pity on you and want to make out, waking up in a bed that's not your own, and discovering YOUR OWN PHONE NUMBER in your pocket. Yeah... I don't even know. But...

4.) In the end, there's a little bundle of joy that you can smile down on and know that you helped to create. Sappy when it comes to a baby, kind of awesome when applied to a creative project like the biggest issue of our magazine in its 20-year history, featuring my very first cover design! Office speculation has this issue pegged as our most picked-up, and, if I do say so myself, the cover is extremely hot. I'll set up a cutelittlesnugglybabypix.com account or something when it's officially hit newsstands so you can share the joy.

I'm gonna be such a proud mom (I'm registered at Target, FYI).

Since U Been Gone

2006-01-11T08:57:00.000-08:00

News of The Former Loves of My Life has been cropping up all over the place recently.

I actually had a Former Love of My Life sighting on New Year's, when Is-He-Or-Isn't-He? Mark showed up as a friend of a friend at the party of a friend of a friend (try figuring the odds on that one). It was as pleasant an experience as I could have hoped for in a random and unprepared-for encounter with a Former Love of My Life; he seemed genuinely happy to see me, and I felt genuinely comfortable jokingly-but-not-really-jokingly admitting that my 19-year-old self had a major jones for him. (And, for the record, he so totally is— just my luck — but so totally was not the night I took him to my freshman year sorority formal.)

I caught wind of the first-ever Former Love of My Life, Skirt Wearing Joey, at Christmas, when my cousin said, completely in passing, "I can't stay for dinner. I'm picking up Joey and taking him to a meeting." My audible gasp was (thankfully) drowned out when my mom said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Skirt Wearing Joey?" as if she knew him personally or had actually witnessed his skirt wearing (even I never witnessed his skirt wearing, and though tales are told that involve a broomstick skirt and pigtails, I refuse to believe what I never saw with my own two eyes.) I asked if I could tag along, and was told that, no, I couldn't, because the destination was an AA meeting; Skirt Wearing Joey was fresh out of rehab. Fabulous.

So that's two down.

Hearing about those boys makes me wonder whatever happened to the other Former Loves of My Life. I was devastated when Jake the Underage Mormon just up and moved to Utah with his huge Mormon family the summer before I went to college. He had curly hair and played the accordian and was just adorable enough to convince me that leaving school for 40 minutes to go to Taco Bell wasn't going to ruin my chances at getting into a good college. We went on a few "actual dates," which consisted primarily of me driving him to McChevron (he didn't have a license) and buying him caffeinated beverages. Oh, the Sin! Knowing the way things go for me with regards to the Former Loves of My Life, Jake the Underage Mormon is probably traipsing through Botswana on a mission from Jesus, or married, or both.

And of course there's the Former Love of My Life, the one who sets the standard for all future Former Loves of My Life: Mike "I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness" Wheeler, who, when faced with the choice between me and a witch, chose the witch. And I'm not namecalling here; I got dumped for an actual, practicing witch, the kind of person who spells magic with a "k" and sometimes uses it as a plural noun, the kind of person who says she's a vegan but has no scruples about small-animal sacrifice, the kind of person who can turn people to the dark side (thus handily providing me with the timeless line, "Yeah, well at least you were never in love with a warlock!" That shit never gets old.)

I'm still awaiting a report from Kara about her visit last weekend with Pat. (He doesn't get a nickname because I don't know how to spell that stock "angels-ascending-from-above" sound they use in movies.) I'm guessing the news does not fall in my favor, but seriously? At this point, I would be relieved to hear "he has a girlfriend". As long as he's not spreading the Word of Our Lord, kicking a nasty cocaine habit, wearing jewelry that involves pewter talons and crystal balls, or doin' it with dudes, I'm in good shape.

... I must admit, though, I'm a tiny bit curious to see if he — or any potential Former Loves of My Life, for that matter — can top what I've already put up with.

The race is officially on, boys!

String Cheese

2006-01-04T21:15:00.000-08:00

I've never been a big fan of the fake holiday that is New Year's, or of all that "resolution" nonsense. But this New Year's, I made (not a resolution) a deal with myself to crank up my motivation: write more, write better, have a purpose and maybe even find a nice, cozy little niche to curl up in (with all my purpose and motivation and better writing.)

And even though New Year's was only four days ago, I have some excellent non-resolution/deal-with-myself news: mission accomplished! Yesterday I was offered a position as a fashion and beauty stringer for a national web magazine. I'll be writing 12 pieces a month, getting some free shwag, and even making a little bit of money.*

Honestly, though, it's not the free loot or the stipend that have me all worked up; I'm excited about writing for real again. I was starting to miss assignments and deadlines and editors and that little frantic what if I don't get this done? What if this isn't at all what they're looking for? thrill. I'm a nerd, I know.

And, I know, fashion 'zine schmashion 'zine. I probably won't win a Pulitzer this year. But I'll have fun, and this gives me purpose...

... purpose and an actual, legitimate excuse to read Cosmo and US Weekly.

* I have already placed strict limitations on the allocation of these new funds; they are to be used strictly for research: magazine subscriptions and trendspotting expeditions (read: going to bars). Whatever would I do without a budget?

You look so cute when you're frustrated, dear.

2005-12-30T22:27:00.000-08:00

The El has been horrific of late. Yesterday, I thought I'd gotten a prime seat: it was one of the inward-facing ones near the door, the kind where there's no danger of your knees accidentally touching those of the person perpendicular to you because you're wedged up against a faux-wood panelled partition and there's a whole body between you and the knees of the person perpendicular to you. What I didn't account for was the attack on the side I mistakenly thought was guarded by the faux-wood partition.

My camel-coated seatmate-to-the-left (solving her Sudoku puzzle in pen, a bad move) took up 100% of her seat and approximately 8% of mine, so I executed the preliminary touch-avoidance maneuvers: hunch shoulders, cross arms (ball hands into fists), squeeze knees together, lean slightly forward, sheild upper body with strategically placed messenger bag.

But the train was crowded that day, my friends, and no preliminary touch-avoidance maneuvers were going to protect me completely. I had progressed to Phase 2: sink chin into turtleneck, press right flank firmly against partition... when I saw the hand.

Do you remember that Vaseline Intensive Care commercial from the '90s where the spokesmodel scratches the word "DRY" into her flaky skin with her fingernail? This was worse. The hand was the kind of dry where you could see the white channels of chafing, the kind of dry that made it look like it was crafted from papier maché or birchbark.

At first the hand (attached to a standing passenger whose face I never looked at) was holding onto the appropriate pole. But then it slipped— rather casually, I think — to the six-inch gap between the top of the faux-wood partition and the partition glass that extends nearly to the top of the train. With each lurch of the train, the hand inched back along the top of the faux-wood, until the crackly fingers were mere millimeters from my cheek.

I was faced with a conundrum: lean back and risk shoulder contact with seatmate-to-the-left, or wait with baited breath, hoping the fingers wouldn't actually touch my face (I could feel them there, even when I shut my eyes, I could feel them about to touch me.) In the end, I went with a third and much more desperate option: I leaned all the way forward, forehead to knees, and squeezed my eyes shut and blew out frantically in short, hyperventilate-y breaths for five stops (five!) until the hand disembarked the train.

*****

Today was more typical and less terrifying, although Purple Puffy Coat to my right had this rhythmic schlurrrrg thing going on with her nose. It was schlurrrrg, two, three, four, schlurrrrg, two, three, four from Grand to Sheridan (when the oppotunity to move to a new seat handily presented itself). I thought of offering her a tissue, but I didn't have one; and when she finally withdrew a limp, greenish one from her own beaten handbag, I was glad I'd been able to ride so far in relative peace. She broke her rhythm temporarily with one big schlurrrrglrrrrrrgll (at which point I think I audibly gagged) and, taking no notice of my disdain, proceeded to crack open a can of A&W rootbeer and slurp and schlurrrrg on alternating beats.

*****

These incidents, perhaps only because of their rapid succession, have made me consider, for the first time in a long time, restarting my affair with Paxil. I don't know that one little pink pill would eliminate entirely my ghoulish visions (sometimes, while riding the train, I imagine myself at once inside and outside the car; from the inside, I can hear the chorus of sneezes and snarfles and croaks and coughs, and from the outside I can see, as if I'm wearing special goggles, green clouds hanging stagnantly over the unassuming passengers, pushing against the doors and grimy windows, wisking up nasal passages and into mouths agape) but it may work its numbing magic in other areas that will indirectly affect my commute.

You see, I think I'm beginning to have feelings again. This is atypical; I don't generally have feelings; I'm kind of a robot that way. But there are some things (OK, I'll name them: feelings) that I've been wrestling with lately (as it is the turn of the year, and I'd like to start aught-six with a clean slate). I haven't really made this a place to talk about my feelings, so I'm not sure this is the appropriate forum, but there are things that need to be gotten off my chest post-haste.

I've done Internet research, trying to find a shooting range within traveling distance of Chicago. There are none. If there were, this whole writing about feelings thing would be moot point. But moot it is not, so unless anyone wants to drive me and my feelings out to Aurora, you may just have to bear with me.

Hissy Fit

2005-12-21T09:14:00.000-08:00

So I'm casually reading the paper on the train this morning, and I come across this:

"Cat Fancy magazine just named the 'Top 20 Felines on Screen.'"

I pause momentarily, almost absentmindedly and think, Huh, I wonder which "screen feline" is at the top of that list. Probably that cat from Breakfast at Tiffany's.

I return to my reading: "File that under conversation starters guaranteed to keep your virginity intact."

Oh. Right.

...CRAP!

Reach out and touch someone

2005-12-18T21:30:00.000-08:00

One of my (hundreds of) public transportation pet peeves is people blabbing on their cell phones and interrupting my peaceful commute. Most days I crank up my iPod and bury myself behind a RedEye and, when I'm finished reading the interesting things (namely, the back page and "Nine Lines," which is a direct rip-off of Entertainment Weekly's Hit List written — poorly — by a Medill alum), I snuggle up under my scarf and attempt to block out the sounds of sniffles and coughs.

Lately, though, I've been forgoing my iPod and my reading and my head-burying altogether. It's the holidays, after all, so to get into the spirit (and in an attempt to strengthen my torrid relationship with public transportation) I've begun casually eavesdropping on peoples' spirited Christmastime phone calls. It's an anthropological study, really, and I've found the semi-public interactions of commuters with their relatives to be much more entertaining than anything I could download for 99 cents on iTunes. Or, you know, steal from Limewire.

And so, in the spirit of Christmas, a sampling:

"... No, I don't think it's a coincidence, Marissa. I don't think it's a coincidence that Mom and Dad got you and April iPods and me a candle... I don't care if you bought your present yourself. You couldn't have picked one up for me, too? That candle had a cat on it, Marissa... Yeah, I don't know. Mom always wants to buy me jewelery. Everytime I do something it's like, 'Let me buy you pearls!' Where am I gonna wear pearls?... Yeah, I guess we could all go in and get them something together, but I'm not chipping in as much as... I don't know. What do they need? Sanity?..."

"...doing Christmas Eve at our place and spending Christmas morning with his parents... Oh, God no! Judy still doesn't get that we're vegetarians. We have reservations..."

"...Yes, Mom... Yes, I think he's going to bring her. They're married... Yes, I saw what she wore to Thanksgiving... Well she is a trophy wi-... No, you can't ask him not to bring her... Because!... Well, get it out of your system now. You can say it to me, but don't say anything in front of her... Why not? Because you mean it. You're going to get yourself into trouble... I'm serious. Just... well just get it out of your system now..."

"... He's so cute! You're sure he's gay?... Well, you should work on that... You 'don't think so'?... Well, fine. I guess there's nothing better than a gay friend... You could just tell everyone he's your boyfriend. He's so cute!... Why not? You know your Aunt Jill is going to ask. She always asks. She doesn't have to know he's gay... Well, I still say you should work on it...It's not like Mr. Jerkface is ever going to call..."

Happy holidays everyone!

Back in the Saddle

2005-12-15T20:53:00.000-08:00

Today was a normal enough day at the Factory. Around three, I was doing whatever it is I normally do around three (i.e. surfin' the 'Net) and feeling rather smug — but also all warm and fuzzy inside — because the Home Alone viewing I'd been attempting to instigate since the day after Thanksgiving had finally come to fruition.

And then it started.

My first thought was, "Little Quiet Kari usually listens to oldies; she certainly doesn't strike me as the type to make the sudden switch to rage metal." But then I realized it wasn't Little Quiet Kari or her little quiet oldies-playing radio. It was an actual person, actually outside our office, actually having the loudest and most heated cell phone conversation I've ever eavesdropped on.

Those of us without window access hustled to the north side of the office, where those with window access were already splayed out over their desks or craning their necks to "see what was the matter" (or so the Christmas tie-in goes). The disappointment at not being able to see anything was only temporary, as the one-sided and oh-so-piercing conversation alone was enough to keep us entertained.

I wish now, in retrospect, that I'd found within me a miraculous knowledge of shorthand so I could have transcribed the goings-down in their accurate entirety, but alas, I will have to paraphrase: "FUCK FUCK FUCK! This is the worst day of my life! FUCK FUCK FUCK! All over some stupid machine. FUCK FUCK FUCK! Don't talk to me like that! Don't you know what my IQ is?! FUCK FUCK FUCK! I'm going to kill myself."

We put our spyfest on temporary hold as The Boss walked down the hall, peeking into all the north-facing offices and giving us the old "are you sure you should be up to whatever you're up to?" eyebrows. As soon as he'd made the obligatory rounds, though, our cheeks were pressed right back up against those windows. There was a little more "FUCK FUCK FUCK!" and a few "You fucking stupid bitch"-es thrown in for good measure. All in all, it was Thursday afternoon entertainment at its finest.

And then the rumor circulated that it was our new receptionist, Colorful Leeser, who was having the midafternoon meltdown. Someone in a north-facing office down the hall MacGuyvered a compact mirror, some Scotch tape and a pencil into a periscope and confirmed the rumor moments later. The Boss then went down, "smoothed things over" (sotto voce so we window-watchers couldn't hear the denoument of our little afternoon theater), came back up and did the rounds, laughing the incident off as a minor breakdown and nothing to concern ourselves with. As if!

I thought nothing could ever top Strong Mayor?-gate 2005, a scary-exhilarating workplace incident that I'm still afraid to write about, but that ended with one major player screaming at another even more major player: "Fuck you! Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!"

After that debacle, we all of us banded together. We formed a united front, made verbal declarations of intent to turn in our resignations, en masse, the next day, first thing; waved our fists in the air until we were too drunk to continue; dissolved into fits of remember whens! and down with the mans! and this is just the beginnings!; exchanged sloppy kisses in a haze of jangled nerves and professed allegiances and gin-and-tonics.

Today was different. There were no declarations, no waving fists, no intense-situation-driven make-outs. Today I went home — alone — not knowing exactly what happened, but possessing an acute awareness of the fact that, no matter where I am, what I'm doing, or how laid-back I think things are, I am consistently plagued by elaborate workplace drama. Workplace drama and equine references...

Rockin' Around the [Perfectly Appointed] Christmas Tree

2005-12-12T21:18:00.000-08:00

Saturday night, Robyn and I ventured out to West Loop to attend a holiday party thrown by one of her co-workers. We knew almost nothing, just that we were supposed to "dress up a little" and arrive at the host couple's "gated community" around 7:30. It wasn't until we got there and surveyed the situation that we realized it: we were at a Grown Up Party hosted by Actual Adults.

There was a four-story condo. It had a deck with a skyline view; a guest bathroom with little soaps that smelled like lavender and weren't to be touched; framed diplomas and photos of toothy neices and nephews. There were things, just shapes really, made of crystal and ceramic and glass, things that people would only own after a wedding, and would only display after a recent wedding. (At one point in the evening, I saw Robyn looking at me strangely across the white-chocolate-covered pretzel display we were busy dismantling; I turned to see what monstrosity was behind me, only to find a giant framed cross-stitch of an old-fashioned bride and groom, along with the couples' wedding date and a Bible verse. Somehow, I didn't feel right sitting under that "artwork.")

There was a dog. It was small and well-behaved and beige. It matched the beige carpet, the beige living room set, its own beige Burberry collar. It had a stocking, shaped like a paw, hanging between the husband's and the wife's on the mantle over an actually-working fireplace. It didn't bark once. It had a nickname: Maddie, short for Madison.

There were men in sport coats, women in what is apparently (and unbeknownst to me) the Trixie uniform: black skirt, red turtleneck sweater, knee-high leather boots (in good taste, naturally), and some subtle but distinguishing piece of flare. Everyone brought wine in those satiny wine-bottle gift bags adorned with feathers or paillettes or sequins. The neighbors came. The hosts know their neighbors: they have poker nights and cookie exchanges; they walk their beige dogs together. One of the neighbor-couples brought their baby monitor. Another couple watched through the window as their dogs romped in their kitchen across the way.*

There was a Christmas tree. It was perfect. The lights that twinkled evenly from every square inch could have been applied by a professional, but, upon meeting the couple, I'm fairly certain they "made a day of it," decking the tree and the condo out all by themselves. There were built-in bookcases from which all taste-identifying art had been removed and replaced with a collection of glossy, glittery Department 56 pieces. There were costumes: Maddie hovered near the door in a Santa hat-and-cape set, and the hostess buzzed around the kitchen, refreshing trays of hors d'oeuvres made with Filo dough, in a matching Santa apron.

Seeing as how we couldn't find "gated" parking, and as how we most certainly weren't within-walking-distance neighbors, we were forced to park about a quarter mile away. We had to trudge through still-fresh snow (and maybe over a 90/94 overpass — I've blocked it) to get to the condo, and, as is apropos at a Grown Up Party hosted by Actual Adults, we removed our shoes in the foyer. So well the rest of the ladies in the set marched around in perfect and perfectly dry boots, I padded around in my holiday socks.

My holiday Cat Socks.

*Incidentally, the only contact we've had with our neighbors involves (in the case of our second-floor neighbors) their coming upstairs to check on us after we screamed about a cockroack that wouldn't die, and (in the case of our first-floor neighbors) us watching from our front-room window as they make out with their lesbian girlfriends on our front porch. Lovely.

Beating a dead horse metaphor

2005-12-10T17:51:00.000-08:00

Alright, let's do this.

(My new “friend” over at Got Back Together With My Ex The Same Day We Were Supposed to Go Out Depot* is the one in itals.):

1: Erin, thanks for not putting my name on your post. That would have been a bit over the top. I mean, blogs are a great forum, but no one wants to date or consider dating someone who would muckrake them publicly. I am fine with the anonymous muckraking, though. The comments about my email are really funny.

1: At least I can say I’m living up to my education. The first thing they teach you at Medill: “Muckraking is the most honorable form of journalism there is. The only way to make it even more honorable is to use anonymous sources.”

Just kidding. The first thing they teach you at Medill is spelling.

2: Yeah, the wording of that message I sent you was just terrible. No doubt about it. Sorry for using simmer — I don't even think of it as a cooking metaphor, just a way of saying let's put this on hold. Like I would tell one of my guy friends who was bitching about something: "Yo! Simmer down now!"

2: Of course you don’t realize you’re using cooking metaphors. What fun would it be for us girls who are fed (heh) said metaphors on a pretty consistent basis if we couldn’t search for the pattern and giggle when it actually holds up. I have a pretty sizable accumulation of “I don’t know how to tell you I don’t want to date you, so I’m just going to use a cooking metaphor” cooking metaphors, and it’s always kind of fun and exciting to add a new gem to the collection.

Also? “Yo?”

3: No I don't think I am hung like a horse. Or maybe I do think that. Totally irrelevant to the email, and I agree the horse metaphor was pretty lame (ha) in hindsight.

3: Pity. Or… maybe not a pity? I can’t tell. All I know is this: Confidence is key, my little champion steed.

4: It's spelled "Skittish"? Really? I am such a terrible speller. Thank God I live in a world where most forms of writing involve a spell check.

4: Terrible speller, eh? You should have told me that up front; could’ve saved us both a lot of trouble. We never would’ve made it, even if we had gone on a date. (See above re: Medill.)

5: Now let's get to the serious issues. Erin and I met on an online dating site. I thought her picture was breath-taking, so i messaged her.

OK, I know this is mid-point, but A: Thanks for outing me on the dating site business. That’s right kids, even in cyberspace I can’t find a guy who isn’t threepointfive seconds away from reuniting with a long-lost love, or who hasn’t already met the “love of his life”, or who doesn’t own a Confederate flag belt buckle. And B: Does anyone remember that episode of Seinfeld where the Hamptons doctor calls Elaine “breathtaking,” but then proceeds to apply the term to a supposedly hideous baby? Just saying…

A few months before I messaged Erin, I had been broken-up with my x-girlfriend over a couple specific issues. Erin knew I had an x-girlfriend, and I tried to be very upfront about the fact I had gotten out of a serious relationship not long before. My X let me know that she was willing to work out those issues, and I knew I would not be able to give a new relationship my all while I was still wondering about the old one, who I really love.

Erin and I exchanged some wonderful emails and some wonderful IMs. But we never met or talked on the phone. So it's not like either of us really knew what we were missing — we might not have even been attracted to each other. So, to that extent, I think I am less of a jerk, and certainly I did not try to use Erin for some booty or anything. Anyway, Erin's emails and IMs, like her blog posts, were insightful, witty, personable, and just generally a pleasure to read. I thought it would not be too hard to be friends, because we had never been on a date, and we could have gotten off to the right start.

5: Alright. Now we’re getting somewhere. This Pre-Dating Breakup In The Name of Fate thing is my absolute most favorite ploy of all time, and as soon as I get a chance, I am going to use it on some poor unsuspecting guy and it is going to be awesome. He is going to ask me out. I will accept. There will be dinner, drinks, maybe even a movie, none of which I will pay for. At the end of the night, I’m going to say: “I had a great time, but since there’s a pretty good chance we’ll both end up wasting our time on a dead-end relationship, let’s just break up right now. What? We’re not actually dating yet? Well, all the better, sir, because I don’t want to deal with any of that broken heart bullshit later on down the line. So this is it. We’re FINISHED!”

As far as “I’m in love with someone else, but whatta ya say to being friends? Eh? Eh?”: As I said before, it’s a nice idea.
But I’ve agreed to a few of these “friends” deals before and have been sorely shortchanged. So… it’s back to the preemptive strike against time-wasting and hurt feelings for this Just Friends girl.

Oh, hey, but thanks for all that “insightful, witty, personable” yada yada yada… (FYI: In actuality, I’m probably only those things online, and even then only sometimes. At least you can say you caught me on a good day.)

6: If my letter was cheesy, and consequently Erin does think I am a cheese-dick for how lame that "I can't go out on a date right now" email was, then all the better right? I mean, at least this way she won't think I am some great guy she is missing out on.

Ok, if anyone is still reading this thread, I'd be happy to hear how bad I suck, as long as you'll give me the opportunity to defend myself!

— In anonymity, Mr. Ed

6: There you have it folks. Have at ‘im.

But just remember: in my mind it’s all fodder for the book (or extraordinarily long post, as it were). And really, I was simply trying to make the point, the last time I dragged this actually-pretty-decent-seeming young man over the virtual coals, that it’s me who has the issues. The timing issues, the Just Friends Syndrome, that special little twinkle that attracts great guys who have great reasons for not being able to date me.

In the end, it’s not about the poor schmucks who find themselves players in this weird game that I made up, but don’t know the rules or object of. In the end, it’s all about me.

* Might I recommend a gift certificate to this fine establishment to anyone looking for the perfect Christmas gift to give me? I seem to spend a lot of time there and at its more cost-friendly counterpart, Yesterday I Wanted To Break Up With Her, But Today She’s The Love Of My Life Warehouse.

Fish Out of Water

2005-12-08T22:23:00.000-08:00

I know you're all waiting for the big rebuttal, but I've been lacking in motivation lately, and a lot has happened since Friday, when I was all worked up about that post.

On the agenda, once I finally get over this little bout of "write a New York Times bestseller or don't write anything at all!":

• The made-for-TV Christmas movie so bad it actually made Robyn vomit. (Such a disappointment, Greg!)

• Robyn's and my Good Old Fashioned Family Christmas, which was nearly the perfect urban twentysomething reinactment of Christmas Vacation.

• My thwarted attempt at becoming a knife-wielding murderess.

• The company Christmas party that did not result in me drunkenly dancing on a bartop somewhere (woo!), but most definitely did result in a bruised uterus and me doubting my future child-bearing capabilities.

• My tribute to The Joey, the greatest cat ever to swat my face with his cute little claws.

• The magic, the excitement, the all-day strategic extravaganza that is... GIFT WRAP WONDERLAND!!!

• The actualization of what I've come to realize is my greatest fear: domestic pet-type fish forced out of their habitats. I had a very alarming and realistic dream about it, then saw not one but two commercials where fish tanks were either destroyed or drained with the fish still in them! Oh, the humanity! I don't know what it means to be so disturbed by goldfish-murder, but I'm sure someone out there has some sort of Freudian dream analysis website to link to. Anyone...? Fish out of water...?

So that's that. You'll still get your post-response-refutation, but right now I'm not too keen to play the chick-lit heroine. Maybe after another Saturday night of trudging through shin-deep slush in my snow boots...

Just FYI

2005-12-05T09:00:00.000-08:00

Because I put so much stock in these kinds of things, my horoscope from this morning's RedEye:

For the past few weeks you've despaired of a romantic future. "I'm destined to become the crazy old cat lady with 50 felines and no boyfriend." Mecury is entering your sign, changing your luck. Remember how fabulous you are, and others will too."

So there. I'm fabulous. Remember?

Also: Remember this guy? He's finally graced us all with his presence and replied — in a very thorough, six-point self-defense outline, I might add. He's also suggested that I respond to his response, since, apparently, I'm at my best when expounding on the indicative patterns that have led to my belief that, as we speak, I am becoming "the crazy old cat lady."

Never one to turn down reader requests, I'm currently working on my own thorough six-point self-defense-defense thingy, and will post as soon as it's ready. 'Til then, read up and review. You'll be tested.

Product Placement

2005-12-02T16:04:00.000-08:00

Have you seen that commercial for Starbucks bottled Frappucino where the girl is walking through her office and stuff sticks to her? Like, someone yells out, "I need that presentation done!" and then a laptop comes flying out of nowhere and sticks to her arm. And someone else yells out, "Your dog bit the neighbor again," and then a growling dog slides across the parquet and sticks to her ankle. And someone else walks by with a mail cart and tosses an assortment of letters and packages at her, and that assortment sticks to her ass. And someone else else yells out, "Frank's freakin' out about something," and then we see our heroine with an actual dude stuck to her back, saying "This color coding system: it has color, but no code."

I hate that commercial.

First: This gal must be pretty low on the relative corporate ladder — she's devising color coding systems, and sucking at it, too, apparently. Does she really have a secretary to take "your dog bit your neighbor again" calls? And does anyone really call their neighbor's office — their neighbor's secretary — when they get bit by their neigbor's dog? Get a job! And quit hanging around your employed neighbor's dog during the workday. It already bit you once, dumbass!

Second: What the hell's up with the way "Frank" is posed? I mean, I know he's stuck to some chick's back (some chick who can only color, and not code... maybe he should think about finding new help) but does he really have to look like that? He's all squnched up like he was sitting in a chair until cruel cruel fate ripped him out of it and sent him sailing through the office, only to adhere magnetically to the spine of a subpar employee. Frank: you're stuck there, so relax. The commercial's only thirty seconds long, and Gal's about to get her Frap and then you'll be free, so put your legs down!

Third: I'm always super disappointed when Gal opens the fridge and there's only overpriced flavored coffee beverages in there. I'm expecting a nice frosty bottle of booze, or something tropicolored with an umbrella, or maybe even one of those clever commercial-portals to the beach (cue Seagulls and Waves Crashing). And it's not like I see the commercial and recognize it as a Starbucks commercial. No, every time I see it, I think, "wow there's gonna be something killer in that fridge!" And there never is.*

I don't even know if this commercial is on anymore. I was just thinking about it because I'm having one of those "Frank's freakin' out about something" days, where no matter how much warning I have, or how much caffeine I have to look forward to, I just can't seem to catch a break.

I'll have to fire that secretary of mine for not taking the total brunt of a crappy Friday in my stead.

* It's just like how I wake up once every few weeks thinking "Hey! Maybe Melrose Place finally came out on DVD, and I just didn't know about it!" and then I check, and then it's still not out on DVD. Highly disappointing.

The List of Things to Not Be

2005-11-29T08:30:00.000-08:00

Today I turn 24, which is ninety-six percent of the way to 25, which is eighty-three-point-three-repeating percent of the way to 30, which is my official "Have Things Accomplished" age. Yikes.

Now, I know most people (including myself, to this point) have their lists of things to do, things to be, things to have some relative degree of success in by age whatever. But the more I think about it, the more unrealistic it seems to keep this ongoing Christmas list of what we want. It's too easy, as we grow up and as our goals change, to negate certain items, to brush them off with a simple "I was too young to know that was impossible," and also to add other items as they came to mind ("Well, if I'm asking for a house with a white picket fence by the time I'm 34, I might as well throw in a three carat engagement ring!")

So: Starting this year, I'm working in reverse.

I'm looking at what already is and deciding whether or not I want to work in a different direction. I am creating The List of Things Not To Be.

For example: I don't want to be stuck in an apartment forever, so I'm adding "Renter" to The List of Things Not To Be by the time I'm 30. I can add anything to the list: titles, adjectives, phrases. I can add items to The List at any time, and can give each item its own timeframe by which I should Not Be. And the best part: instead of mentally crossing things off the list as they become impractical (as I would have to do with a List of Things to Be) I can add a mental check mark next to the things I no longer am. See? Positive, not negative! This is the first step in checkmarking "Negative" on my List of Things Not To Be by the time I'm 25.

* * * * * * * * * *

As far birthdays go, my past two have been monumentally awful. Last year, I was at the peak of my annual change-of-seasons cold, brought on, I think, by my trip to Atlanta, where I had to endure the guilt-of-singleness implied by a full-blown Catholic wedding.

The year before that, I was forced to attend the wake of a cousin's cousin's cousin or somesuch distant relative I'd never met. As testament to how white trash I really can be: I was actually OK with attending a wake on my birthday, because I was told it would be at the KFC. Now, how I thought honoring our dearly departed had anything to do with fried chicken, I don't know; probably I misheard on purpose in some sort of psychological attempt to get right with the birth/death dichotomy unfolding before my very eyes. Or whatever. Turns out they were saying K of C, which, while it certainly does not serve fried chicken, absolutely does serve as the worst place in history to celebrate a birthday.

So, yeah, at this point I'm two for two in terms of shitty birthdays. Today's is going awesomely in comparison, but it's only 8:30. I'll hope for the best, though, because "Pessimist" is definitely at the top of The List of Things Not to Be.

'L Diablo

2005-11-22T21:40:00.000-08:00

Dear Chicago Transit Authority,

I know you've had a lot to think about lately, what with all the hubbub over proposed fare hikes and the concerns about your decidedly shoddy security. But I have another request to make as you eke out final details for 2006.

Please consider making the last car on each morning-rush-hour train a "Firey Cheetos Free" car.

I don't know who started the Firey Cheetos For Breakfast movement, and, frankly, I don't care. All I care about is: not seeing your patrons inhaling packetfuls of stopsign red snackfoods at 8:00 in the morning; not smelling that slightly acidic, burning-the-intestines-even-secondhand aroma before I've officially woken up; not nearly slipping on those silvery-lined biohazard bags that lurk under seat after seat.

I'm not sure if you know how I feel about public displays of fingerlicking: they make me feel all shuddery and angry and kind of like I need to scrape my tongue with my own fingernails to banish the sensation. And that's not even taking into account post-Firey Cheeto fingerlicking. I never imagined that a form of fingerlicking more heinous than that experienced after a Medieval Times fowl-dissection-by-hand could exist. But it can, and it does.*

At least bones are organic, unlike that fluorescent red powder that coats each knotty stick of deepfried... what the hell is the base of a Cheeto? Corn? Potato? Air? Oh, god, I don't even know. I do know that we should all be suspicious of cheese that appears in such a state and color so very contrary to the laws and occurrances of nature, and that we should actively discourage the ingestion of said cheese (and its equally-as-unhealthy carrier), especially in confined public transportation scenarios, and especially before noon.

So take a stand, CTA. Devise an elaborate marketing campaign alerting your riders to the dangers of Firey Cheetos, and take a no-nonsense approach to disciplining violators of the last-car-as-safe-zone rule. I would be happy to design some cute posters for the cause; I know just the right color of red to use to really drive the point home.

* There's more saliva and smacking, I've noticed, involved with post-Fiery Cheeto fingerlicking. This is presumably on account of having to orally dispose of every last fire-red cheese-particle, lest the acid from left behind cheese-particles should cause festering blisters on the fingertips.

There's a special place in Azkaban for people like me.

2005-11-21T14:30:00.000-08:00

I won't go on and on about how great Harry Potter was — I'm sure there's plenty of that brand of geekery going on elsewhere. I will say this: Viktor Krum was OK, but I decided on second viewing that I'll always adore Harry the most.

There was a moment — just one — when Harry was pinned up against a tombstone, sort of breathlessly panting for his 14-year-old life, where Robyn and I looked at each other in the darkened theater and just kind of shook our heads. We are bad, bad, dirty girls. This much is true.

Forecast

2005-11-15T20:34:00.000-08:00

The deal being made of Chicago's impending cold is big. Epically so. But I'm not concerned. I'll feel more at home in a city sharp and frosty and frigid, as I am those things, too.

As in Chicago Winters past, I will: Dress too light for too long. Catch my death of cold. Defy the Laws of Science, the History of Medicine. Recover miraculously. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. (That whole to-do about going outside with wet hair is an old wives' tale, you know, and I refuse to put stock in anything remotely wife-related.)

I will: Find solace in the steelyblue skyline. Take photographs that, for once, don't evoke Monet or Manet or whoever it was who used all that dreadful splotchy pink. Appreciate the natural duotoning of mirrored windows, metal rooftops, limestone, brick, glass.

I will: Start a fashion movement — mid-calf saltring chic. Have better hair days ("windtousled" will agree with me). Discover a way to discreetly wiggle out of underlayers in too-artificially-hot public venues.

I will: Continue my affair with public transportation without complaint. Chuckle through pursed-chapped lips at the overwrapped, down-padded masses elbowing for space beneath humming two-by-two lamps.

I will recall learning about heat, about wattage and kilocalories, about the pressure dynamics that cause radiators to hiss. I will not remember what it was I learned, exactly, only that, at some point, I knew something, something of heat.

Spinning...

2005-11-14T22:00:00.000-08:00

Today I had to break down and open up a can of Whoop Ass at work.

No, seriously.

We get all kinds of weird organic-y products at work, and Jones Soda Co. sent us a crate of their new energy drink, Whoop Ass. It comes in totally cute Japanamation-y cans and lists as its main ingredients Taurine, which I guess is like a mild liquid speed, and, to counteract that, Royal Jelly, which, from my internet research, I have determined to be some sort of good-for-you bee secretion. Yeah, I don't know.

What I do know is this: they sure got the "Ass" part right. Bleck! It tasted like crushed-up asprin with a sting-y, tart-y afterbite. We — the brave few who tried it (b/c of the desperate need for a pick-me-up) — agreed that it would be many many times better with vodka, and we tried to psych ourselves into believing there was some in there.

I'm not too convinced that our attempts at psychosomatic intoxication were fruitful, though, because even on nights when I haven't thrown a few back, I'm usually old-ladying it up and in bed at 10 p.m. But right now I feel positively chipper. A little wound up, but chipper.

And I just noticed I'm typing extraordinarily fast. I just wrote this whole post in about sixpointfive seconds. For real.

OUTBREAK: Nerd Flu

2005-11-13T21:37:00.000-08:00

I've been given quite a few nicknames since starting my new job: Rookie, Medill, just plain Quinn (a nickname which got about twelve thousand percent cooler last Monday when the new character on Prison Break, Quinn, broke a dude's fingers within the first two minutes of his introduction.)

Most of my nicknames, though, have to do with what a huge dork I've already proven to be. And I'll be the first to admit it: the comment "anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of syntax could have written something better than this" probably wasn't the coolest utterance in the world. Hell, that wouldn't even have been the coolest utterance at a comic book convention. But come on! It was true!

My favorite nickname so far, though, is Goblet of Nerds. And OK, OK, maybe making such a big deal out of the trailer for the new Harry Potter movie wasn't the best way to establish myself as a suave young cosmopolitan. And maybe pre-ordering my opening-night, first-showing tickets a month in advance, and then going on and on about how excited I am (and, OK, downloading a Countdown to Harry widget) didn't earn me any urban hipster points. But we're talking about first showing at the IMAX here people!

And really? Did you watch the trailer? Let's talk about three times the (oops-still not legal!) hotness. And, of course, the kickass special effects, and the character developments we haven't gotten much of in the past three movies, and the Russian guy... aw shucks, I really am geeking out.

I have to say, though: I feel a little vindicated that my two most merciless coworkers watched the trailer with me, then asked to watch it again and admitted that it looked totally killer. And we've been watching the first three movies almost every day in preparation for the big day (Thursday at midnight, but don't think about getting tickets. They're sold out.)

And now that they're getting used to my geekiness, they don't seem to laugh at me too much when I say, "ooh, but in the book..." or when I find myself accidentally talking aloud in sync with the movies in a little British accent. And they do laugh—but not in a mean way—when I get flustered and absentmindedly fiddle with the twig they brought back from a lunch outing for me. So far "Deadlinicus Disappearacus" and "Wingardium Levioh-please-do-my-work-for-me" haven't had much effect, but I'm not giving up yet...

"We were just a near miss..."

2005-11-06T21:45:00.000-08:00

I got this e-mail from a guy I was supposed to go out with Wednesday night and who, in total keeping with the pattern, ceased all communication until this morning:

"Hey you. I am so sorry I am such a worthless correspondent. Basically, I am having serious maybe-get-back-together-with-my-ex-girlfriend issues, which sort of makes me skiddish, like a champion horse. :) Anyway, let's let things simmer for a week — I'll be able to tell you a lot more then. Whether or not we ever go on a "date" I'd really like to be friends — you are too smart and funny to ignore."

Well, this is just perfect.

Really, I should have seen this coming. I mean, the last guy I went on a date with had to postpone because the band Slipknot was going to be crashing at his apartment. Scary fellows, those, and the guy didn't turn out to be much better. Bonus points for creative get-out-of-date-free excuse, though. I guess "oops I got back together with my ex the same day we were supposed to go out" is just as good, though.

But let's dissect this, shall we?

We'll start with "skiddish like a champion horse."

In my reply e-mail, I told him exactly how well I get along with horses. I have one horse story. It involves a six-year-old me holding on for dear life and screaming my little blonde head off while a supposedly tame petting zoo horse drags me through the forest and into somebody's backyard. Pine needles, an angry woman shaking a broom, and the horse munching underwear off an outside laundry line also figure prominently in the story. Needless to say: me and horses? Yeah, not so much.

OK, on to "let's let things simmer."

Who (who!) is feeding guys all these cooking metaphors? They're "simmering," they're "marinating," they're, I don't know, "whipping until peaks form." What the hell's next? "Let's bring this relationship to a slow rolling boil before we turn the heat off completely"? (Hey, wait a second, that might be a step up.) How about you save the cooking stuff for someone who can make more than toast, or at least incorporate some "sizzling" or "melting" or (as is the case with most of my personal cooking experiences) "buring." The good kind, not the gross kind.

Finally, let's address "I'd really like to be friends."

I'll extend the horse metaphor for this one. When it comes to "just being friends" with guys who have girlfriends, my track record is less-than-spectacular.

And I know, I know, "let's be friends" is the widely accepted "right" thing to say. But do you think it's fair, really, to take up my time being friends when there are so many other guys who haven't gotten their chance to test-drive their can't-date-you excuses on me? Step aside and let the line move forward! (I'm actually interested to see who can top Slipknot. "My friend has tuberculosis and I have to visit him in the hospital" might have run a close second, but it was from the same guy.)

You know, sometimes it takes a conscious effort not to call my mom and say, "Mom, I know you're counting on me, your only child, to extend the family, but, really, you should just get a Chuihuahua or something now, because my failure in the getting-married-and-producing-offspring department becomes more inevitable with each passing day."

Slice, Slice Baby

2005-11-01T22:30:00.000-08:00

I have to say, after getting a few initial omigod-they-expect-me-to-run-marathons jitters out of the way, my job pretty much kicks ass.

Maybe most importantly, I finally, for the first time ever, have an e-mail address that's just erin@. I know. Weirdo thing to get all worked up about. But seriously. I've always wanted an erin@ e-mail address. No impersonal last names, no even-more-impersonal initials, no (bleck!) numbers. Just simple, concise, elegant erin@. I love it.

Also, in our winter issue brainstorming meeting, when I jokingly suggested we get an ultrahot male model for our annual Gift Guide cover, not only did I get a hardy hell yeah from everyone, but the Zoolander references started flying almost immediately. Cut to tomorrow: I will meet and interview a "really really ridiculously good-looking" model (with a real headshot to boot!) to see if he's cover material. Then on Friday, the art department will spend the day in The Studio (sounds so offish, huh?) to direct an all-day shoot. I will be taking on the role of Jay Manuel from America's Next Top Model, which entails wearing lots and lots of orange makeup and directing the shoot like I've never even looked at a picture, let alone told someone how to take one. I will be bitchy and fabulous.

And finally, get this. Today I spent all day (between the Starbucks run and the long lunch) working on a photo illustration in the style of Hanoch Piven for a column about how stupid Americans get all psyched up by visiting websites like this one that convince you that your everyday activities burn tons and tons of calories, and imply that working out isn't really necessary if you do things like, say, shear sheep or vacuum expanses of carpet or blink on a daily basis.

The column talks about how one of the "healthy suggestions" on the official FDA food pyramid website involves making a face out of fruits and veggies and then eating it. Kind of morbid. Also kind of a brilliant art concept. So I spent the better part of the day (Pumpkin Spice latte at my side) slicing and dicing and artfully arranging oranges, bananas, red and green peppers, and kiwis.

The entire experience conjured fond memories of first grade arts and crafts day, except today I got to play with a big sharp knife (which I felt kind of guilty about stowing in my bag and carrying on the El) and was getting paid to play with my food.

What did you do at work today?

Hazy and Dolorous: the Anniversary Edition

2005-10-30T22:22:00.000-08:00

New look, here's why: "so hot right now" is about to be the last phrase that describes life in Chicago. Better to change now while the changing's good. Also, it's been a year to the day, and I'm getting really sick of looking at that orange star thing.

And speaking of anniversaries (see what I did there?)... there's all kinds of hubub about the 50th anniversary of Lolita. And by "all kinds," I pretty much just mean a party at a bar here in Chicago, and a stellar piece by Chris Norris in this month's issue of GQ. (I'd link to it, but you'd just get a teaser — oh, how apropos! — It's highly recommended reading, though, if you have access to GQ.)

The gist is this: "Those mythic forbidden nymphets — who have not just puerile hips but a dewy eagerness, a trusting vulnerability — are doomed in an era of cardio strip classes and flavored body glitter." Too true, Chris.

Norris's position skews toward the masculine (how's a guy supposed to devine true nymphetry when he's daily confronted with thirteen-year-old mallrats sporting "pornstar" t-shirts and visible thong lines and "bullseye!" back tattoos?) but that's only to be expected in a men's magazine. What's unfortunately overlooked in the piece is the feminine flip-side: how's a true nymphet supposed to garner any kind of appreciation (the genuine kind, as perpetrated by Nabokov's hero) when competing with those same mallrats? For all intents and purposes, nymphetry is looking like a lost art.

This is not good news for the girl who's never owned pants with writing across the butt and who, as recently as last night, chose fleece over fishnets when costume-coordinating. I'd like to think I still have a few tricks, a few nymphetish resources up my (full-length) sleeve*. But the success of these tricks relies on so much that can't be controlled: no one who hasn't read "the lyrical, anguished, prismatic prose of twentieth-century English literature's greatest work," for instance, could truly appreciate the execution of a well-timed Lolitaism.

Still, as long as we're seeing stuff like Norris's, stuff that asks "where are you hiding, Dolores Haze? What the hell happened?", there is hope...

* I'm quite partial to the coy "oops, how did we end up holding hands under the table?" routine. The "I don't know much, but I'm an excellent student" thing has also had a high rate of success, but it's not for beginners. (Hee! Isn't it funny that I let you think you seduced me? That's probably the best trick I have. And in retrospect, really, wouldn't you have to agree?)

You're so not money, and you don't even know it.

2005-10-28T15:38:00.000-07:00

In an affront to journalists and other punctuation nerds everywhere, the U.S. mint has issued this nickel.

That's right. Three exclamation points. Three!!!

Just click your heels three times...

2005-10-23T17:52:00.000-07:00

Between the ages of five and eight, I was Dorothy for Halloween (and quite a few days in between Halloweens*) every year. My grandmother had made my costume, so it was perfect to a T: blue gingham jumper over a white button-down shirt, white ankle socks, plaited hair (blonde, but that was no matter to me); I even had a stuffed Scottie dog that I carried around in a basket.

The only thing we could never get right was the ruby slippers. I've always had abnormally tiny feet, and I don't think I started wearing "grown up" sizes until I was in sixth or seventh grade. This anatomical deficeit posed quite the costuming difficulty: apparently back in the '80s, the powers that be didn't find it fitting to make red shoes in little girl sizes. (Now, of course, there are red shoes — red glittery shoes — in little girl sizes, and you see them all over the place. My little cousin got them for Christmas when she was two and I was 14. Oh boy, was I jealous.)

We — my mom and I — tried all the ruby slipper options we could think of. They made red jellies in my size, but jellies just aren't practical for hoofing it around the neighborhood at the end of October (besides, the real Dorothy's shoes didn't have holes in them. Unacceptable!) We found a couple of pairs of red leather pumps, but they were too big for me (they fit Bizzy, my other cousin, who's the same age as me, perfectly, and she was Dorothy all those years, too. Again: jealous.)

I had quite specific criteria for the ruby slippers, which were, after all, the ultimate accessory for the Dorothy costume. They had to have a heel (because when else was I going to be allowed to wear heels at age 5?) and I would settle for them not having a bow so long as they were sparkly like the real things.

After a few years of costume frustration, my mom, at her wit's end, I'm sure, came up with The Corduroy Solution. The Corduroy Solution involved a pair of navy blue platform Mary-Jane style corduroy shoes in my size, caked with a thick coat of Elmer's school glue, and shaken vigorously in a brown paper bag filled with red glitter. Here's what we didn't plan for: Elmer's school glue + glitter = sparkly clumps; and then: corduroy + sparkly clumps = stripes of glittery blobs with rivets of sticky inky blue in between. Not. Cool.

I wore them anyway, of course, and thought they were awesome because they were the closest thing I'd ever seen to legit ruby slippers that actually fit me.

When we went to see the real deal ruby slippers in the Smithsonian a few years after my Dorothy phase, we realized what should have gone down: sequins fastened to corduroy shoes with E6000, the greatest adhesive substance maybe ever. But by that time, it was too late: my feet had just tipped over the cusp into grown-up sizes, I had outgrown my Dorothy pinafore, and wanted to be "something scary" for Halloween.

This year, Robyn showed me this Dorothy costume. Now that's scary.

* Also, before the days of all the new-fangled DVD/laptop/iPod technology, I had the entire Wizard of Oz movie home-recorded onto two cassette tapes. I was obsessed. I used to listen to them before bed, in the car on the way to school, and apparently at lunch. The worst day of my six-year-old life was when I dropped tape 2 into my vegetable soup, never to hear it again.

** And on a completely unrelated other than the strangely evocative ties to my childhood note: It's corn and corn alone day!

Hey baby, wanna get Chipotle'd?

2005-10-17T15:10:00.000-07:00

As age-old questions go, "What happens to those crazy Real World kids once their 15 episodes of fame are over?" is a classic.

The answer, apparently, is this: if they don't go on to do Gauntlet/ Inferno/ Guillotine/ Whatever the hell, and if they're Jamie from the New Orleans season, they go to Chipotle — my Chipotle — for a little Monday-afternoon burrito action. And they make themselves audience to the Total Erin Spazzfest, which is, I'm coming to realize, inevitable in the presence of the slightly-famous... or cute boys in general, as the case may be.

So, I'm heading into Chipotle for the first of the week's four-plus Veggie Bols (hold the beans), and, shit, shit, oh, holy shit! the door's locked! Chipotle's closed! I'm going to have to go another day (another day!) without it! I throw my whole body into the door-tugging. Hair flipping and pouting and huffing and stomps of frustration ensue in short order. Lunch Companion calmly swings open the other door (the one on the left, as if anyone goes for the one on the left first!) and Spazzfest screeches to an abrupt halt.

But not before I've caused a complete scene in the glass-walled atrium, you know, the one through which everyone (including brutally hot ex-Real Worlders) can totally see what's going on. Brilliant, Erin.

OK, smooth hair, take a deep breath, shoulders back like nothing happened. Good. Take comfort in the fact that Chipotle's not closed after all, and that you don't yet have business cards, should you be tempted to drop one (with cell number printed neatly on the back) amongst the tortilla chips of a certain MTV has-been.

Set To Solsbury Hill

2005-10-15T22:17:00.000-07:00

Maybe I've been in a deadline-induced haze for the past week, or maybe I'm just plain losing it, but I'm aware that the songs I've lately been listening to on constant repeat (like this one) have been really soundtracky. You know, the kind of songs you listen to on your iPod that make you feel like walking in slow motion, that make you feel like you're in a movie and everyone else around you is just an extra or an audience member.

And if the last week of my life was a movie, the kind that ends with a white-hazy, slightly-slowed montage of all the pivotal moments, the tangible emotional ups-and-downs, the scenes included would be the ones in which I...

...made my weary, overworked way toward the last remaining seat on the El, then stopped dead in my tracks and did a very obvious about-face because the guy next to whom I'd be sitting was petting his snake. I wish this was a euphemism. It's not. It was an actual snake (garden, probably harmless) — no cage, no box, just wrapped around his wrist, poised to slither away (and, inevitably into the next seat) at any moment. I opted to stand instead, and kept raising my eyebrows at my fellow passengers. None of them seemed to get it.

... consumed cheese pizza smothered in Lousiana hot sauce for five meals in a row.

... got drunk with my new coworkers for the first time, in that all-too-vulnerable "we've been cramped up in this room with each other for nearly sixty straight hours, let's get plastered" scenario that rarely leads to admissions you don't regret the next Stella-cloudy morning.

... got over it, and subsequently felt thrown right back under it... Woke up one morning with violently passionate convictions about it, and the next morning with an absolute indifference to it... Embraced the feelings of "something's missing" as good for the art, then, shortly thereafter snapped out of it ("nothing's missing!") and worried about the art suffering... Listened to this and thought "Fuck yeah!" and then "Really?" And "Uncle Joey?"... Listened to
this and thought "That's more like it" ... Vacillated, wavered, ran hot-and-cold, got over it again... Stayed over it. Resolutely.

... met a boy who had this* to say about Virgina Woolf (who I categorically detest, but may have to explore again outside the realm of academia) and who had a hand in this... Felt a bit coquettish for the first time in a long time... Giggled a little.

... baked a cake and received two marriage proposals (both accepted) because of it.

... caught myself belting out a few bars of this out loud on the train (lucky for me — and the rest of Chicago's public-transportation patrons — it was late, a weekday, and relatively uncrowded on the Red Line).

... Wrote the most random, linkcrazy, abruptly ending blog post.......

* "The Waves and Between the Acts, especially, do very special things to me, as do her belletristic nonfiction portraits. And even though the sexual politics of Mrs. Dalloway are basically odious and smug and retrograde, there's still a wrenching perceptiveness and prettiness and maybe even honesty to the whole thing that makes my distaste both that much more intense and entirely beside the point. She's one of maybe 7 or 8 writers this century that make me so jealous when I read her prose I'd be slitting my wrists if my knife were sharp enough."

Immaculate Misconception

2005-10-09T19:55:00.000-07:00

On Friday I got a letter from Planned Parenthood. And it wasn't just a letter; I am now a bona fide, card-carrying "Friend of Planned Parenthood." No questions asked, no money down, no commitment required (hey! Just like my real friends!)

The obvious question is: how did Planned Parenthood choose me to be a friend? The letter wasn't addressed to "Erin With a Capital V," as it probably should have been, so either they think I'm a different Erin altogether or (I'm inclined to go with this option) they're just so in awe of my arsenal of creative birth control methods that I qualify as a "friend" because they know they have a thing or two to learn from me.

Well, round up all your other gal pals, PP, because I think I've found the ultimate answer to the world's population control problems. Ready for it? Cat Socks. That's right. I folded not one, not two, but three pairs of socks with cats on them Saturday when I was doing my laundry,* and I'm pretty sure everyone at the laundromat (including the cute boy who works there, the one who sees a lot of rifraff, so who must find me attractive at least on a base level) saw me doin' it.

And who's to say how many guys I've warded off by actually wearing said Cat Socks (I mean, I had three pairs — three pairs!!! — in just one load of laundry. How many pairs are actually residing in my sock drawer?)

So this is why Planned Parenthood is so keen to be pals with me! I'm a family planning genius! There's no way anyone who owns this many pairs of Cat Socks could ever run the risk of unplanned pregnancy. Or planned pregnancy. Whatever.

Included with my "Friends of Planned Parenthood" card (which now lays claim to the coveted space between my Blockbuster card and the Barnes and Noble gift card with 53 cents left on it) was a letter to my state representative, urging her to support pro-choice and family-planning programs. The letter ends on this note: "Furthermore, with half of all pregnancies in this country being unintended**, I believe we should be doing much more to support access to affordable, effective family planning." I added on in pen: "Which is why I think one pair of Cat Socks should be included, gratis, in care packages sent to all unwed women. I know I personally could go for another pair. Pink, if you please."

* The phrase "Saturday when I was doing my laundry" may also be submitted into evidence as to why I am such a highly sought-after family planning guru.

** Terrible passive grammar here, PP. (Add "grammar geek" to the above-mentioned evidence list as well.)

Hoo-Hoo Hoo-HOOW!

2005-10-02T20:00:00.000-07:00

Today I cleaned the apartment CSI-style. And by that I mean I got into all the little nooks and crannies and swept up all of Robyn's and my DNA-laden hairballs. I also mean that I used lots and lots of bleach.

Although — will those crazy criminals ever learn? — using a gallon of bleach wouldn't have helped me out if I'd actually committed a crime (really, the crime here is how disgusting our apartment's gotten). But seriously. Everybody knows all those crafty CSI guys have to do is spritz some of that spray-bottle stuff, whip out their nifty blue lights, and, voila!, case solved. So really using bleach for crime-related cleaning purposes just ensures that the Las Vegas crime lab will hunt you down with just a twinge less alacrity.

See? I'm learning by watching TV. I've learned how to be a more effective criminal (should all moral integrity — and my insane queasiness around blood — one day evaporate, that is). I've also learned that I would make a terrible crime scene investigator. Not because of aforementioned queasiness (although that probably would hold me back a little, huh?), but because of the hairball thing.

On CSI the team always finds one hair. One. Hair. And it always leads them to the suspect. Every time. Here's how things would go down if I was a CSI:

CSI: I found a hair! We've totally got him!
Erin: Nope. Nooo. That one's mine. Sorry.
CSI: That's OK, we've got another one right here.
Erin: Uh, yeeeah. Also mine.
CSI: This huge wad of hair in the corner?
Erin (sheepishly): Heh. Would you believe me if I said it wasn't mine?
CSI: I'm gonna need you to go ahead and wear this hairnet.

And then I'd be the CSI with a hairnet. Not cool. Especially in light of the fact that the third thing I've learned from CSI is that looking fierce on the job isn't just acceptable, it's encouraged... maybe even necessary.

Clarity

2005-09-28T22:03:00.000-07:00

I've become far too intertwined with television, I've decided.

Today, for instance, I stood on the platform, springy (actually malleable?) from four hours' steady cats-and-dogs, and watched. Watched as the guy next to me — of indeterminate age and origin, practicing his golf swing with an invisible knot of titanium alloy etc..., humming, then singing, the bridge of what sounded like a Spanish lament — was silently attacked. The spider that rappelled from the damp rafters eventually nestled up beneath the collar of The S(w)inger's pique polo. When he (meaning the man, and also his new traveling companion) boarded the train, I walked the extra three yards to avoid sharing a car.

The logical — the neighborly — thing to do would have been to alert The S(w)inger to the presence of the descender-slash-nestler. But I just looked on like I was just watching another episode of Primetime Favorite or Tops in its Timeslot or Critically Panned (But a Cult Favorite!) or whatever the hell drivel I imbibe between the hours of 7 and 10.

The only thing missing was the just-loud-and-long-enough-to-be-eerily-uncomfortable canned laughter.

[Although, had I been brave enough to board the same car and witness the denoument of The S(w)inger episode, and wacky man-vs.-beast antics had ensued, I'm sure I would have issued a chuckle or two.]

It was Colonel McMustard in that one place with the thing. Do I win?

2005-09-25T16:08:00.000-07:00

I've had to explain on multiple occasions this week that I have no competitive drive to speak of, a deficiency, I think, resulting from my being an only child. I didn't grow up playing games — card games, board games, outdoor picnicky games — because, as only children the world over have piteously discovered, there are only so many games one can play alone.

Sure, there's Solitaire, but... really? My grandmother plays Solitaire. Cross that one off the cool list. No, when I was little and looking to while away the hours, I favored the modification of multiple-player games over ones that were specifically designed for one person. This naturally ruled out games that didn't involve a certain amount of chance.

For instance, I always wanted to own Guess Who, that game where you and your opponent each have a character card, and you ask questions ("Does your guy wear glasses?" "Is your guy a chick?" etc...) to narrow down the suspects and be the first to guess the other player's character. There was no way that was working with one person. Same with Battleship. But games like Trouble and Sorry— basically anything with dice or spinners or random card-drawing — worked fine.

I have to think my parents were kind of taunting me with some of the games they bought me. OK, I practically begged for Clue: Master Detective,* but they had to know when they got it for me that I couldn't play it with two dummy hands. It wasn't just that that was patently not fun; it just didn't work. Period.

I'll take that one as a parenting oversight. But buying me a Ouija board? Now that's just plain cruel. ("You're moving it!" "You know I'm not, because you're me. Quit talking to yourself and conjure some spirits, bi-otch!")

I also had Monopoly (not impossible to play alone, but not fun), Mall Madness,** and this kickass game called Heartthrob that I could never play alone because it required you to guess which of three hunks your opponents would choose to "dance with," "date," and "go steady with." (I always liked Ricky, the one with glasses, but I never got a chance to tell anyone.)

I never had Girl Talk, or Life, or Trivial Pursuit, or Twister (talk about the worst game to play alone ever!) and for that I feel kind of deprived. And that's not even mentioning the fact that I'm scarred for game-playing life now. I hate playing games because I'm not sure I know how to lose gracefully.

This brings up an odd phenomenon, though, one that I have other only-child testimony to back up: when you're playing a game, you against yourself, there's always one self you favor over the other to win. Like, you'll think, Today my favorite color is pink, and the closest gamepiece to pink is red, so I want my Red Self to beat my Blue Self in this game of Sorry. And then, if you're me at least, you'll manipulate the game to make your Red Self win. (Oh, that roll wasn't fair, Blue Self, you lose a turn. Sucka! ... Wait a tic...)

So, yeah. If you ask me to partake in a MarioKart tournament or a game of Euchre, or even TV Tag (which, by all accounts, I would be very good at) don't be surprised when I turn you down. Ask to watch me play Tetris, however... well, that's another story for another post. A post about addiction and hallucination...

* I remember wanting Clue: Master Detective specifically because Fran and Ally, my older, British, across-the-street neighbors had it and I thought it was the shit. I was always Miss Peach, who didn't exist in the original Clue, but who was prettier than all the other female characters and wore a big wide-brimmed straw hat. Also? I remember pronouncing "lead pipe" like "leed pipe" for the longest time.

** I always used to get so frustrated with Mall Madness because it took literally forever to set up, and then the game only lasted a few minutes. I could usually convince my dad to play with me; I'd spend all this time setting it up, and he'd beat me within the span of ten minutes. Every. Time. (Because "the object is to get in, get what you need, and get out of the mall.") Hey, I just wanted to browse a little, OK?

Check it.

2005-09-23T00:13:00.000-07:00

New city. New camera. New distraction (for me and for you).

"I know, right"

2005-09-18T18:45:00.000-07:00

I hate when people say that.

Where did "I know right" even come from? People say it everywhere, so it's not a regional thing, like pop vs. Coke*. It kind of cropped up everywhere at once, I think. Like, one idiot said "I know, right," and somebody heard them and thought, "wow! That's a great way to agree with someone with a handy, built-in, easy-out option if you later decide to disagree with them." Then, of course, it wound up in Mean Girls, and thus "I know,right" became a permanent part of the American lexicon. And now everyone says it, almost reflexively.

EXHIBIT A — Me: Now everyone says it. You: Ew! I know, right?

And what does it even mean? That you have an opinion, but you need my permission to validate it? Don't ask me if you know immediately after you tell me you know. Either you know or you don't know. The next time you say, "I know, right," expect me to say, "no, you're wrong. You obviously don't know, so don't waste my time trying to convince me you do." It's the worst catchphrase since "am I right or am I right?". Don't give me options, 'cause I'll take you up on them.

* It's Coke. It's all Coke.

... And She Was Always Down

2005-09-11T21:20:00.000-07:00

Today started off well enough. Because my move didn't end up costing me nearly as much as I'd originally thought, and because I started a sort of unemployment contingency fund that I'm not going to need, and because it's gorgeous in Chicago, and because Fernando has agreed to teach me the ways of the photographic world, I decided I was going to invest in a pimped out new camera.

I did all the research, read the reviews, analyzed the pros and cons, and picked a camera I liked. I even convinced myself that I needed to make such an expensive investment to build up my credit. So out I went, on yet another public transportation adventure. Turns out my phone had other plans for me.

I know I've written about Freakin' Sprint! before, so I'll spare the tirade. I'll just say that my phone started acting weird, then up and died, en route to the camera store without showing any I'm Sick signals prior to. I panicked, thinking I'd have to buy a new phone, track down everyone's numbers again, be incommunicado for days: basically I'd have to pick up the pieces of my broken life because of Freakin' Sprint! and yet another of its fuck-ups.

The only thing I could think to do was storm a Sprint store and tell those bastards what was what. Again. So I went to Comp USA, pretended to be interested in a computer, discovered that Comp USA has what is officially the slowest internet connection of all time, so I went to the Apple Store instead. I found out that the closest Sprint store was on La Salle, so it was back on the El, then walking, then walking some more, then... finding out FREAKIN' SPRINT was CLOSED ON SUNDAY! Because no one's shit breaks on Sundays, it's like a rule from the Bible or something. (Freakin' Sprint!)

And then that "I'm-Having-The-Worst-Week-of-My-Life" inner dialogue started. And I have had a pretty shitty week (although, I know, I know, it could be a lot worse.) I had to work on Saturday, I'm getting sick, probably because I haven't been sleeping, I haven't really clicked with my coworkers because I don't have anything to add to their ceaseless marathon-training conversations (which won't end until mid-October) and I've generally felt pretty sad and alone all week.

Last night, Robyn and I were out and she asked me, "Do you ever look around at these places and feel really depressed that you're back out there again?" I had to think for a minute. I told her, "Yeah, but take away the 'again.'" It's true. I haven't felt this undesirable in awhile, and being called into work on Saturday (when I've only been on the job for four days) really put a damper on my curling-up-in-bed-and-sorting-things-out-on-my-own ritual.

Oh yeah, and on the ride home today, a guy sat down next to me and proceeded to unwrap his brand new shiny digital camera and fiddle around with it, like, how the hell did he know I had initially set out to buy a camera before everything went terribly terribly wrong?

But, as usual, things started looking up when I got home and decided to actually do something about at least one of the things that was bothering me. I'd had enough with my phone, so I took a screwdriver to the back. That didn't do anything except scratch it, so I dropped it on the floor (I figured if I was going to have to buy a new one anyway...) The battery popped out and I put it back in and... good as new! See? Throwing things always works. I learned this as an only child. Then I went for a walk to the hardware store and bought some bolts to put together the table that's been sitting in pieces on our floor since we moved in. I won't go into how Freakin' Ikea! screwed us (literally) by giving us the wrong connector parts not once, not twice, but three times, but I will say that I've taken that thing apart and put it back together about a hundred times. I bought some new pieces I thought would work, took them home, jimmied them around a little, and hey! They actually fit!

Now we have a pink kitchen table! I was so motivated after my crafty streak that I cleaned off our back porch, something I've been meaning to do for a couple weeks.

So, see? Everything balances out. I can't say assembling cheap furniture made me feel 100% again, but it helped. Starting tomorrow, things can only get better. And also? Did I mention our pink kitchen table? (Pix to come when I get my new camera — fingers crossed for tomorrow!)

Ain't nothin' but a number

2005-09-08T22:04:00.000-07:00

I've only experienced movie theater meltdown two and a half times.

The first was during Babe: Pig in the City, which no animal lover — or even animal kind-of-liker — should ever subject themselves to. Ever. I'm talking animal creulty to the highest degree. I had to be dragged out of the theater crying. By my mother. At age 15. It was a sad, sad spectacle.*

The second was when I went to go see 13 Going On 30, and while I probably should have been crying because of the pathetic "redesign'** attempt that Jennifer Garner's character uses to win favor with her high-fashion-magazine coworkers, I think I was actually having a quarter-life crisis. I was right in the middle of my "oh-my-god-I-graduate-in-two-months-and-I-don't-have-a-job-yet-fuck-fuck-fuck" phase, and watching ol' Jen just wake up one morning with basically my dream job — and then take it for granted — is so not what I needed. Why couldn't I wake up as a magazine editor who's also magically in charge of the art department, huh? I had to pop a Xanax after that one. How many people can say that about a bubblegummy chick flick?***

The half time was a couple of weekends ago, when I went (alone, natch) to see The 40-Year-Old Virgin, a.k.a. the story of my life. It only counts as a half time because there were no tears involved (yes, there were tears involved with 13.) I decided after seeing it that I am never going to see a movie with an age in the title again. Ever.

It's like, who is Hollywood to give us an age limit by which certain things — if we want to be considered socially acceptable — should be achieved? Don't those seemingly innocent comedy writers know they're doing major damage here?

I mean, maybe some of us like going to the movies alone. And having hundreds of cats... er, comic book figurines. Maybe some of us (and here, of course, I'm only talking about That Guy From The American Version of The Office, Which Is Way Less Funny) don't need to be goin' outand gettin' laid and seein' movies with other people to feel like not-losers. Maybe some of us resent you implying that 40, or 30, or, I don't know, 23, is too old to not have gone out and had all kinds of meaningless sex in preparation for all that not-meaningless sex we're supposed to look forward to when we're married within your encouraged time frame. Ever think about that, Hollywood?****

So, yeah, boycotting movies with ages in the titles. Not getting my single-admission fare is really gonna stick it to the Hollywood Man.

* What really got to me for some reason was the goldfish that was tossed out of its bowl and left to writhe in breathless agony on the floor. Why this (and not, say, the bull dog almost drowning, or the beagle with broken back legs) is what stuck with me, I'll never know. Perhaps there's a traumatic goldfish incident in my past that I've supressed.

** FYI, for all you non Art Directors (ahem): Gluing themey pictures on a piece of poster board, upon which you've drawn whimsical little swirlies (!) and used hand-drawn block letters instead of a legitimate typeface (!!) does NOT constitute a redesign.

*** Also, I saw the movie when I was in the middle of The Hellacious AssPubs Interview Nightmare debacle, and every time I rode into the city to interview (or to be told, "we just forgot, can you come back next week?") I would see a huge, building-sized 13 Going On 30 poster. It was like the cities of Hollywood and Chicago had conspired to piss me off royally and point out that I was never, ever going to get a job. Ever.

**** An important footnote: The weekend I saw that movie was the weekend of the Chicago Air and Water Show, which I've never been around for in the past, but which I take to be an excuse for people to go out to the Lake, get heat stroke, have ice cream drip down to their elbows, see some planes and shit, and assist their too-young- or too-old-to-take-care-of-themselves relations in doing the same. And, I'm sorry, but I was walking out of the theater feeling all sorry for my loser self until I saw the throngs of people pushing strollers and struggling with diaper bags and water bottles and bug spray and toys and dog leashes and programs and sticky-faced kids and slushy Lemon Chill backwash and sunscreen and untied shoes. And then I was glad to be alone and I patted myself on the back for making it this far without even the remote possibility of getting knocked up and having offspring and then being forced to take that offspring to sweltering, crowded, panic-inducing outdoor activities.

[PS: Thanks, Tumbleweed, for making this post possible. If I got everything I wanted, I wouldn't have anything to write about.]

New gig, day one.

2005-09-06T20:49:00.000-07:00

New job seems good. Here's an excerpt:

"Hey, you must be the new Art Director. From Northwestern. I went there, too. Hey! I just remembered. There's a mini-marathon fun run tonight, and if I bring a freind, we both get free t-shirts! You up for it?"

Uh... I had to curb my initial response, which was, "Sheeeah! I can't even make it up to my third floor apartment without wanting to die!" And then I had to resist the urge to blurt out my secondary response, which was, "The only place you'll see me running is away from a marathon!" And... my third response ("Just because 'fun' and 'run' rhyme doesn't mean they were meant to be used in conjunction with one another") was also squelched.

I told her I was still unpacking and hadn't found my running shoes yet (my entire employment is going to be based on a lie, a LIE!!

In other news, I accidentally on purpose groped some guy reading Nabokov on the El on the way home. He was so asking for it, though.

It is so over between us!

2005-08-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

For the record, the CTA bus system and I were never meant to have a relationship. Issues with timing and breakdowns in communication abound, and I have, more often than not, gone to bed angry after our encounters.

That said, things were going relatively smoothly for us this afternoon. The Trip Planner did not [for once] lead me astray, and I had to walk exactly zero blocks [a first!] to get from bus to bus to final destination.

But that was on the way to Target.

On the way back [note: "the way back" can also be read as "the way where I'm carrying three heavy shopping bags"] I got off at the right transfer stop, but couldn't find a stop for my second bus. I was trapped in hectic, sweaty, most likely drunk, gamebound Wrigleyville foot traffic, which I was trying to walk against, and if I wasn't shouldering my way through a sticky throng in a police-controlled walkway, I was being heckled by a scalper.

Somewhere between finally finding my stop (five crosswalks, ten t-shirt stands, and about a thousand and two Cubs fans away), waiting for a no-show bus for thirty minutes, deciding to give in and walk back to the El station, and seeing -- and chasing -- my bus for a block to no avail, I got this gem from a guy in a jersey on a street corner:

"Tickets! Anyone need tickets? I've got groups, I've got pairs. Hey, Lady, you need tickets? I got one single left!"

A mystery wrapped in an enigma...

2005-08-24T18:30:00.000-07:00

... wrapped in those damn flowey culottes that everyone is wearing and no one looks good in and that I hate.

But fashion is not the point here. The point is this: Today I rode the Red Line with Nancy Drew.

I'm pretty sure it was her: she had the ginger hair, of course, the wide eyes, the nose perfectly upturned just as one would expect such an instrument for sniffing out clues would be. There was no sign of Bess, or of Ned Nickerson, That Boy Who Didn't Really Do Anything Except Serve As The Love Interest, but I'm still fairly certain my identification is correct.

She smiled at me and I smiled back and I wanted her to like me and ask me to be her friend and teenaged supersleuthing sidekick. I was giddy: one of my Childhood Heroes of Fiction, in the flesh!

She got off at Addison, to solve a mystery involving, I imagine, an all-knowing barkeep, a corked baseball bat, and an unfortunate yet telltale tattoo.

Daily Candy

2005-08-20T20:19:00.000-07:00

Today I was walking behind two 50-something ladies talking about how hilarious The Daily Show is, and how much they love that nice young host... Jon Daily.

Sheer Coincidence

2005-08-17T12:48:00.000-07:00

I am officially 55 percent settled in, and 55 percent is more than 50 percent (FYI, for those of you who don't deal with math as well as I do), so... I'm more than halfway done! I decided I'd celebrate with a more-than-halfway-done post on my brand new shiny desk, which, I'll have you know, I assembeled by myself. I even bought a cordless drill. (I know, I know, you're in awe of my adultlike, power-tool-purchasing independence. It's OK... but don't be fooled.)

Yesterday I bought -- and hauled up three flights of stairs, and built -- two dressers (77 lbs. each), a desk (30 lbs), a kitchen table (30 lbs), and two kitchen chairs (8 lbs each). My shoulders and forearms feel fabulous. Really. So do the screwdriver-induced calluses on my thumb and my palm. I feel like a carpenter, like Ty. Or Jesus. All gritty and sweaty and primal and getting-things-accomplished-with-my-bare-hands. It rocks.

I also spent an hour and a half on the phone with Comcast the other day, telling the local Home Networking Group, then the corporate Home Networking Group, then Billing, then Internet Billing, and finally "The Supervisor" that the technician who came to install our cable and internet sucked the big one and that I wanted my money back. And you know what? I got it. That's right. I got a hundred bucks back and I installed my own internet. I didn't know I had it in me to be so aggressive and not-pushovery. It's like magic! Oh yeah, and also? Don't mess with me, biotch! (Sorry, had to throw that in there... because I can.)

All these feelings of empowerment and general I've-So-Got-It-Together-ness just remind me that I really should be here now. I had a minor panic attack Saturday when I got into a cab to go home (home!!) and there was a video monitor in the back showing -- on continuous freaking loop -- a commercial for Sheer Dallas. I mean, really? Wasn't that show cancelled? It's not even on the air anymore, so why show promos for it in a cab in a state that's not Texas? Why?

I was beginning to think it was a sign, but by the fourteenth time they showed the zoom-out-to-Dallas-skyline shot, all I could think was... heh.

I'm sorry, Dallasites, I know you have a building that's (gasp!) outlined in green neon, and that (omigod!) Reunion Tower is, like, the only golf-ball-resembling building ever created. And I'm just as impressed by those architectural wonders as the next girl, I really am. But Dallas' skyline just doesn't do it for me like Chicago's. It doesn't give me that tingly, glowy, Oh-my-god-I-need-a-cigarette-after-that feeling like Chicago's. Sigh.... Yeah, I know where I need to be.

I think #4 has the most growth potential

2005-08-12T23:22:00.000-07:00

I'm surprised - and a little disheartened - that unemployment hasn't afforded much TV time. Still, I managed to squeeze in a circa-1989, Richard Dawson-era episode of Family Feud the other day, and thank goodness I did. At a time when my career plans are up in the air, I'll take guidance anywhere I can get it. And if that means takin' it from a cheesy '80s game show hosted by a sleazebag who can't keep his mouth off the female contestants, well, so be it.

So here's the sitch:

It's the double points round. Farrah Fawcett Hair from Family A (50 points) is at the podium, set to face off against Ken Doll Lookalike from Family B (89 points); cheeks have been kissed, hands have been placed behind backs and on buzzers, and it's on.

Rich: Top four answers are on the board. Name a profession... in which a woman...

Ken: HOMEMAKER!

[I'm shaking my head in disgust just typing that, like obviously, if the question is about "women" and "professions," homemaker must be on the list of answers. I mean, there are only, what, like five total instances in which "women" and "profession" can be used in conjunction with one another, and homemaker is so the obvious first choice, right? Dick.)

Rich: ... can flirt.*

[Ohhhhh. Well, that changes everything, doesn't it, Kenny? When was the last time your wife the homemaker flirted, huh? Ha! That's what I thought.]

FawcettHair: SECRETARY!

Rich: Can I see 'secretary?' (wait for it... wait for it...DING!) Number two!

Family A opts to play. They easily accrue points for "WAITRESS!" (Number 1, listed on the board as 'Waitress/Barmaid') and "STEWARDESS!" (Number 3). But now they're stuck. They're mentally ticking off female-friendly occupations in their minds. I think one guy is actually using his fingers ("Let's see, we've got waitress, secretary, homemaker's not on the list, stewardess, what else IS there?")

He guesses "SCHOOL TEACHER!" Alright there, Captain Letourneau, way to think through your answer. It's not on the board, and Family A garners its first red X.

Rich continues down the line, and Family A starts biting their nails in nervous anticipation as "AEROBICS INSTRUCTOR!" earns them another X. Family B huddles up and murmurs possible answers for the steal. Rich is at the end of Family A's line. He kisses the final player (ew) who squeaks out "ACTRESS!" and is almost instantly granted the death blow. Dammit, Family A, you had to give it up to HOMEMAKER! Ken, didn't you?

Family B has ceased deliberating and they're ready with their final answer. It's "SALES CLERK!"

Rich: Let me see...'sales clerk' (wait for it... wait for it... BZZT!) Nope.

Now, everybody knows that the best part of Family Feud is when Richard Dawson reveals the answers that nobody guessed, and everyone on stage throws up their hands in exaggerated exasperation, and everyone in the audience reads the answer aloud in that 'you-should-have-known-that-you-idiots' tone. This one was particularly sweet.

Rich: 100 people surveyed. Name a profession in which women can flirt. Can I see the number four answer?

Everbody: PROSTITUE!!!

So there I have it. Not one potential career redirection, but four. How lucky am I that I had the urge, at 11:30 in the morning, to roll out of bed and turn on the Game Show Network for the first time ever? Pretty damn lucky if you ask me.

And now I'm off to buy some lucky red patent leather thigh-high boots, you know, for my new profession.

* Those of us playing along at home yell out "GRAPHIC DESIGNER!!!!" Then, those of us playing along at home realize that a.) We are playing along at home alone; b.) We are no longer graphic designers. We are unemployed; and c.) Unemployment has made us crazy. Crazy as in shouting at the TV like 80-year-olds and referring to ourselves using the royal we.

Vroom

2005-07-30T16:38:00.000-07:00

I was cruising down 35 in my mom's SUV, sipping a Jamba Juice and absentmindedly flipping through my iPod playlist when I realized why I haven't been writing well since I moved back to Dallas. Holy shit! I've turned into a yuppie! An SUV-driving, smoothie-chugging, iPod-sporting yuppie! All I need for the transformation to be complete is a pair of freaking topsiders! I'm becoming my mother.

Have no fear, though: It is only a matter of weeks before I trade in the SUV for grimy-but-great-for-people-watching public transportation, before I can't charge my iPod because I'm trying to save on the electric bill, before I can't afford Jamba Juice, even if I vow to make it last for three days. I can't wait!

And now, in honor of my impending graduation from yuppiehood, a story about why there will always be a little Highland Park in me:

The highlight of my 12-year-old life was picking out the color of my dad’s new company car. “This’ll be your first car,” he told me, “so you’d better like what you choose.”

I sat with the glossy Buick LeSabre catalog in my lap, mentally ticking off each color swatch’s pros and cons, trying to distinguish minute differences between colors like Desert Fire and Maroon Sunset.* I was so stoked about choosing a color that the red flag never went up. Never once did my 12-year-old self stop to think: Hello! LeSabre!

I ended up going with Regal Champagne, a sickly metallic-y sand color that I came to associate with public golf courses and retirement villas. The Band-Aid colored interior (and there was a lot of it – if you didn’t know, the interior of a LeSabre can fit about two of those stainless steel sub-zero refrigerators you see at Best Buy or on the Food Network) looked dirty from day one, and the exterior always appeared to have a light coating of sawdust stuck to it.

I thought my future wheels were cool for about three days.

Three years rolled by. An accumulation of golf tees, wadded-up gas receipts, half-discarded rolls of peppermint Life Savers and dozens of sticky nickels and pennies wedged themselves into the LeSabre’s myriad crevices. With the advent of mobile communication, we had discontinued service on the car phone, initially a source of much oohing and ahhing, and it was relegated to nothing more than a black plastic nuisance with which the front seat passenger was forced to share knee room. The trunk was big enough (or would have been, if it hadn’t been crammed full of loose sheets of paper, golf cleats, leaves – leaves!!) to fit two of the zippy little coupes my older classmates were jangling keys to.

And that freaking Regal Champagne.

The day I got my drivers’ permit was the day I began my campaign against the LeSabre. “It’s just too big.” (True.) “I feel like I’m trying to steer a boat!” (True.) “I can’t get a feel for how much car I’m really dealing with.” (True, but also kind of a setup for the next stage of the campaign.)

My complaints fell on deaf ears… or, rather, on ears that could hear, but that were attached to people who could only respond with “Well, you picked it out.” All I picked out was the color! And I was 12! I highly doubted – and highly doubt to this day – that if my 12-year-old self had said, however diplomatically, “You know, Father, I do believe this LeSabre is a mite too large for my tastes,” anything would have changed.

So I did what I had to do.

About a month before my sixteenth birthday, I told my dad I wanted to drive the LeSabre out to the golf course (that should have tipped him off right there.) Getting the behemoth out of our driveway and onto the street required some skillful reverse-action maneuvering, including some strategic sliding between two six-foot-tall brick pillars that supported our security gate. I’d done the move a couple of times before, and was getting adept at calculating the angle of the LeSabre to ensure there were a few inches of breathing room on each side. But – oops – I must not have been concentrating this time.

If you haven’t heard it before, the prolonged crunch of fiberglass grinding heartily against brick is pretty darn satisfying. I was straining my ears so I could actually hear the Regal Champagne paint being stripped, granule for granule, from the car’s shell, and I think I succeeded. I had to keep my smirk of delight to myself, though, as we got out to examine the damage.

All said, it wasn’t that terrible: a football-sized dent behind the drivers’ side back door. It was a quick fix – a dent-popping and a spot repainting – and just enough for the folks to reconsider putting me behind the wheel of a car of the LeSabre’s magnitude.

“It’s just too big.” (Still true.) “She can’t handle that much car.” (Proven fact.) “It’s like trying to steer a boat!” (Shut it, you made your point.)

On my sixteenth birthday, we picked up my two-door convertible in Magenta Gray Pearl.** I guess a part of me does belong here in Highland Park. Yikes.

* The difference? One red was metallic, the other matte.
** This sounds like it should be pink, but it’s not, thank God. The name of the post’s not “They should have named me Barbie.” It’s gunmetal gray. You know, sleek, sophisticated, a little tough.

Dropouts

2005-07-26T09:45:00.000-07:00

Jane quit her job, too!

Here's my favorite quote: "Jane was the one women's magazine that didn't consistently inspire self-loathing." Heh. I was so busy loathing Jane, and her freaking "I was sooooo young and awesome when I started Sassy, and I'm still awesome. What have you done, Erin, HUH? WHAT?!" attitude that I didn't have enough time for self-loathing.

Like, in the most recent issue, she's all, "When I was in Vanilla Sky with Tom Cruise, blah blah blah, and everyone wanted to set me up with him because we were both young and awesome and I was so young and awesome when I started my first magazine. Can you effing believe that? OMG!" Bitch.

(OK, shut up, so I actually worship Jane and want to be just like her, and I'm glad she quit her job, because it makes me feel better about quitting mine, and since I'm young and awesome and now awesomely unemployed, maybe I can go start my own magazine, and use it as a forum to talk about my awesome life. You know, like I do here. OMG!)

Bullet Bitten.

2005-07-22T15:10:00.000-07:00

"I'm out, bitches!"

OK, so I didn't really say that, but I did just quit my job. I feel great. I feel like a kid again, instead of the crotchety 80-year-old spinster bitch I've been feeling like for the past four or five months. I feel like I should be popping the cork on a bottle of champainge right now. I'll settle for screwing the cap off a bottle of Bud, though.

Oh, and I'm really relishing this newly discovered ability to make grown men cry.

I think we just sold ad space to a cow.

2005-07-14T00:02:00.000-07:00

This morning, a giant man dressed in a cow suit (or a regular-sized man dressed in a giant cow suit -- whatever) waltzes into our office bearing free breakfast. Never the kind of journalists to let, oh, I don’t know, ethics interfere with growling stomachs, we tuck into the spread. “Holy cow” and “milk it for all it’s worth” jokes ensue between bites. Camera phones are wielded with reckless abandon.

Hey! You know who’d get a kick out of this? The old E-and-P. He says he’s on his way. Just sit here behind his desk, in his freezing office, with the door closed. Familiarize yourself, Cow, with one of our fabulous publications, and wait it out. He’ll want to meet you and, uh, thank you for breakfast.

Thirty minutes later.... cow twiddles thumbs (hooves?) until the boss shows up. Then: explosive laughter, more “holy cow” jokes, passing out of free sandwiches and business cards, more explosive laughter (a ploy, I’m guessing, buying some time in which to come up with a quickie sales pitch), aaaaaaaand.... TIME!

“Let me tell you a little about myself,” the boss begins (here, I imagine, the cow just nods, and the man within closes his eyes for a little cownap, grateful -- for once -- for his furry armor.)

And then: “blah blah blah, we’re so spectacular, yadda yadda yadda, great work with the schools and the community, and so on and so on, my business partner and I (chortle), etc etc, and if you introduce any new menu items, we’d be more than happy to try them out.”

Brilliant. Journalistic integrity at its finest. And also? FREE BREAKFAST!

Cake is Tangible Love

2005-07-12T14:05:00.000-07:00

There's a bakery coupon in our office kitchen that says that. It's a nice thought. Sweet (heh). But the coupon is for LaDuni, which is superexpensive, and the coupon's only for 15% off, so... I'll have to pass on that form of tangible love.

However, if anyone wants to make me an IOU (using construction paper and glitter glue, of course) that reads "Foot Massages Are Tangible Love," I'll take it off your hands for you. Gladly.

DRIVERS ED'ED!!!

2005-07-08T10:17:00.000-07:00

(Oops! Try it now.)

We're FREEEEE!

Now I can date science fiction Greg again!

Bang.

2005-07-06T14:00:00.000-07:00

Last year, the Fourth of July was the first and only time I actually saw the fireworks on Navy Pier. Every Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday since June, I'd heard the fireworks, and for almost all of June, I grudgingly admit, I thought the noise was someone hauling lumber or moving heavy furniture in the apartment above me. I guess it just didn't occur to me that nobody waits 'til dark to haul lumber, and nobody only hauls lumber on select days of the week. Oh yeah, and nobody has any need for lumber in a 34th floor, 600-square foot studio in a downtown Chicago high rise. But my stupidity is not the point here.

I finally looked out the window when the ruckus started - as usual - at 10 on the nose one Wednesday. I craned my neck to see if there were any construction crews on Ohio. Nothing. I pressed my forehead against the glass and looked down to see if my neighbors were throwing some kind of elaborate tri-weekly lumber-hauling party on our building's sun deck. Yeah, not so much.

Then I looked straight ahead, at the reflective glass of the Holiday Inn. Aha! Reflections of fireworks! Everything fell into place, and I started making a point of opening my blinds and watching the reflections (behind my switched-on TV, of course) every night there was a fireworks show. And once I found out what was making that confounded racket, the noise didn't bother me nearly as much as it did when I thought it was just crazy kids (because, you know, I'm like a hundred).

When I heard - but didn't see - Dallas' fireworks this year, I got a little pouty. I looked out my window in the direction of downtown to see if I could see anything, but there was a freakin' generator building in my way. Dammit! No reflective glass, no three-star hotel with pulsating neon sign, no sun deck 33 floors below. Just an annoying muted thump every minute or so. Might as well have been someone doing some after-hours lumber-hauling. Hmph!

So... yeah. I guess I'm still a little pouty.

Ah, to be 19 again...

2005-06-28T16:51:00.000-07:00

I knew there was a reason I never went to The Keg... you know, besides the distance, the freezing temperatures, and the fact that I was the proud holder of a real ID for most of my college career.

Of Human Blonde-age

2005-06-28T08:40:00.000-07:00

When I was blow-drying my hair this morning, I noticed I've got some really bad blonde roots going on. Maybe it's time to make the switch back to blonde. I've had dark hair for about a year, * and now that I'm leaving Dallas, it might be a good time to go natural ** again.

It's funny, I think I wanted to be brunette when I moved back to Dallas because I thought it was a nice, subtle way of rebelling against all the shiny socialites. But really, by dying my hair, I was just engaging in a less-severe form of the self-alteration that is the Dallasite trademark. Sick.

But anyway, back to blonde? I'll have to think about it. I worry that my M.O. is becoming: can't go a year without moving between Dallas and Chicago, or without changing hair color.

Maybe my solution is to go pink. A nice Pantone 226... yeah...

* I don't think working at Black Hair had anything to do with my desire for transformation; going brunette was really just the last in a series of transformations -- new job, new (old) city, new hair color. The progression is obvious. I wasn't going to be living the Sex and the City lifestyle anymore, so I didn't want to be blonde anymore.

** Natch!

OMG, Dahlings!

2005-06-27T08:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I wore my “Country Clubs: Not For Everyone” t-shirt to commemorate my survival of my first – and last – Dallas society party. Oh, I’m sorry, I mean soiree. Words can scarcely describe this experience, so, to my great chagrin, I must employ numbers. And so, ladies and gentlemen, an index:

Average age of guests at the Cosmopolitan Club’s “Latin-politan Fiesta”: 65

Average number of plastic surgeries per guest: 2

Number of men in white suits: 13

Number of men in white suits who tried to dance with me: 3

Number of men in white suits who offered to sponsor me as an Irish-American Society Dallas “Yellow Rose of Texas” debutante: 1

Number of offers for debutante sponsorship politely declined: 1

Number of real estate agent encounters: 2 (read: two too many)

Number of business cards received: 4 (all after cardholders found out I was “the press”)

Number of times I was introduced as “the press”: 3

Number of visible articles of clothing in outfit: 4

Number of visible articles of clothing in outfit purchased at Target: 3

Number of times I was asked my age: 5

Number of times I was told I was “so young!”: 5 (someone even had the gall to ask my photographer if I was his intern. As if!)

Number of strange men by whom I was kissed: 2

Number of strange straight men by whom I was kissed: TBD

Number of people I asked about the origins of the Cosmopolitan Club: 8

Number of people who knew anything about the Cosmopolitan Club: 0

Number of people spoken to who admitted to be recovering from surgery: 1

Number of people spoken to who were probably recovering from surgery: 5

Number of times my shoes and the deck conspired to make me almost eat it in front of Dallas’ elite: 1

All in all, it was a pretty eventful night. I got to meet some actual P-Ho* People, which makes my job seem a little more real, and that’s always a good feeling. I even met some people who read the paper. Or at least, they get the paper. Which means they’re exposed to the design. Which is all that concerns me.

I also got to meet Maria Elena Holly, Buddy Holly’s widow, who’s lived in my parents’ neighborhood since I was a kid. When I was introduced, I was all, “Yeah, I went trick-or-treating at your house 10 years ago, and you walked to the door, saw it was kids, and turned out your porch light. Bitch.” OK, I didn’t really say that. But I wanted to. And I thought it. I was actually all, “Didn’t you used to live in Highland Meadows? Me too! OMG! Small world! LOL!” It was awesome.

Also, I was introduced to Carolyn Shamis, of Sheer Dallas fame. She told me she remembers seeing me at the hoity-toity doggy beauty pageant that was featured on her episode of the show. Funny, I don’t remember being there (and I’m fairly certain Target doesn’t do black tie). But… she drives a Bentley with a vanity plate, brought an “escort” instead of a “date,” ** and has been on reality television, so who am I to argue?

I’m sure after my glimmering performance at Saturday’s shindig, I will be invited to social extravaganzas of all sorts, will become a gal about town, and will have so many to-dos in my Blackberry that I honestly won’t be able to remember all the glamorous things I’ve done. But until then, unless you think you remember seeing me driving my hail-damaged ’97 Eclipse to Jack in the Box, I’m guessing you’re mistaken.

* That’s shorthand for Preston Hollow, one of our coverage areas, for those of you not in the P-Ho know.

** There were a lot of times during the evening when I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. The worst of these times was when Carolyn’s man-friend kept suggesting different Carolyn-only shots to my photographer, then asking “Did you get her purse in the shot?” and “Are you sure you could see all of her skirt? It’s very important we see all of her skirt.”

WTDuck?

2005-06-24T10:05:00.000-07:00

On my way to work this morning, I was behind a maintenance truck with a bumper sticker that read: "Will Duck Hunt For Food."

Huh? Isn't that like saying, "Will Go To McDonalds For Food"?

Bumper stickers in general trip me out, but this one? Exceptionally questionable.

Side note: When I used to play Duck Hunt on old school Nintendo, I would stand with the gun actually touching the TV screen, so I never missed. I know I'm not the only one.

Everybody in the club gettin' tipsy

2005-06-22T16:26:00.000-07:00

Remember that one time? When I was all..."Woo! I'm not going to drink at lunch anymore!"?

"How's that workin' out for ya, Erin?"

"Um... not so great."

I must must must not drink at lunch anymore. I come back with a headache, my work looks even more like crap than it does when I'm sober, and I get this weird fidgety must-check-email-every-three-seconds thing going on. Oh yeah. And I'm terrible at disguising my intoxication. Eeeee!

But I must say... it feels good to live on the edge. Just a lil' bit.

Up to no good

2005-06-16T16:00:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. I promised greatness (that was three weeks ago.) And I promised promtale (that was probably two months ago.) What can I say? I'm suffering from the worst case of writer's block I think I've ever had. Or, rather, I'm suffering from a fairly bad case of writer's block which, when combined with my absolute burnt-outedness and my million little to-dos*, morphs into a problem of seemingly fantastic proportions.

My eyelids are heavy, and I have that jittery feeling that usually occurs between Diet Cherry Coke #4 and Diet Cherry Coke #5 (I've only had two today, thank you very much. I'm on a budget. But I've still got the shakes, darn it.) I've got a few entries started, and while showering I cook up all these wonderfully crafted metaphors and beautifully parallel sentences. But every time I sit down at my laptop the motivation plummets.

I think I'm trying too hard to extend the whole "Dallas, I'm cheating on you with Chicago" metaphor. I know I can't write about Chicago. I don't know why I can't, but I can't. So I'm hung up on that idea, and probably won't write again until I churn out something I'm at least remotely satisfied with. Until then... lists.

Like this one:

Things to write about
1. The Safety Town Bloodbath of Irony, Cleveland, OH, circa 1987
2. The 18-wheeler slash freshman year of high school debacle
3. Chicago as Urban (wait, what's the masculine for "mistress?") Oh:

[From Dictionary.com]Usage Note: English has no shortage of terms for women whose behavior is viewed as licentious, but it is difficult to come up with a list of comparable terms used of men. One researcher, Julia Penelope, stopped counting after she reached 220 such labels for women, both current and historical, but managed to locate only 20 names for promiscuous men. Curiously, many of the negative terms used for women derive from words that once had neutral or even positive associations. For instance, the word mistress, now mainly used to refer to a woman who is involved in an extramarital sexual relationship, originally served simply as a neutral counterpart to mister or master.

Ah, another roadblock. This is going to get harder before it gets easier, I have a feeling...

* I've started up with the listing again. I clean out my bag every night and find all these little scraps of paper covered in my all-caps scrawl, always in black Sharpie fine point. I must add "invest in a notebook" to my next list.

A little validation

2005-05-20T08:00:00.000-07:00

Every time I go into a bookstore, I check out the magazines I used to work for, just to see what they're up to. Yesterday at Borders, I picked up a Family Tree, only to discover that they've republished one of the stories I wrote back in '03! It feels good to be a published writer again, even if it is something that I've already seen in print once before.

Also, I realized that, because Black Hair* has used my designs in every one of their issues since June, I've technically had some of my work published in a nationally-circulating magazine every month for the past year. Sweet!

Makes me feel a little better about the shit work I'm doing now...

*Quit giggling.

The one with the breakdown at Borders

2005-05-14T19:07:00.000-07:00

The gold-plated badge emblazoned with John Hancock’s stately signature read “G. Sterling,” but I knew him as George. He knew me as Wildcat, and he greeted me as such at precisely 8:28 a.m. every Tuesday and Thursday.

For the first two weeks, it was always: “Floor 36 again Wildcat?”

After my third week of signing in, turning over my identification, and clipping that obnoxiously lime-green plastic VISITOR badge onto my messenger bag, it turned into: “Morning Wildcat. They still haven’t gotten you a building ID yet?”

I tried to be chipper with my reply: “Not yet, George.”

By the end of my first month, I knew that George’s niece was going to start at Northwestern in the fall, studying psychology and shooting for med school. He knew about my supposedly swanky gig as a fashion magazine designer in an office with floor-to-ceiling windows* and a lake view. He also knew that, from April, when I started interviewing, to the beginning of July, he’d had to sign me in as a visitor and check his electronic list to make sure I was clear to be in the building.

There were a couple weeks when they forgot to put me on the list. I’d show up bright and early, mentally prepared for a day of logging every minute spent, racing to squeeze in a 15-minute lunch break, and being virtually ignored by my eight too-flustered-to-bother-with-niceties coworkers.

And then my name wouldn’t be on the list.

George would have to call the icy receptionist and remind her with a slightly scolding tone, “I have Erin down here.” He’d roll his eyes upward toward Floor 36 in an attempt to make the call seem like nothing more than a formality. But I could tell he was embarrassed for me. I was embarrassed for me.

Even now, it shames me to remember that George was the first unfortunate casualty of The Day With The Crying At Borders.

I’d endured yet another day of no human interaction; I’d overheard a muffled “tell the new girl…” and received, while on my lunch break, an unsigned memo reminding me to arrive no earlier than 8:30 (I’d come in at 8:25, because I’d left 5 minutes early the day before); I’d started daydreaming at 10 a.m. about the bottle of cheap raspberry vodka in my fridge; that’s about three hours earlier than I normally started thinking about it. And then my editor had dropped by to “chat” for the first time since the day I accepted the job. She didn’t have anything to say about my work, or about hiring me on full-time like she’d promised to do after two weeks. She just stopped by to tell me that I should start looking for independent insurance, because I wouldn’t be receiving any through the company.**

Usually when I relinquished my badge at the end of the day and was released back into a world where I wasn’t just a visitor, George and I exchanged friendly goodnights and see-you-tomorrows. But not this time. I think – but I can’t remember exactly – that I slammed the badge down on the glass-topped security podium. I know that when George said “Have a good night,” I snapped back, “Yeah right! I quit!”

“See you on Thursday…?”

“I guess.”

I had every intention of making it home and having a vodka tonic in my hand before breaking down, but, as it turns out, I only made it across Michigan Ave. to Borders. I did make it downstairs to the bathroom in the basement before I started sobbing aloud, which I’m kind of proud of (the making it downstairs, not the sobbing). I thought I’d gotten it all out of my system, and I headed back out, ready to hike the usual route (past six Starbucks, with a stop in Crate&Barrel if I was in a particularly lousy mood) back to my apartment.

And then… the tourist. Even on a good day, I don’t like being railed into scaffolding by a clumsy guy weighted down with armfuls of brimming shopping bags. But today? Buddy? Yeah, really not a good day.

“What do you think you’re doing? Are you fucking crazy?”

[Eyes wide: bewilderment.]

“I don’t have insurance. Do you get that? And not only do I not have insurance ... I don’t have any family here, either. So if you would have pushed me a little harder, buddy, you know who would be riding with me in the ambulance to the hospital? YOU! And you know who would be paying my bill, which would be outrages since I don’t have insurance?! YOU! So don’t fucking mess with me.”

At least now, in retrospect, I can rest assured that I went a little easier on George. George was a good guy, and I bet he would apologize if he bumped into a weeping young coed on the busiest street in Chicago.

When I slouched up, like a dog with her tail between her legs, to get my visitor’s badge the next day, George didn’t look surprised or smug, and he didn’t say anything. Well, nothing except, “‘Morning, Wildcat.”

* The workspace at AssPubs was arranged in a sort of crescent, such that all the editors’ offices were on the outside and had gorgeous views of Lakeshore Drive and Navy Pier and the Ohio Street Beach. The archives, printer room, and lobby were on the inside of the crescent, because who needs an archive with a lake view? Then there was my office. Also on the inside of the crescent. Tiny, cramped, and outfitted with a lovely view of a taupe wall. Talk about an environment that nurtures creativity…

* I went to three in-person interviews at this company. I asked about insurance at the first one, and was told the company offered a generous benefits package. Lies!

Feeling Prolific...

2005-05-10T05:16:00.000-07:00

So, yeah, I haven’t been much for the updating of late. I am quite convinced I forgot to pack my quite impressive ability to polish off – and comprehend – a Dickensian tome in the matter of mere days when I moved from Chicago to Dallas. Said ability is probably still lodged in one of the two or three lone nooks in my 600-square-foot former abode. Drat. And so, as my record shows that I am obviously apt to misplace ability (or – gasp! – forget about it altogether) I posit that finding the time for typeset profundity has been lost in the shuffle. Only temporarily, I hope.

If I fail to update again shortly, know that I am carefully perfecting the routine of spending my day’s two waking/nonworking hours basking in the buzzing azure glow of the television. (Really, though, it’s getting to the point where I can’t fall asleep without a movie humming in the background because I need to hear the muffled banter and feel the faint flickering through my closed eyes. A real friend would start to get concerned at this point…)

Know also that, although I seem to be putting in a lot of time making sure other peoples’ pipe dreams come to fruition, I’m still surreptitiously working to make sure my own do, too.

This just in:

2005-04-20T14:09:00.000-07:00

I am bored with the following things:*
1.) My blog title. The current title was only intended as a starter title, training wheels for a blogging neophyte if you will (and you better). It's outstayed its welcome, and I'm ready for a change. Nothing from poetry, please.

2.) Weekends. I need to go to an art exhibit or a flea market or a car wash or something. As great as OnDemand is (and it is great, believe me), it does not a complete weekend make. I should break out that "painting" I was working on, too. That lime green background had potential. Still has potential...

3.) Weekdays. See above. Subtract OnDemand. I'm losing motivation at the speed of (insert cliche here).

My life has become decidedly soap operaesque. Something scandalous happens to each character about once a season, right? And the rest of the time they're just sitting around in their underwear at their minibars** dishing about or secondhandedly contributing to other peoples' scandals. So, yeah, aside from the underwear thing and the minibar thing, and, really, the scandal thing, I'm living in a soap opera.

Ennui really is the word of the week.

In other news: it's prom-y time in the coverage areas***, and I've been bombarded with images both visual and verbal of glitter and poof and the timeless 'comfort vs. style' debate re: footwear. Looks like it's about time to break out my own Promtale. It really is a good story (better with live reinactments, but ah well) and one I'd like to spend some time writing. Stay tuned... maybe this is the motivation I need.

* Insight and/or boredom reducers much appreciated
** How is it that all rooms in soap opera scenes have minibars? And does anyone in real life own decanters?
*** I can hear the ensuing rejoicing now.

lachrymose, ennui, elegiac...

2005-04-17T15:30:00.000-07:00

...borrowed words, scribbled hastily on the price tag of a borrowed book...

1.) lachrymose: causing or tending to cause tears

2.) ennui: listlessness and dissatisfaction resulting from lack of interest

3.) elegiac: expressing sorrow for that which is irrecoverably past

The Intent: to borrow for use in future endeavors? to define state of mind at time of recording? to research, and determine next course of action based upon definition?

I speculate the first option is the accurate one. Although any endeavors from this point forward would technically be double-borrowing.

I am a word-circler. Circle words I don't know, or think I know and want to make sure of. Underline great writing. Bracket great ideas (used to use the squiggly-line-with-downward-pointing-arrow technique -- too messy). Occasionally drop a tilted exclamation point or question mark onto the outside margins. Have once or twice sketched family trees on blank back pages. Rarely dog-ear, unless I deem the entire page perfect.

Have never written on the price tag.

Double Bind

2005-04-09T15:00:00.000-07:00

I’m lounging poolside; it’s a particularly perfect brand of 73 – cloudy enough to nix sunglasses, warm enough to break out the flip-flops for the first time this season. The pool water is still frigid, but that doesn’t stop me from dipping a toe in every couple of minutes, just for something to do. Maybe by next plunge I’ll have adjusted to the iciness and can submerge a whole foot…. Nope.

I’m a little wary of the bird’s nest precariously tucked into the creaking branches above me; I try to focus instead on the potted (what are those? Impatiens?) and note that my knowledge of flora is limited practically to the point of unacceptability. It’s hard to be patient with the paperback I’m wedging open with a thumb because the breeze, its angle (or my angle) and its strength, is just enough to flip one page up, set it down, flip it up. Concentration lost.

The only movement: a swaying flag mounted to the (what is that? An oak?) and a tabby, padding alongside the metal fence, tip of tail tapping each post with poorly disguised deliberateness. It’s a regular Shangri La out here. (I doubt, however, the true Shangri La had such amusing signage: “No one allowed in the pool with lesions, abrasions, open sores, eye or nasal discharge, or communicable disease.” Lovely.)

* * * * *

We consider ourselves lucky to get two seats together. But when we hit Addison, and the Cubs’ fans – the ones who’ve stayed late, soaking up the victory and vats of warm beer – pile on, we realize we would have had much less compromising vantage points if we’d been among the gamey throngs of standing passengers. People clear out fairly quickly, though; the motion of the train combines with impaired equilibrium to send a few passengers tumbling into open seats with an accidental grace.

“Hey. Ladies. Guess what I’m wearing.”

“Um, a Cubs’ jersey?”

“Nooooo…. under my jersey.”

“A blue lace tube top?”

“Who told?”

“You told.”

“You showed, actually. You lifted up your shirt when you got on the train.”

“Well, OK. Guess what else I’m wearing.”

“A wedding ring?”

“Hey now. Don’t you think this top brings out my eyes?”

I’ve never done well in crowded, compact spaces. Add motion, add sweat and shoving and the potential for getting jammed against doors that open regardless of whether or not you actually want to leave the train. Add the sounds – the cell phones, the crying babies, the announcer who has a suspiciously Brooklyn-y accent. Add the fact that Robyn and I are magnets for riffraff of all sorts.

I’ve never done well on the El.

“Chicago is a very political town.” [Swig from bottle wrapped in brown paper… distinctive slosh of last half-inch of toxic backwash.]

“Uh-huh.” [Don’t make eye contact. Once you make eye contact, it’s a conversation.]

“You girls go to school? I went to school. I taught school. I coached football at Tuskegee. Played football at Tuskegee. Where do you go to school?”

“Northwestern.”

“Ah! I went to Northwestern. Played football for Northwestern back in…” [Mumbling. Swigging.] “It’s kind of a political school, isn’t it?”

“I hear Chicago is a very political town.”

* * * * *

So, April by the pool, sunny and 73 in a makeshift Shangri La, replete with flip-flps? Or April on the El, clammy and crowded, jostled and hassled by leftover fans who lean in too close to slur their secrets?

I think the answer is obvious.

Calgon, get me the hell out of here

2005-04-02T16:24:00.000-08:00

In retrospect, I guess I shouldn’t have been so shocked that the only women’s restroom in the all-nude strip club was the one in the Girls’ locker room.

As a burly bouncer in a too-short tie swatted girls in various stages of naked out of the way, clearing a path to the stall for my bathroom buddy and me, I had to wonder about the etiquette appropriate to such a privileged scenario. Do I avert my eyes and make it a point to scrutinize the carpet at all times, or is not looking considered offensive? And if I look straight ahead and happen to catch a glimpse, am I expected to pay up on the spot ... or at all? And how do I handle my reflex-reactions? I’m wearing a freakin’ cardigan, so it’s no secret that I’m the sore thumb; are my blushing and lip biting noticable, and, more importantly, cause for an ass-kicking?

Thank goodness there was enough to distract me from thoughts of my early demise due to the breaking of the Code. As I guarded the stall door for my friend, I leaned up against the dingy taupe lockers, emblazoned with glitter decals, name labels (Heaven, Esmerelda, Dynasty - my favorite), and pictures of small Hispanic boys made in those sticker-maker photo booths you find in the food courts of malls.

I made a conscious effort not to look like I was checking things out. But you know, you can see a lot more under fluorescent lights - bruises, scars from C-sections, poorly-plucked eyebrows; subconsciously, I knew those things must be there, but it didn’t really click that I knew until I had actual visibility.

There were other things, too, though ... things I know I had no clue - subconscious or otherwise - about. The teal vinyl Winnie the Pooh backpack with a crumpled thong hanging out of the front pocket. The rhinestone picture frames (photos of fully-clothed mom and smiling daughter) propped up on makeup-smeared countertops and leaning against the wall-to-wall mirrors. The pile of discarded spike heels in red and black patent and clear plastic.

And then there were the supplies. Countless trips to drugstores and supermarkets must have dictated the blueprint for this precise setup. All the pink cans of aerosol hair spray were clustered on one shelf; on the next: neat rows of generic-brand lotion bottles and boxes of single-ply tissues; on the bottom shelf were three plastic tubs of tampons: heavy, medium, light. Every can and bottle and tub was labeled “MOM.”

A storage bin nearby was crammed with every fragrance of body splash Calgon has ever made - freesia, pear, lilac, tropical fruit, a signature scent for each dancer, maybe. The Girls lined up, single-file, in front of the bin for a quick spritzing.

The organization of the catering table was just as military in its uniformity. Cannisters of licorice sticks, dry cereal and cheese puffs (cheese puffs? Really) lined the table, and there were trays of apple slices and deli meat, and cheese sticks being passed around amongst the Girls who weren’t too busy prepping.

I was relieved to find that there was far too much going on for anyone to pay attention to the wide-eyed, ponytailed sorority girls who may or may not have been adhereing to a Strippers’ Locker Room Code of Conduct. I think the Girls were actually more aware of their peers sticking to the backstage rules.

A sign above the pay phone read: “If you pick up this phone, you are responsible for finding the person the call is for.” Underneath, in black permanent marker, someone had written, “Fuck no do it yourself.”

Wanna bone?

2005-03-25T08:18:00.000-08:00

Much has been made recently of my distaste for food that involves bones. I’ll own up to cutting all the meat off barbecue ribs and disposing of the bones before I’ll eat a bite. I’m perfectly comfortable telling people that once I get one of those accidentally-left-behind bones in a piece of fish, my meal is officially over. And don’t even get me started on those giant turkey* legs people heft around at fairs and amusement parks. I shudder even typing about them.

My whole no-bone obsession was revealed as a corollary to an unfortunate reminiscence about a field trip to Medieval Times; you see, apparently they had Pepsi in the Olde Days, but they didn’t have utensils, so at MT, you have to eat everything with your hands. The main course is some sort of poultry product (I’ve blocked specifics) that requires you to navigate around all kinds of bones with no fork-and-knife support to prevent direct contact: you either touch the bones as you’re ripping into the meat with your bare hands, or you get an unexpected mouthful of bone after you’ve taken a bite. Neither of those bone-discovery options really do it for me. I’m gagging right now, actually.

Add to the gross-out factor of dealing with your own bone-riddled hunk of fowl the fact that you have to observe other people dealing with their entrees. Here’s where I think my major hang-ups kick in. Say Medieval Times to me today, and instead of conjuring images of majestic knights engaging in heroic sport, I think of fat, balding men sporting unbuttoned Wranglers and wife beaters with yellow underarm circles, sucking poultry grease off their thick fingers, gnashing their teeth to rip tough sinew from the knobby ends of bones, and then licking those bones clean.** Ew.

Of course, in typical Erin fashion, I’ve made a big, dramatic to-do of rejecting all foods that haven’t been completely de-boned; if I absolutely must consume an un-de-boned meat, I’ll do the de-boning myself, get the bones as far away from my plate as possible, and continue politely with my meal.***

But alas, there is an exception to every rule and, likewise, to every endearing eating quirk. Buffalo wings, in my case, are that exception.

Mary and I started doing the low-carb thing, so Buffalo wings were bound to come up sooner or later. I already drench everything else in buffalo sauce, so what’s unhandle-able about chicken wings? Bones. That’s what. But I agreed to do the wing thing, and I have to admit, I’ve done a complete 180 from my initial horrific perception of Buffalo wings.

Here’s the thing: it’s not worth getting out a fork and a knife to cut the meat from the bone of chicken wings (I’ve tried.) The input far outweighs the output. I came to terms with that fairly easily.

But what’s more, I also realized that, in the privacy of one’s own home (i.e. away from the finger-lickin’ bone-suckin’ masses) Buffalo wings can be downright sexy. I think with a little practice and the development of some patent-worthy maneuvers, I could actually eat Buffalo wings seductively.
Think about it: there’s something inherently attractive about a girl who can throw back a plate of freakin’ spicy chicken, just like the boys, right?**** Now factor in the natural reactions: the throbbing lips, the single bead of sweat on the forehead, the touch that burns the skin a little, even after a hand-washing. Throw in a coy look and – alright – a little provocative finger sucking, and you’ve got, like, the hottest eating experience ever. Totally sexy … see?

I really think I could pull this off, even with my bone-induced gag reflex. I can overcome. I can be sexy while eating Buffalo wings.

As a sidenote, if you’re privy to my little show, please remind me to wash my hands thoroughly before attempting to remove my contacts (or do anything else with my hands.) Ah! The burning!

* Discourse on my bone-o-phobia as it relates to fowl led to the revelation of another of my pet peeves: calling a turkey The Bird. “How much does The Bird weigh this year?” “What time did you get up to put The Bird in the oven?” Gross! Nobody says “How much longer ‘til you’re finished frying The Pig?” or “Do you want The Cow medium rare?”.

** I guess it’s better than thinking about the Black Plague. But still…

*** This elaborate de-boning (and de-fatting, and de-gristling) process drives my mom crazy, and usually has me taking my first bite as the less picky clear their dishes.

**** This may be a false perception. But I’ve convinced myself that there are certain “traditionally masculine” things I do – loving Home Depot and chugging cheap beer, to name a few – that are simply irresistible. Allow me the fantasy, OK?

If line 37 is $107,025 or less, multiply $3,100 by the total number of exemptions claimed on line 6B

2005-03-20T17:29:00.000-08:00

“It’s time you learned how to do your own taxes. What if Dad died tomorrow?”

“Then you’d help me do my taxes.”

“I don’t know how to do taxes. And what if I died tomorrow, too?”

“Well, then I’d have bigger problems than figuring out who’s going to do my taxes.”

“Don’t be smart. You need to learn. You at least need to know about the financial planner.”

“Wait. We have a financial planner? Why don’t you just give me his info and I’ll get him to do my taxes?”

“What if the financial planner dies tomorrow? You need to know how to do your own taxes.”

“I think if both my parents and my financial planner died tommorrow, the IRS would cut me some slack.”

{I used to think I had the answers to everything}

So, yeah, I learned how to do my own taxes this weekend. And by “learned,” I mean “got some vague, shadowy idea of.”

I did what my dad called “the Reader’s Digest version” of my 1040, forms A, B, C, C-EZ* etc. etc.... I cross-referenced The Book and The Chart and “last year’s dividends and returns.” I added Line 22 to Line 36, subtracted the set amount as dictated by The Book (see page 35) from line 43, flipped to The Chart and extracted the random figure $318 from the matrix of dollars plotted against filing status.

{Feels like I’m caught in the middle/ That’s when I realize...}

“... ‘Taxable Interest, attach Schedule B if required’” (dig through stack of papers, find Schedule B) “OK, joint filing, blah blah blah. No that’s not me... Filing singly...”

“You’re single.”

“Yes, I’m fully aware. Thank you, though, for reminding me.”

{All I need is time/ A moment that is mine/ While I’m in between}

“This part will be easy. ‘Alimony Received?’ None. ‘Capital Gain or Loss?’ None.”

“Wrong.”

“Wrong? I have capital loss? How much?”

“Eh, about $31,000. You lost some oil wells this year.”

“I lost some oil wells this year?”

“Yeah. It’s no big deal.”

“Fine. ‘Capital loss?’ $31,000. Now. ‘Rental real estate, royalties, partnerships, S-partnerships...’ None.”

“Wrong.”

“Wrong? I’m supposed to be getting royalties? From what?”

“No. You’re secretary in the Partnership.”

“Secretary in what Partnership? What am I...in the mob?”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re secretary in the Partnership. It’ll all be taken care of when I run this through TurboTax.”

“Oh. Right. OK ‘Trusts.” Hey, I’m secretary in the Partnership, surely I must have a trust out there. Right? Riiiight?”

“Keep going.”

“Alright. ‘Farm Income or Loss.’ Ha! Know I don’t have that one.”

“Wrong.”

“What the...! I quit!”

“Corn futures.”

“Corn futures?”

“Corn futures.”

“I really have those? I thought corn was just like a big family joke. Not something I’d have to consider on my freakin’ taxes!”

“Keep going.”

(Much goes off without a hitch; I calculate moving expenses -- $0, even though I’m fairly sure I spent about a billion dollars moving to Chicago, then back to Texas -- and ‘office expenses’ -- $250, “for copies and faxes.” I don’t even know how to fax. If the IRS is reading this, I was assured that “it’ll all be taken care of when I run this through TurboTax,” so, please, blame technology.)

“Alright. Almost done. I know I don’t have any of these things. ‘Foreign Tax?’ Yeah right.”

“Wrong.”

“I have to pay foreign taxes? To what country? Wait! Do I have a Swiss account? That would be wicked! It would be worth paying foreign taxes. ‘Just take it out of my Swiss account.’”

“No. No Swiss accounts. Dutch accounts. And French.”

“Bah. I’ll tell people they’re Swiss.”

{This girl will always find her way}

So I’m done with my taxes for this year. Pretty painless, considering a.) I’ve had three jobs in the past taxing period, and b.) one of those jobs was at AssPubs, where I was paid out of the editor’s personal checkbook with no taxes taken out.

Actually, doing taxes was borderline amusing; my dad used a bright yellow pencil with a little plastic fishbowl in place of the eraser, and every time he wrote something down, the beads inside the fishbowl rattled.

Does the "I'm Blogging This" t-shirt come in green?

2005-03-18T08:26:00.000-08:00

Ahh... How do I begin a post sure to be fraught with ellipses and semi-drunken meanderings?

How ‘bout with the carnations?

Nah… too obvious.

Oh, I know. How ‘bout the casual utterance of the question, “… so do you go to church around here?” before I even had a drink in my hand?

No. That’s mean.

Ooh! I’ve got it! Let’s start with the Confederate. Flag. Belt. Buckle.

Yes! Aha! A suitable start-point. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.*

St. Patrick’s Day, and what’s an Irish girl to do? (If you said, “Go on a blind date! Get wasted to avoid talking to said blind date! Actually employ the old ‘I have to wash my hair’ excuse!”... you win - hippie.)

So… yeah. Confederate flag belt buckle. Also:

1.) The Mullet (at once greasy and dry and frizzy. How does that happen?)

2.) The Sears’ Credit Card (as in, “I got sick of doing laundry at my parents’, so I bought me a washer and dryer. Spent ‘bout half the limit on ma Sears’ credit card.”)

3.) The Night Classes at Eastwood Community College (Me: “What did you study?” Him: “Ah, Automotive. Just two credits shy of getting’ ma degree. One of ‘em’s Algebra. Never did like no math. Only math I needs to know’s number hours ah worked times number dollars ah get per hour. Still need me a calculator to figger that out, though. Heh heh.”)

4.) The Fact That He Consumed One Beer to My Three (can’t fault him on that one though, really.)

5.) The Stubby, Oil-coated Fingers With Nails Chewed Down to the Quick (apropos, given the day’s earlier conversations about wife-beater-sporting Medieval Times-goers, and bone-licking-with-subsequent-finger-licking. I was asking for it, wasn’t I? Foreshadowing City, population… you know.)

6.) The Carnations (not quite good enough to lead off with, but worth mentioning nonetheless.)

7.) The Chain Wallet (‘nough said.)

8.) The Talking to My Chest Maneuver (I suppose he can’t be blamed for that one...)

9.) The Following Conversation Starter: “So I was at the liquor store, buyin’ my boss his Christmas present…” (Yeah, I don’t know.)

10.) This: “Right now I don't really have any goals to speak of. I am just living day to day” (published on those darn Internets, for all to see.)

I guess, in a way, this is a good thing. I got a few free drinks (although I paid my own cover because I knew from the carnations that I wasn’t going to be calling this guy back.) I got the motivation to write the rare mid-week blog update. I got a great laugh, with more to come, I’m sure. And I got tipsy. Everyone in the club’s doin’ it, or so I hear.

Also, I got to use my Coach purse – and the ‘washing my hair’ excuse – for the first time. What a productive night!

*I could, actually, make this stuff up if I tried. But what on Earth would possess me to try? It’s so much better when based on actuality.

I used to think 'Magenta' was pronounced like magnetta

2005-03-16T11:06:00.000-08:00

t’s amazing all the things you can draw with a box of crayons that consists of nothing but the browns. Sepia. Burnt Umber and Raw Umber. Tan. Basic Brown. Burnt Sienna.

I’m sure there were a few others left – there were always a few purples (Plum, namely) that weren’t worth taking, and it’s practically proven fact that no one’s ever done anything notable with White – but the browns stood out because they were all there, sharp, waxy-smelling, utterly unused, toppled almost deliberately against the sides of otherwise empty cardboard separators.

All I can say is, Thank God it was Thanksgiving. Turns out you can draw a mean ear of Indian corn with just the browns.

I had to have a new box of Crayolas – the biggest box on the market – at the start of each school year. I was convinced I needed the 64-packs with built-in sharpeners, or the 92-packs with bonus clumps of neons or metallics or flesh tones.

My mom supported my addiction partly because I was spoiled, and partly because she liked the new-crayon smell. Crayons were kind of an old-school fascination for both of us, so I’m sure she was relieved when I grew out of the crayon-hording phase just when colors with names like Macaroni and Cheese and Timberwolf replaced classic Yellow Orange and standard standby Gray.

But that didn’t happen until the early ‘90s. When I was in second grade, a 64-pack of Crayolas – arranged by color family, strategically stuffed into cardboard clusters – was the pinnacle of primary school cool. My gold-and-green box lasted a whole two and a half months before the big fall-out.

I don’t remember what girls bickered about in second grade. I recall a big to-do about who possessed the best New Kids on the Block lunch box. I was at a disadvantage here – my lunch box was a particularly heinous shade of fluorescent tangerine, while second-grade tastes leaned toward the more obvious flamingo pink – so I avoided the lunch box-based arguments altogether. I pretty much avoided all arguments, though, because, as an only child, I never really learned how to fight.

Staying out of it, however, is apparently the biggest sin imaginable in second-grade Girl World. In the fiasco aftermath, a friend told me I was a target simply because I was the only girl in class who hadn’t been in a fight yet (the nerve!)

We broke into reading groups every day (I was in “Red,” the most advanced, natch) and one day I came back to find Magenta missing from it’s space amongst the reds and pinks in my box of Crayolas. The next day, a few more were absent – Violet and Evergreen and Peach (not a great color, taken alone, but a vital one) and Turquoise. On the third day, Cerulean, my favorite, and Black, without which trying to color is futile, were gone, and soon only the oranges and browns, Cadet Blue, Plum, and Cornflower (which had a different, more translucent consistency than the other blues, rendering it near unusable) remained. Eventually, even the only-used-once Red Orange and the only-good-for-coloring-Barbie’s-hair Lemon had been taken.

Little waxy flecks of the colors that had been pulled out, used, peeled, sharpened and reorganized stuck to the exposed wax of the browns, reminders of the remaining crayons’ stagnancy.

I said nothing. I drew turkeys and brunette pilgrims in drab dresses and scenes from Little House on the Prairie. I drew outlines of faces in Tan, but didn’t color the faces in.

I tried to be discreet, asked casually for a new box of crayons. The box from the beginning of the year doesn’t have a single sharp crayon left. The Black is worn down to a nub. They don’t smell like new anymore.

No such luck.

I should have learned how to fight then and there. I knew who was taking my crayons – the box was left opened, turned toward the desk of the perpetrator, for whom being found out was obviously not an issue – so confrontation should have naturally ensued.

Not so, though. I stayed out of it once again. I borrowed Cerulean and Black and Magenta from friends, hoping they’d notice my deliberate sullenness. Cue the beginnings of an Erin trademark move: sulking not because of emotional distress but because I had what I wanted, then had it taken away.

What got me was not, as it turns out, the cruel Girl World emotional politics... you know, the ones that inspired a plot designed to stir me up and make me admit I - gasp! - have feelings. In the end, it was simply the not-having that made me jut out my lower lip in a defiant pout.

My mom finally caved (I think it was the lost-scent argument that eventually got to her), not knowing that she was enabling a long tradition of confrontation-avoidance, and spoiled-brattiness.

Even though it contained a much-coveted cluster of special-edition fluorescents, the new box went untouched. I kept it in a pencil box strategically wedged at the very back of my desk.

Hazy and Dolorus, Redux

2005-03-13T13:44:00.000-08:00

This has been the longest weekend ever. It’s Sunday, it feels like it should be next Sunday (is that even possible? Sure it is.)

I’m in a listy mood. Actually, I’m in a very restless mood, and attempting any sort of prose would be futile, so a list it is.

This weekend:
Books: 1 finished (White Noise; much better the second time around.) 3 on the docket.
Purchases: shampoo (new brand, hair smells like flowers); bra ($50 - ! - a good investment, though)
Song: Mr. Brightside by the Killers
Beers: 1 green; 9 non-green
Walking: At least 3 miles
Sunburn: Nose and cheeks; painful,but very endearing, I think (sorry Robyn!)
Naps: 3 in one day (a record)
Home: No
Work: Yes
Laundry: No (should be yes)
Car wash: Maybe later (hunting for quarters)
Realizations: 3

a.) I am too old for this (“this” being waking up early for getting-drunk purposes, then falling into a series of non-sleeps that add up to nothing.)

b.) I am too young for this (“this” being everything aside from the scenario related above. I’m just a kid, really, despite online quizzes to the contrary.)

c.) I’m afraid I’ve lost my affinity for Diet Cherry Coke. I’m on number three of the day, and it just tastes sticky and lukewarm and lacking. But those motifs have been cropping up lately, so I’m hardly surprised they’ve weasled their way into applicability concerning even my beverage-drinking habits. It’s a habit I need to break anyway; maybe this is a sign that it’s time to get down to breaking.

It’s not like I want to go into the capital-f Future with this habit, right?

*

2005-02-26T23:15:00.001-08:00

I’m running short on inspiration these days. The painting thing was going well, but I want to incorporate this awesome paper I bought** and need to procure a protractor (not the semicircular ruler thingy that helps find angles, the circle-drawing thingy with the pencil and the really sharp metal point. Are they even allowed to sell those things anymore? I have a bad feeling they went out with paste, which is, in the long run, a much less dangerous school supply.) So I’m at an artistic standstill until I can fully outfit my studio.

Also, freakin’ television has taken over my life. If only I would have known American Idol was going to be on three days a week instead of two, and that Top Model was starting anew midseason, and that I was going to get addicted to reality slop like Wife Swap and Super Nanny… well, don’t know what I would have done. But strides to prevent an after-work life that revolves around TV would most definitely have been made. It snuck up on me, though, and now I am addicted.

Speaking of… I’m on my seventh or eighth Diet Cherry of the day… feeling a little jittery … and cancerous… from the aspartame.***

Anyway (tangents!) I know some of the orange pylons road-blocking my creativity come from this inability I’ve had since moving back to Texas to finish a book. I’ve started – heck, I’ve gotten two- or three- or four hundred pages into – five books since I moved back, but I haven’t finished any of them. Cavalier and Klay turned disappointing three-quarters of the way through; Vanity Fair was ruined when I saw the so-so movie and lost interest; I took a break from Bend Sinister and reread Lolita (one of the only things I’ve been able to finish – the others are The Cheese Monkeys – again – and Magical Thinking, which I read in its entirety on an airplane); and I’m trying with JR, I really am, but every time I pick it up, I have to backtrack 10 pages to remember where I left off, and end up further behind than ahead. Agh!

It’s gotten to the point where I won’t let myself look at the fiction section at Border’s because I know I’ll buy something on my to-read list**** and have to add another half-read (OK, OK, quarter-read) book on the pile on my nightstand. I’m running out of room, so the new motto is, “only 553 pages left to go.” And I will finish. Sometime next year.

* I’ve become lax in my footnoting, I know. Your concerns have been duly noted, and now, duly footnoted.
** I know I said I threw all intentions out, but I really want to do something that looks like it belongs in Suede magazine. Haven’t heard of it? I’m not surprised. It’s new. It’s for black women. Most would define its design as “nauseating,” but I think it’s daring and pretty. Not like this other magazine for black women, which shall remain nameless to protect the innocent (i.e. me).
*** Or, as some pronounce it, “aspartamine,” as in “I grew up on the asparta-mean streets of suburbia, and now look at me: facing down this addiction.”
**** Naturally, I can’t generate the list now that I actually want to; when I try to deny the existence of the list (list? What list? I don’t need a list because I’m perfectly happy reading what I’m reading right now!) it’s quite easy to spout off and make additions to. And of course, there is the second list, the one of books I want to read again (Travels with Charley, Pride and Prejudice, White Noise, All the King’s Men, Invisible Man….), that I can’t even think about right now. Shoot! But I obviously am! Crap!*****
***** I originally typed, Carp!, which is, I think, on the fast track to exclamation glory. Everything should cycle back to fish (“I caught you a delicious bass,” “My bass feels seaworthy,” etc. etc.)

WTF, Cezanne?

2005-02-21T08:23:00.000-08:00

I got the lowest grade of my college career in Basic Painting. I took it because I thought it was a sure thing, an easy elective credit that would pad my senior-year GPA and let me relax a little during Rush quarter. Yeah right. Five painful critiques, a couple hundred dollars, and a few art building overnights later… a B+ and a painting of a peanut butter sandwich that ended up in the Dumpster (the painting, not the sandwich – well, probably the sandwich, too.)

For the record, I still hold that I’m as creative as any of those Art Theory and Practice snobs who take the same classes as the rest of us but call them “practicums” and who use “workshop” as a verb. I just had execution problems.

My relative failure at painting stems from the same thing that made me hate On the Road. You can’t expect someone to take an assignment like “paint three floating eggs on a background using only blue and orange” (real assignment) and be creative with it, just like you can’t expect someone to love a book about escapism and freedom from consequence when there are consequences to not reading it.

Anyway, I’ve decided I’m pretty much over the B+ and ready to give painting on my own terms a go. I need a creative outlet outside of work, and Mary didn’t seem to keen on my wanting to paint the apartment (she has a point about the heaviness of our furniture.)

So yesterday I headed to Michael’s, picked up some basics (I’ve toted my collection of half-full tubes of oils and acrylics from Evanston to Chicago to Colleyville to Dallas, just in case this fancy ever struck) and went home to construct a makeshift (and collapsible) studio on the back porch. (Side note: I’d never spent any time on that back porch until yesterday; it’s pretty spacious, but there’s nowhere on the porch that isn’t under the tree. That makes me nervous.)

I forgot how much prep-time painting requires. Of course, there’s the actual paint-mixing, but there’s also the change in attire – because, like all true artists, I can’t focus on keeping paint off my clothes – and the all-important Diet Cherry Coke positioning (must be within reach, but also far enough away from the brush-rinsing cup to avoid any dangerous ingestion mix-ups.) By the time I got set up, there was only going to be enough time to paint a background before it got dark out, but I forged ahead.

Who would’ve thought painting an 18x24 area a solid color could be so engrossing? For the hour or so I was outside, I didn’t think about work. I didn’t think about how my mom would be disappointed that I didn’t come home for the weekend. I didn’t even think about how fire ants were treating my bare toes like the cheapest all-you-can-eat buffet on the Las Vegas strip.

All I thought about was this: Once this glob of $2.99 student-grade lime green acrylic paint hits this canvas, I have exactly eight seconds to get it where I want it to be before it starts getting tacky.

For the most part, I didn’t get the paint where I wanted it within eight seconds. But I didn’t care. For the first time, this perfectionist, who’s used to snap-to-guides and gutter-widths and lines made perfectly straight by technology, didn’t care about blotches or brushstrokes or even the dirt that strategically maneuvered itself into my drying paint (hey, I’m down with mixed media.) I didn’t care because I realized something that would have helped me out last winter quarter when I was tearing my hair out trying to mimic in paint the floating egg I saw in my mind.

I didn’t care because I realized this: in a race with chemistry, intentions will almost always come in second.

So I threw intentions out. I thought I knew what the finished painting was going to look like – I am, after all, the girl who can’t start a project and then just leave it sitting, knowing it could be closer to conclusion. But now I have no idea how it will turn out. I know, I know, it’s a huge risk, right? I’m really living on the edge now. Living on the edge with a blotchy, lime green, dirt-flecked canvas and no expectations for a flawless finished product.

Who knows … maybe I’ll give the sophisticated sandwich genre another stab. Now that I don’t expect a masterpiece, I’m open to anything.

Catered by FontDiner

2005-02-19T18:17:00.000-08:00

If you’ve ever spent any time muddling through free-font websites (and who among us hasn’t, really?) you understand the beauty of sample phrases. I’ve been muddling through said websites all week (looking for the girliest, swashiest, most tasteless font on the free market, nonetheless), and the sample phrases are becoming eerily applicable to my life.

Maybe I’ve looked at so many lines of ugly type that I’m imagining things, but I am beginning to suspect there is a legion of free-font sample phrase-writing geeks out there tracking my every move. Sneaky little bastards, stealing my thoughts and publishing them on the internet where anyone can see them, free-of-charge! Well, I’m taking them back, and I’m going to go a step further: I’m going to organize them! (There’s no need for you to point out the self-fulfilling prophecy here; I am fully aware that I am just republishing my thoughts on the internet where anyone can see them, free-of-charge.)

Anyway, a poem of sorts, in three parts:

On work...
Staff levels dropped
Work with machines and look
There’s nothing I’d rather do than sit
Viewing time makes it grow
From the sharks in the penthouse
I miss the point of things they have planned
Best they’ve ever done seen

...and on relationships...
I’ve been indulging in ostentatious display
Change and we need it fast
Are you so edgy?
So nobody gets hurt
Change but you stayed the same
Adorable you’re deplorable
Let him run around until he drops

...and on life in general.
Let me kick out the jams!
Another night, no clocks
Infinity goes up on trial
I’m staying home this evening
You run to meet the bills
Medication for my sleep deprivation
...and call it a gift
The handiwork of those little Dachsunds

(And one that doesn’t apply, but is still quite poetic: she’s in that bedroom with that boy of hers, though her face is creased and her eyes seem strange.)

Are you getting the chills yet? Good... neither am I. I know this post is kind of a cop-out; I didn’t even write most of it. Rest assured, though, that I had something great on the burner. I think it was about how the spectrum of sepia tones in Carnivale (and two beers) inspired me to take up painting again. Good stuff, I know, but it’ll have to wait until the painting has actually been taken up.

‘Til next Saturday, then...

"Nobody puts Baby..." Aw, forget it.

2005-02-13T10:15:00.000-08:00

Ack! When did this become such a downer blog?! Gross! Must repair immediately!

I'm home now -- rested, laundered, ironed (!!!) and in a much better mindset in general. I'm watching Dirty Dancing, which can make just about any problem seem mundane (it's a biting social commentary, after all, when you strip away all the stellar acting, timeless catch-phrases, and classic soundtrack.)

I remember begging to watch Dirty Dancing when I was 5 or 6, and, after much needling, actually getting to. I was, of course, sent out of the room for all those steamy love scenes ("have you had many women?") I wouldn't have known what was going on, but oh well. I'm sure that my toddler self didn't fully appreciate the core of the film: the rich-poor dichotomy, or the courage it took for Baby to tell her father she was doin' it with the dance instructor.

If there's one thing I did understand, though,it was this: I was born to reinact that lift.

My aunt had one of those old brown-on-brown-plaid chairs with wooden arms just wide enough and flat enough for a 5-year-old to stand on. It was as close to a log over a ravine as I was going to get. Perfect. So -- without any warning -- I climbed up there, found a semblence of balance, yelled out "LIFT!" and flung myself, chest first, at the nearest adult. It happened to be my mom. Lucky her.

Lucky me, actually. She caught me (barely), and, in doing so, branded herself as my lift partner for the rest of the night. I don't know how many lifts we did, but I do remember asking before bed (all that dancing eventually had me all tuckered out, I'm sure) if we could continue the routine the next morning. The answer was decidedly no. Alas.

When I saw the movie again as a teenager, I understood more, but more was lost, too. The lift doesn't seem so awesome when it's set in the midst of abortion, shame, and that horrible "Hula Baby" rendition. Actually, though, I suppose understanding all the sociopolitical underpinnings of the movie makes the innocence of the lift all the more meaningful.

Ah, stark contrast. You make Dirty Dancing so... meta.

...Because she has to update her website.

2005-02-12T10:15:00.000-08:00

(That's the answer; if this was Jeopardy! the question would be: "What is the reason Erin goes to work every Saturday?").

So I'm back, sitting, staring, stalling, and getting up every 15 minutes to dance around in the lobby and turn the motion-sensor-activated lights back on. At least it's something to do. My other option: do my taxes (or, more accurately, watch my dad do my taxes while being lectured on my stupidity in fields with even the most remote connection to numbers.)

Song in heavy rotation: Maroon 5's "Must Get Out." I'm ready for a vacation. Or a two-day, work-free weekend. I'd settle for that, and I'm not one for settling. It has been stressed that now is the time; "our busy season" is fast approaching (no-day weekends?) so vacation should be taken at earliest convenience (therein lies the rub, of course.)

Where does one vacation in mid-February? Mardi Gras is over. Skiing has never been a viable option (though I've always been a proponent of emotional balance, physical balance is not a strong suit.) Chicago's in its slushy period, and I can't afford to ruin the bottom of another pair of jeans. Vegas is rife with white-trash Valentines taking a number to walk down the same aisle as Britney. And the beach... really? The beach? Now? No.

So, it's dancing (solo) in the lobby for me.*

I'm actually kind of surprised at how bored I am. Things ("things") are up in the air for me right now, and -- hark back to the whole balance issue -- that just doesn't work for me. I should have plenty to get all worked up over and consumed by. But my state of mind right now is decidedly "meh."

I guess I'm going through a paradox-is-sexy phase (that's what I'll chalk it up to, at least.) I mean, what's the real reason I come to work every weekend? It's not because I'm swamped; it's because I can't stand to start a project, then sit around knowing it could be closer to finished. So that's the thought process I should operate in under all circumstances, right? Nope. Because the second any kind of confrontation becomes necessary, I freeze. So I'm frozen. Frozen in "meh" mode. I'm sure I'll thaw, probably at the least convenient time. Can't wait.

Last night I turned the water pressure in my shower up to full blast, just to make sure it still hurt. It wasn't as painful as I recalled.

*At least now that I've been doing the Grind, I can bring in an awesome routine.

Hearts of Darkness

2005-02-05T17:50:00.000-08:00

Or: Are Warlocks and Strong Mayors Taking Over Boca Raton?

Wow. What a week. I should have known as soon as the first Sprint fiasco of '05 hit on Monday that this week was going to be a little off. And by a little... I mean a lot.*

Many long stories short:

1.) Sprint will act all tough and turn off your phone, but if you yell (or, as in my case, get a friendly customer service representative), they will remove unnecessary charges without putting up any kind of fight whatsoever. In retrospect, that customer service representative was a pansy; I wish he would have let me argue a little more -- I was so ready to kick some over-the-phone ass.

2.) The Medill prophecy is coming true: punctuation can, in fact, make or break you in the journalistic world. Misplaced question mark? You're gone. (And for the record, that question mark after 'misplaced question mark' was not meant to represent a misplaced question mark.) It would be dangerous for me to elaborate any further.

3.) You know what's hilarious? Talking about how I was dumped for a Wiccan-vegan,** and how my ex-boyfriend is now a Warlock. Go ahead -- laugh it up. Everyone else has been (more than usual this week, I've noticed.) Thanks in advance for the friendly reminder that Valentine's Day is fast approaching. It's shaping up to be the best ever.

4.) Doing the Grind for three days in a row can make you feel great (especially when you spend half the warm-up laughing at Eric Nies and his anatomy lessons -- "hamstrings!") That great feeling can easily be negated by four vodka tonics on day 4.

5.) Violin-and-synthesizer duos playing the longest tango ever have no place in a tiny restaurant in which no meat is served.

* I've been doing that a lot lately -- you know, the thing I used to do where I'd say, "A, and by 'A'... I mean B." It used to be a little gem of trademark phraseology, but then I got over it for awhile. But it's appaarently making a comeback (I have no control, it seems), so never fear.

** For the record, that was five years ago, and yes, I was told at the time that I would look back on the whole bizzare scenario and laugh. Someday...

If it came down to it, the Kleenex would win.

2005-01-29T01:30:00.000-08:00

Today I saw a homeless guy on Oak Lawn with a sign that read:
"Hungry Vet. Visions of a HOT Cheeseburger. Please Help."

This sign made me think two things (neither of which had the slightest tinge of pity... sorry.)

The first was: "Dude. If it's a 'vision' of a chesseburger, how do you know it's 'hot'? They're called the five senses. Read up on 'em."

The second was: "Hey, I could go for a cheesburger right about now. But if I was going to make a sign, I'd pick a font much cooler than 'Bum W/ Sharpie Ultra Black Condensed.'" Maybe something with a serif... who knows.

I had another "Damn, I wish I had a camera" moment about two mintues later. There's this hoity-toity Bentley/Mercedes/Porshe/Other cars I'll never be able to afford dealership on Oak Lawn, and there were all these jacket-and-tie types out for test drives today. I don't need a picture of them, but I would like to have a picture of the medial strip right in front of the dealership, because there was a strategically placed box of tissues sqaring off with a just-as-strategically placed roll of toilet paper.

I mean, huh?

Is there some sort of message I'm missing here? (If I had a picture, I could maybe decipher what the artist was aiming for. I'd at least have more time to scratch my head about it.) It was pretty cool, though, to see the jacket-and-ties going about their test-driving business, all "look at me, throwing this Bentley into reverse without the slightest concern that someone on Oak Lawn might actually be trying to get somewhere and could be hindered by my carefree display of auto ballet on a major Dallas thoroughfare," while, on a medial strip mere feet away, some weird installation art/social commentary/creative use of sanitary paper products was in full swing. The juxtaposition was fascinating.

In other news, this week I: was named the design equivalent of "assistant to the regional manager," got scammed out of a sum that will go unmentioned for reasons of pride and sanity, sulked a lot, was pelted in the face with a teal-colored balloon, got an e-mail from Wonderboy5000, and was told, via a "number-1 bestseller," that I am a domestic at heart and that, if I don't already like spending time in the kitchen, I should read a book about cooking, because that's all I've got to look forward to.

Rock.

I'm Not. That. Innocent.

2005-01-23T15:30:00.000-08:00

I'm really over that "'sup" look from the 'hood. You know, the one where you cock your head back to the left about a quarter of a centimeter and purse your lips a little. It's like the laziest greeting ever, especially now, since the gesture itself is taken to imply the 'sup, thus rendering speaking unnecessary.

But anyway, that's what she gave me.

('Sup look from the 'hood) "Whaddaya in for?"
(Nonchalant) "I sped. You?"
(All tough gal) "Seatbelt violation. But I didn't do it."
(Huh?) "Didn't wear a seatbelt, or didn't violate a seatbelt?"
(Duh.) "Didn't have a seatbelt violation. I'm pleading not guilty. I always wear my seatbelt. Everyone should."
(Ohhh.) "Yeah. I do. I always do." (How, pray tell, do you get pulled over for a seatbelt violation? Isn't being issued a seatbelt violation like the officer admitting he was checkin' out your rack while you were in what you thought was the privacy of your own vehicle? Furthermore, can you make a citizen's arrest for the issuing officer on grounds of sexual harrassment? Those dudes deserve to have the tables turned on them every once in awhile. Except Officer Kevin.)
(Finger-combing crispy bangs) "Real crime is I was driving through Highland Park in the first place."
(Moving right along) "Yeah, they'll get ya." (Craning neck to hear: "The law's strict on this. One more violation and you're in jail." "Yeah, I know, but..." "No buts! Pay your fine and quit drivin' around trying to kill people! NEXT!" Wait... let me get this straight... the law is strict about not driving around trying to kill people? Good to know. Learn something new every court date.)
(Facade falls) "I'm not guilty. I'm not. Always. I always wear my seatbelt."
(Uh-huh, whatever) "Better hope your issuing officer's not here then."
(Wait a tic) "Yeah, better hope. Wait, why?"
(Now who's the one in the know about the justice system?) "Well, if he's not here, no one's here to bring a case against you. If he is, then it's his word against yours, and who do you think the judge is going to believe?"
(Ah. Shit.) "Well, they'll have to tell me if he's here, won't they? How am I supposed to know if I want to plead guilty or not guilty if I don't know if I could win or lose?"
(Lady, please) "They're not going to tell you. It's a crap shoot. Hey, you're up. Good luck."
(Shit, shit, shiiiiit!) "Uh-huh."

Sometimes I wonder what happened to that crispy-banged vehicle safety crusader. And by "sometimes," I mean I haven't thought about her again 'til now.

I also wonder how, when there are apparently people who don't know that it's bad to drive around on murderous rampages (which is an assumption, but a true one, I'm sure), I (innocent, white-shirt-wearing, driving a little too fast to work on a holiday, for God's sake!) could be punished for something so minor. People have too much time on their hands. Too much time to be grotsky little bi-otches.

Anyway, I'm on parole now.

And by "parole," I mean probation.

(But really, doesn't parole sound so much cooler? "Yeah, I can drive to lunch, but I should call my parooooh-le officer first. Can't be too careful, ya know, when you're on parooooh-le." Yeah, totally sexy.)

"So you're just, like, prematurely OLD?"

2005-01-16T17:07:00.000-08:00

I feel old. In the months since graduation (there have only been six), I’ve fallen back on the phrase “I’m too old for this” more than any normal 23-year-old should. Of course, one of the times that phrase was employed involved certain people running around hotels in their underwear babbling drunkenly about “Vodka Claus,” so I’m validated at least once.

I saw “In Good Company” this weekend, and it kind of freakishly hit home. The Topher Grace character, who’s married to a job he knows nothing about and who carries on his most meaningful conversations with a goldfish, is accused of being “prematurely old” because he graduated, landed a job, got rich/married/divorced in a matter of months, and woke up one morning realizing he envied his Volvo-driving underling.*

The getting rich/married/divorced thing isn’t so applicable, but still…

What the heck is wrong with me that I’d rather tool around in a well-appointed SUV contemplating 401Ks and networking strategies and the latest episode of Frontline (OK, Real World/Road Rules Battle of the Sexes) than act like the average bar-going, money-squandering, entry-level 23-year-old? Stability from stability is nothing to write home about. (But then again, why write home about anything? I go there every weekend to do laundry; why not just tell them about it.)

At least I got a new phone number so I can join up with the HP Singles.** Maybe social interaction will loosen me up a little. Or maybe all the HP Singles are career-driven, stability-chasing business wunderkinds who joined as an outlet from their intense careers and accelerated need to get a proverbial life. Ummm…

*The Volvo, of course, symbolizes the Dennis Quaid character’s sense of suburban stability. His car’s a wagon, not an SUV, but there’s still an eerie parallelism with my own Volvo-centric observations, I think.

** I really hope my out-of-state number is the reason they didn’t call me for my “screening.” Maybe they found out that I lied about my zip code (I spend a lot of time in that zip code; I just don’t technically live in it!) or that I’m wanted by the HP police for a major badass speeding offense.

Label Whore

2005-01-08T10:15:00.000-08:00

The stamp across my hand reads "COMPLEX."

Is that a nod to my access (granted by presence of aforementioned stamp) to "eight clubs in one?" Or is it an inky description of my very nature? And, if it's the latter, how did the dude at the door know?

Either way, I can tell the stamp's not making any plans for coming off soon. After all the lathering and polishing and scrubbing and buffing, perhaps a better brand would be "CHAFED."

"Welcome to Academia. Bitch."*

2005-01-07T09:00:00.000-08:00

Northwesterners started their Winter Quarter on Monday, and I've already been assured that the two things that MUST happen Winter Quarter are indeed happening. One is snow ("ten feet" according to sources in Texas. And by "sources," I mean Mary.)The other is midterms (or quizzes or problem sets or projects or proposals) occurring about point-five seconds after classes commence. So, in the spirit of being tested on knowledge you don't yet possess (or possess by fluke,) a quiz:

1.) [Physics] The other day, our apartment was frickin' freezing; Mary (in six layers, including scarf) said she felt like "an effin' popcicle." This is not to be confused with a popcicle made of Effin brand vodka, because, as we all know, you put vodka in the freezer to chill it -- the freezer temperature is not low enough to make vodka freeze. At what temperature, then, DOES vodka freeze? (This is question #1 because it is of the utmost importance; I really WANT an Effin popcicle, now that I've had time to think about it.)

2.) [TV Trivia] Fill in the Blank.
Elaine: "I don't like to go to those back specialists. They all have clever names like 'Great Vertebrations' and __________."
Hal: "Oh, mine doesn't. It's called The Lumbar Yard."

3.) [Pop Culture Speculation] Jay-Z has 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one. So what are the 99? (I'll give you a bonus: one is "bad grammar/ use of the word 'ain't.' What are the other 98?)

4.) [EQ Trivia] Multiple Choice.
Erin is:
a. Not that innocent
b. Stronger than yesterday
c. Toxic
d. Overprotected
e. Not a girl, not yet a woman

5.) [General Knowledge] Am I right or am I right?

That's it, kiddos. There's no extra credit, but you can use your books. Highest score gets an Effin popcicle.

* Yeah, that title is stolen. Hence the quotation marks. But it's fitting, even if it's not being used as a (very effective) pick-up line.

Hazy and Dolorous

2005-01-02T16:30:00.000-08:00

I’m in that wispy state that comes from waking abruptly from a 40-minute “am I really asleep?”-type nap. I'm acutely aware of all of my joints (is that a sign of kinesthetic genius?) I’m working on a restlessness that is the sum of six diet cherry cokes, four bottled mochas, five hours of sitting, staring, drawing (trying to, at least), watching, drifting.

It goes something like this: “Lost in Translation” plus big comfy bed plus late night/early morning, plus caffeine-induced jitters equals power nap (power trip). My dream (a by-product of conversations past, viewing material present, and illustration activities remote): I am one of those trippy Japanamation girls. Pink pigtails. Toothpick legs topped off with a pleated white skirt. Bangs that could define geometric laws of linearity. Eyes that take up three quarters of my face. I want to communicate (at least I think I do), but my black ovular mouth only moves in one direction (up down) and the whatever fills the ensuing talk bubble is certainly not English. I can only express my frustrations ocularly: the orbs morph into two slivers with three black lashes each. A crescent tear appears at each temple. Scene.

I remember – pre-sleep or post? Must be pre-, during the karaoke scene – a time when I could throw back some mid-shelf tequila and rock myself and the other regulars out to a song destined for (or already comfortably positioned on) a worst-of-all-time list. I remember Air Guitar Evan, and the point at which laughing at his strumming and grinding and vest-wearing shifted from logical to slightly uncomfortable. I remember the only bar with a Golden Tee I never saw anyone play.

4:30. Any Sunday: My least favorite time of the week. Too early to turn in, too late to take off the pj’s, too early to be creative (only after dark), too late to be productive. It’s 4:28. If this was 2004, or oh-three or oh-two or oh-one, I would be in a cab from O’Hare, slightly carsick and jet-lagged (no time difference, but jet-lagged nonetheless.) I would also be (balance, always balance) in awe of the three weeks’ progress of the icicles and in anticipation of winding down and catching up, of starting a new quarter and prepping for yet another first day of school. And of course, in spite of some lagging, nagging feelings of heaviness, I would make time for a new year’s welcome-back galavant to 1800.

Now: Time to fold the laundry, doff the pajamas (if only for a few hours), get behind the wheel and drive back to the ordinary. It’s Sunday, the last 4:30 before a string of five (sometimes six) 4:30s spent “on the clock.” There will be no 1800 tonight: no karaoke, no cleavage, no secondhand smoke, no amaretto sours or sours of any kind. This is a different kind of rut altogether.

Breakin' the law, breakin' the law

2004-12-31T10:00:00.000-08:00

I got my first speeding ticket about ten minutes ago. Sweet, right? I should probably be pissed, or, more accurately, given my aim-to-please-yes-officer persona, shaken out of my wits. But I'm neither. Here's why:

1.) The good officer undershot my weight by about 30 pounds on the citation (despite the track-pants-and-t-shirt-getup, a product of just coming from the too-crowded-to-even-park gym), and

2.) I've decided to take the whole thing as a sign.

2004 was a year for dean's lists and diplomas and kick-ass interviews and dream jobs. It's the eve of 2005, and a speeding ticket (fine level TWO because I was going 13 over) is, I think, just what I need to kick off a year of being a badass. That's right: no more law-abiding, rule-following, grammatically correct pushover, no sir. Actually, screw that "sir;" pretend I said "no fuckin' way!... Bitch!"

Being nice has gotten me nowhere this year. Well, that's a lie. It's gotten me to work on Saturdays. It's gotten me to say yes when I mean no, to say nothing when I should be saying everything. It's gotten me a semblance of (air quotes) stability at a time when stability should be the last thing on my mind.

So... yeah. Don't be surprised if, come tomorrow, I tell you, "Fuck off. I'm off to knock over the Parkit Market and misplace some punctuation, so I don't have time for you and your bullshit." Don't be offended either. I don't want to burn too many bridges, since 2006 might turn out to be the year of reestablishing innocence lost to 2005.

Now: I am off to plead no contest to the internet police and pay my fine in a timely manner. Hey, being a badass is going to take some getting used to... and I still have 14 hours of good-girl left to endure.

If "Sic as a Gotcha" was a band, it would write lyrics like...

2004-12-28T10:55:00.000-08:00

"Opened up your heart 'cause you said I made you feel so comfortable/
Used to play back then, now you all grown-up like Rudy Huxtable"

That's sheer poetic genius from Ludacris (why doesn't it ever occur to ME to rhyme things like "comfortable" and "Huxtable"?)

Now, I know year-in-review specials are all the rage* this time of year. I don't want to do one because I feel that all the moving around(Colleyville to Evanston to Chicago to Colleyville to Dallas) has jarred my usually-acute sense of pop culture and general year-long awesomeness-awareness. There are, of course, some things that can't go unmentioned as highlights of the year; above are the best song lyrics of 2004. I'll have to think of some other best-ofs before I get a real compendium going. Those lyrics should keep you going 'til then, though. I mean... HUXTABLE?**

* What isn't "all the rage," though, really? Also, hey, if something is ALL the rage, doesn't that mean that there's no rage left to be had by anything else that's supposedly "all the rage?" I'm confused about rage distribution, I guess. Can anything be described as "some of the rage" right now?

** You know, Rudy Huxtable really is all grown up. She's the skanky girl in the Chingy video for "One Call Away," a song about falling in love at Bank of America. Ooh! Here's a good idea: instead of a year-end review of random "best" things, how about a list of 2004's best use of product placement? I'll work on that, too.

So hot (glue) right now

2004-12-23T07:55:00.000-08:00

It’s snowing! It’s Christmas! Why are those two occurrences married in my mind? Probably all those Ohio Christmases, followed by all those Chicago winters. I must’ve partially blocked the Texas “winters” – the one-day sleetfests during which I attempted to navigate my poor little hydroplaning convertible through panicked, Costco-bound traffic – because I can’t dredge up any sentimental attachment to them like I can the others.

The best thing about snow is that smell that precedes a good snowfall. If anticipation had a scent, it would be that gritty, frozen dirt-y smell that comes before snow (never during snow – only before.) The smell of pre-snow defies the laws of the senses – you can smell something you should only be able to feel, and that’s trippy… in the best way.

So now that the weather has cemented in my mind the fact that* it is actually, really, honest-to-goodness Christmas, I suppose I should make my list. I usually like making lists (not necessarily Christmas-related; just list lists), but this is a tough one. I don’t need anything, really, and most of the stuff I want isn’t tangible, and thus could never include fun wrapping and pretty bows. Bah humbug. What good’s a Christmas list if it doesn’t involve the potential for a trip to GIFT WRAP WONDERLAND? We’ll see, I guess, because here it is. This year for Christmas, I want:

1. To find a happy medium between freezing and blistering in my shower

2. To develop a taste for good wine**

3. To spend a month at the Cabin with a typewriter *** and some blank canvas and my acrylics and a bottle of Mod Podge and no TV or VCR or DVD or cell phone or internet(s) or relatives

4. For all the Dallas drivers to suddenly realize that those little flicky bars on the sides of their steering wheels are magically connected to their turn signals

5. To do something perfectly the first time around

6. To have a real Chicago-after-first-snow-style snowball fight

7. For VH1 to call and offer me that commentator spot on the “I Love the ‘90s” sequel (they live for that witty, no-name journalist shtick, right?)

8. A Volvo SUV. (I guess that could potentially involve some kind of awesome bow, but that’s not why I want one.) There’s something about Volvos I associate with stability (emotional and financial). Plus, I would finally feel safe driving through the throngs of Park Cities moms who think they’ve earned (or at least married into) the right-of-way. And I could trick and SUV all out with those big yellow-ribbon support our troops magnets… Or not. You know… whatever.

9. To get my crafty streak back. I used to be a kind of white trash Martha Stewart, but I don’t get the same thrill from a hot glue gun that I used to. Don’t get me wrong: hot glue is still the sexiest of all adhesives (and I’ve tried them all.) I think we’re just getting to a more comfortable place in our relationship.

10. To wake up some morning with something far more profound and eloquent to write about than craft supplies and my need for a sense of emotional permanence buttressed by a large automobile.****

* Sorry, Strunk & White; sometimes I just have to use “the fact that.” I have to!
** No, Robyn, Boone’s Farm does not count. Although I will say, the satisfying “chhhhssssh” of the twist-off cap will always be a classic in my mind.
*** I’m pretty sure I’d get sick of a typewriter after about, oh, say, one mistake. But it’s romantic and writerly nonetheless, and it’s my wish list, so I’m leaving it.
**** Of course, a Christmas list isn't legit without a bottom line, so here's mine: All I want for Christmas is you. Bi-otch.

I'm just a girl...

2004-12-22T15:48:00.000-08:00

... standing in front of her blog... asking it to update its damn self!

You know what would be funny? If I updated my blog. On a Wednesday, of all days. Yep, I know you're dying laughing right now because of how hi-freakin'-larious this whole scenario is.*

I'm completely devoid of interesting experiences to write about, but since there's apparently such a great demand for my writing (regardless of how trite), I'll have to start making stuff up. It shouldn't be hard -- I tend to drift in and out of fiction-capable mode, and snowy (!!!) weather and glowing fireplaces and rememberances of holiday hijinx past act as accelerants in most cases.

Also, I just (re)read one of the most beautiful Nabokov sentences, and it evoked memories of the so-called days of yore when I was a writer and not just a MacMonkey (that's Scottish for creatively-stifled laborer.) I can't replicate the sentence here because a.) I don't remember it exactly, and I wouldn't do it justice by paraphrasing and b.) perhaps the suspense will get to you and you'll read Nabokov voraciously, and then, when you least expect it, you'll come across the most perfect (non-plot-relevant) sentence possibly ever written. What a romantic notion. I'll give you a hint: it's about windowpanes.

Of course, I can't fictionate when I'm in the company of ... people in general, so I'll save it for a really good Saturday post (again, when you least expect it.) For now, I'll occasionally lean back to see if I can see snow out the narrow blinded window that's kind of close to my desk, and I'll try to puzzle out those Christmas Eves when we'd all watch Lonesome Dove and wrap each others' presents (when the receivers were in the room! The scandal!) and when I didn't know why it was funny to call it (every year) "the last good Christmas." I may also try to pinpoint just when that term became applicable, although I'm pretty sure I don't really want to know.

*Actually, please try NOT to die laughing. Craig says dying people are really good at holding on through one... more... holiday ..., so I'm sure you can contain yourself.

Can’t Say I’ve Been “Missing” It, Bob

2004-12-17T06:24:00.000-08:00

I’ve been having “Office Space” moments more and more lately.* Not to worry – it’s nothing a little empowering, impromptu karaoke-to-self action can’t fix; I think I just need a complete-weekend detox. Too bad that complete weekend is going to have to involve Christmas (and, necessarily, the shopping and wrapping and arguing and early rising and incessant cheery music and effed-up sugar cookies** that come with it.)

I haven’t been able to get into the spirit this year. I’m sure it has something to do with the combination of the absence of pre-holiday snow (at least I got to see it when I was in Evanston) and the ubiquitous presence of the excess and overindulgence so characteristic of Dallas. I’m over it, so I’ve decided to kind of sidestep feeling Christmas spirit and march right on ahead to New Years.

I’m always the first to say that New Years is a bullshit holiday. Everyone makes a big deal out of it and has these grand expectations of getting sloshed and making out. But, really, can’t you do that any other night of the year when drinks are cheaper and there are no silly metallic-cardboard tiaras you feel obligated to wear “because it’s a holiday”? I’m probably just jaded because I’ve never had a really good New Years make-out. Maybe this is the year…***

As much as that last statement is false (ha!), this is definitely true: this is the year to have a real stick-to-it resolution. I’ve been thinking about it, and now that I’ve cut some toxic behavior out of my agenda (see the first footnote again if you’ve forgotten) I can think about it even more. I’d like to say my resolutions will include trading Cosmo for something at least semi-reputable (that will never happen – if anything, I’ll continue reading Cosmo and then add something more reputable to my usual 8+ magazines a month), and squelching the urge to quote “Mean Girls” (but it’s just so applicable!) It will probably be more along the lines of “quit being a creative pushover.” Boring for you, kind of an exciting prospect for me. We shall see.

‘Til New Years, I have a little Penta**** aggression to take out on some Christmas ribbon. What is it about curling ribbon with razor-sharp scissors that’s so satisfying? I’m going to go with that refreshing little “zzzzzip!”

* Drinking at lunch and complaining about money have been duly removed from my metaphorical agenda (thus rendering said agenda almost completely empty.)

** When did my mom and I stop getting these right? I swear they were good for years. But the past couple of Christmases, there have been too many baking-soda-instead-of-baking-powder and butter-frosting-instead-of-powdered-sugar frosting incidents to count. Maybe we should save the eggnog for after the baking…

*** One reason that statement is so hilariously off-base: I think today I actually said something along the lines of “I can’t wait ‘til it’s 2005 so I can finally start using my cat calendar.”

**** Shut up – here’s the rule: A joke ceases to be funny once you package it as new and repeat in the presence of the first person you told it to. It resumes being funny once that first recipient resurrects in a new forum and tells it like she made it up. (But… will anyone else in this forum get it? Meh. Probably not. Oh well… now that I’ve used it, it’s fair game for anyone.)

I'll never really be like Jane

2004-12-11T16:45:00.000-08:00

Notice how I always post on Saturdays. Also notice how I don't have internet at my apartment. Continue noticing long enough to notice that the only time I get to use the internet is at work. Draw conclusions accordingly.

I just (almost) finished an illustration, which is pretty weird because I don't know how to draw. Or use Illustrator very well. I'm happy with the way it turned out, but I'm not going to volunteer to do another for a long time. I have discovered over the course of the last five hours that drawing dogs in Illustrator is my Kryptonite. I can pull off humans, but dogs are a different story altogether. I suppose you learn something new about yourself every day.

I made another shocking discovery today. There's a magazine called EQ Magazine. I don't know why that pisses me off so much. Probably because I want my own magazine, and now the most obvious title is taken by a stupid publication about using computerized drum sets or something (is there really THAT much to say about it?!?!) Also, I feel I kind of have claim to EQ. If I knew beforehand that it was going to be a magazine title, I would have tried to get a trademark or something, so at least I could collect royalties.

Check the magazine out at eqmag.com ... but don't buy any of the merchandise, because, technically, I should be getting a cut of that money and I'm not.

So you wanna be a wrap superstar?

2004-12-04T14:32:00.000-08:00

I wasn't in the best mood yesterday. My first thought was "Buy a bottle of vodka and drink alone and mope!" My second thought was somewhat healthier. It was "Go watch Colin Farrell rock a skirt for three hours!" Sure, "Alexander" got horrible reviews, and sure, it would mean going to another movie by myself,* but it's rare for a girl to be promised guy-on-guy action in a movie, and even more rare for that promise to include Colin Farrell-on-Jordan Catalano action. Couldn't be THAT bad, right? Riiiiiight? Yeah... not right.

First of all, *hugging* does not count as guy-on-guy action. But try as he might, little doe-eyed Jordan Catalano couldn't even get to first base with Alexander**. Sad for him. Even sadder for me. (On a side note, just how *pretty* can a guy actually be? Catalano crosses that line, I think.)

Second of all, if there's one thing I thought I'd never get sick of, it was Colin Farrell's legs (etc...) Wrong. 173 minutes of Colin's legs was overkill, even for me. And he was playing Alexander, my historical crush, so I should have been fascinated by things beyond the aesthetics. But I wasn't. The one up-side is that I had 173 whole minutes to perfect my Alexander and Hephastion trying (so hard!) to express emotion with their eyes impression. I think I have it down, and if you want to save eight bucks and about a million hours, you should ask me to reinact.

Instead of seeing the movie, I should have just done what I did today. I went to the most magical place in the world (wait for it... wait for it...) GIFT WRAP WONDERLAND!!!! Boy, I tell ya what. That Container Store sure knows what it's doing, with all the wrapping paper and tape and shit. I could say with almost one hundred percent certainty that I spend more on gift wrap than on actual presents, and it's all because of GIFT WRAP WONDERLAND!!!! So many options! So seductive! So freakin' expensive! But it's worth it.

Wrapping presents is my favorite part of the holidays, probably because it's a quiet, alone-time activity that doesn't involve relatives or dressing up or the need for "cheer" and "good will." I basically get to play with sharp objects and disguise something really crappy as something really awesome. And I dig that.

* Actually, I make a really good movie date. I never have that who-buys-the-popcorn debate, I always agree with the witty comments I make to myself during the movie, and I usually put out at the end of the night.

** "Alexander the Great... or should I say 'Alexander the SO-SO?'"

I hated "On the Road"

2004-11-28T21:45:00.000-08:00

Things learned from this weekend's wedding/mini-reunion (perhaps an ongoing list):

1. There is a correct way to pronounce the word "podium," and then there is a hilarious way.
2. Some people never grow up (Vodka Claus is one of those people.)
3. When it comes to panic-attack-inducing locales, the airport trumps the mall any day of the year (yes, even the busiest shopping day of the year.)
4. "I feel like a rose sitting between two thorns" is NOT a compliment. Nor is it meaningful in the slightest.
5. When in the company of sober Navy boys, singing "In the Navy" is considered poor form. When in the company of less-than-sober Navy boys, nothing is considered poor form.
6. It is possible -- though frowned upon -- to check out a guy's ass while he's in line to take communion.
7. There is no need to worry that, as a non-Catholic, you will feel guilty about your religion--or lack thereof--following a Catholic wedding ceremony. There is an enormous need to worry that, as a single woman, you will feel guilty about your relationship status-- or lack thereof--following a Catholic wedding ceremony.
8. There is a Waffle House mafia. It owns Georgia. And why not? The fine folks at the WH can work a potato like nobody's damn business.
9. Though humiliating to admit, it is possible to suffer defeat at the hands of gigantic men who call themselves "Rainbow Warriors."
10. The FCC can censor "Saving Private Ryan," but can allow the line "I had the naughtiest dream about an improper fraction last night" to be uttered on a Saturday morning children's television program.
11. Nothing shows a couple love for each other more than when they push each other off a bed (in some cases inducing actual tears.)
12. If you're trying to throw your bouquet to a specific person, aim away from them; flowers will inevitably fly in the direction opposite the one you try for.
13. The Peanuts theme song is apparently appropriate to head-bang to.
14. You know your friendship is meant to last when it turns out you're wearing the exact same navy-with-light-blue-and-white paisly Victoria's Secret underwear as one another.
15. It is possible for the youngest people in a group to be "too old for this."

Just like growing older...

2004-11-25T12:42:00.000-08:00

I anticipate post-wedding travel/tiredness/melancholia will preclude me from writing on my actual birthday, so I'll jump the gun a little.

Apparently, my iTunes playlist* indicates me as a "high school student on an undercover assignment to see what it's like working in 'the real world.'" But despite all the now-that-it's-your-birthday-you're-finally-legal-to-drive**jokes, I feel really old. A few examples of why I'm feeling particularly early-bird-special-eligible this year:

1.) A conversation with Avril Lavigne goes something like this:
AL: How old are you? You sound really young.
EQ: I'm 22.
AL: Oh, so you graduated from college?
EQ: Yeah, in June.
AL: Oh, yeah. I'm not going to college. I mean, I've already done everything I want to do, and I'm going to keep focusing on my career.***

2.) "Alexander" comes out today. Alexander the Great had conquered 90% of the civilized world by the time he was 25. I'll give myself a few years grace period, since there's more civilized world nowadays (well, that's questionable, I guess.) But... SHIT! I've got to get going on that whole world domination plan.... or at least start making enough money to shop somewhere besides Target.

3.) An article in "Jane" a few months back focused on young women as the new career threat. And they weren't talking young, as in 23 young. They were talking young as in so-awesome-she-didn't-have-to-go-to-college-and-just-started-her-own-magazine young (that would be namesake Jane herself, who, cocky, self-possessed bitch that she is, is really effin' awesome in general.) The story was so kind as to point out that, at 23, I'm far to old to be the youngest novelist/magazine editor/fashion designer/Pulizer winner/anything. Don't get me wrong; it's not that I need the "youngest-whatever" gimmick to feel successful, but everyone's so focused on phenoms that it's hard to stand out, even when you graduated at the top of an awesome class at an awesome college**** and have a pretty great resume for someone who's spent the past 18 years in school.

Look at it this way: if someone was going to start a magazine and was looking for an editor-in-cheif, would he pick: A.) The 23-year-old who spent four years in journalism school and has had a variety of odd-journalism-related gigs between quarters or B.) The Lindsay Lohan/Olsen Twins/Britney Spears/Jane Pratt of the journalism world who hasn't necessarily done anything over-the-top cool, but who got good word of mouth because she did something marginally cool at age 12? Yeah, it's a tough one. I'd probably pick B, you know, if I ever wanted to give away a magazine job.

Maybe spending the weekend with people who are (gasp!) going to grad school and who won't be out in the full-time workforce until they're 26 will ground me a little. We'll see. 'Til then... I'm going home for Thanksgiving, where I'll eat dinner at 2, make it halfway through a sappy family movie before falling asleep, and then wake up at 5 (no alarm) to hang out with the cat. Just like an old person....

* It's, like, the most totally awesome playlist ever, dudes, so shut it!
** Smart-asses. I've been able to drive forever. Now I'm finally legal to DRINK.
*** ...At which point I think, "Yeah, I should probably think about doing that sometime soon." ... At which point I re-think, "What the fuck do I call driving an hour to Fort Worth to talk on the phone to some 19-year-old punk-ass if not 'focusing on my career?'" ... At which point I re-re-think, "Is this what I want my CAREER to be? Yeesh!"
**** I hardly ever feel like Northwestern was a waste of time I could have spent "focusing on my career." (Key words: hardly ever.)

See: pinkprincess.blogspot.com

2004-11-20T13:46:00.000-08:00

You want updates? Well, why you gotta be all up in my grill about it, bi-otch? (Cowers) Just kidding. I'll update. I'm updating right now. I'm sorry (and if I was the kind of gal who peppered her writing with emoticons, there'd be a little blushing sheepish-face right here... but I'm not... so there's not.)

Anyway, not much news. I've had a couple of minor breakdowns in the past week, one ending with my mom saying: "you're wierd. What did I ever do to you to make you so wierd?"* and the other ending with my mom saying: "as soon as you get health insurance, you're going back on that Paxil."**

So the first breakdown was at the mall (how the hell did I end up in a mall... with my mom?) after seeing Bridget Jones 2 (perhaps the source of said breakdown.) Granted, the mall can give just about anyone sweaty palms at this time of the year, but my little episode is the worst I've had since I quit taking anti-freakout drugs.*** This one had it all – the cold sweat, the shaky limbs, the acute awareness of every stroller w/ howling child within a 50 foot radius. I actually almost had to sit down (nowhere to go but the food court – I passed and stuck it out.)

To make matters worse, my mom had to go on and on about how strange my adverse reaction to humankind was. I couldn’t explain to her that I react differently to crowds (especially crowds made up of chattering parents grabbing at rayon shirts and plastic watches like they’re going out of style [a note – those things were never in style] while their 3+ slimy little kids dart in and out of clothes racks and wipe their noses on the backs of their wrists) than most normal, adjusted, mall-going adults do. It’s not anything that could have been foreseen or avoided by reading Spock or some shit.

The second breakdown (much less severe) came when I got the COME TO RECRUITMENT!!! e-mail that I knew was on the way. I used to be pretty kickass at that kind of thing. You could set me down in a room crowded with eager freshman girls and make me shake a hundred hands and start a hundred conversations, and I would be witty and charming and totally in control of the situation. And I wasn’t just tolerating it – I was thriving on it. If I had to do something like Rush now, much tequila and breathing into a paper bag would be involved. Oh, and some of that hand-sanitizing lotion. Pathetic.

For now, I’ll just pass it all off as a typical holiday-induced malaise-and-anxiety cocktail. But I’ll need to start working on getting that charming-around-strangers thing back. That thing was pretty cool.

*Thanks for the support.
** That's more like it. There's nothing like happiness-inducing, anxiety-squelching awesomeness all bundled up into an adoreable pink shell. Nothing. (And on Paxil, PINK goes with everything!)
*** ... And I love what you do, but you know that you're toxic.

Hey, hey, hey, hey WHAT is going on here?

2004-11-12T08:26:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I woke up at an ungodly hour; because my usual 7 a.m. programming (the previous day’s E!News or some other such brain-power-not-necessary early fare) wasn’t on, I watched Saved by the Bell instead. Ah, good old Saved by the Bell… like Seinfeld, it’s a show whose references are applicable on an almost daily basis. Yesterday’s episode was particularly relevant, and as I watched those crazy kids struggle through election time at Bayside, I noticed a few striking parallels.*

We have our underachieving, supposedly “charismatic” goofball (Zack Morris/ George W.) versus our less-fun-but-more-practical intellectual (Jessie Spano/ John Kerry.) One candidate is in the race because he thinks he can get (a week/ four more years) off from (the taxing daily ritual of school, detention, and homework / the taxing daily ritual of stringing words together to make “sentences.”) The winner of the election, you see, gets to spend (a week/ four more years) on a trip (to Washington, D.C./ that includes landing planes on aircraft carriers – yippee!) The other, obviously more-qualified candidate is in the race because (she/he) thinks (she/he) can make some changes for the better. As if that matters.

One candidate has a too-perky-to-be-a-good-idea running mate (Kelly Kapowski/ John Edwards) who probably doesn’t do (Jessie/ John) any favors by going on and on about (losing the “jock support”/ health care.) But they’re cute, so who cares, right? The other candidate is allied with a big geek (Screech/ Cheney) who will inevitably, if elected, (do all the work/ clean up all the messes.)

Unfortunately, as shown time and again, the (students/ voters) of (Bayside/America) aren’t too bright. They’ll fall for just about anything, so when they’re promised (MTV during study hall/ freedom from “trrrorists,”) they believe it and show support for the (class clown/ national dunce.) The qualified candidate is accused of having no (popular platform/personality) and, to prove (her/him)self, dumbs down and (promises, like, field trips to the mall/ goes windsurfing.)

Alas, it is not enough. The (geeks, dweebs, jocks, and party animals** / rich, born-agains, and Fox News watchers) turn out en masse to vote for their man. (Zack/W.) wins, and you can see it in the faces of the (dorks, who know what’s going on/liberal media): (Bayside/ America) is screwed for the next (semester/ four years-plus.)

And here the parallels end, because, in Saved by the Bell, Zack realizes he doesn’t want (and can’t handle) the job. He has a quickie heart-to-heart with Jessie (blankies and teddy bears are exchanged -- ???) and turns over the Bayside reins to his former opponent. All goes back to normal – the random geek goes back to being allowed to hang with the cool clique. Classes go back to being three minutes long. And that gag where a kid hides in one locker and then emerges from another (gasp!) goes back to being perfectly logical – and cool!

If only America had elections that ended with jokes like, “Don’t worry Screech. You’ll *always* be first dweeb.”

* This may be a stretch. Lots of things seem “striking” when it’s 6:30 a.m. and you haven’t polished off your first Diet Cherry yet.

** Classic line of the show, courtesy of Kelly: “Zack’s got the geeks, dweebs, jocks, and party animals. Now that’s what I call a Rainbow Coalition!” I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.

Meee-OW!

2004-11-10T10:40:00.000-08:00

I've been getting the most gorgeous sleep lately.* Maybe that's why I've been noticing all the minute-but-surreal things happening around me (especially in the mornings.) Today I became acutely aware of how many Park Cities cars have chrome accents on their doors; of how I pass the same people on my way to work every day (hello to the driver of the 2005 Mercedes with the Park Place tags -- your ride is sweet, but I would have gone with black); of just how many half-full cans of Diet Cherry Coke are cluttering all the flat surfaces in my bedroom (oops.)

The strangest thing: today I was drumming my fingers on my steering wheel**, waiting for the (excruciatingly long) light at Mockingbird, when a black Crown Vic (the really harsh, boxy, old school pimp model) pulls up next to me. It's got red airbrushed writing on the doors and the trunk (faux-pas #1): Kitty Kat's Exotic Entertainment.*** There's also an airbrushed illustration of a cat (or, "kat,") and this is what really trips me out. Because it's not a c/kat you'd associate with strippers (er, "exotic entertainers") or Crown Vic drivers, or anyone except maybe your grandmother. It's not sleek or sexy or mysterious (as so many c/kats are): it's brown and long-haired and big-eyed and almost downright cute. Except that it has red eyes. Wow.

So, to the marketing executive that holds the (lucrative, I'm sure) Kitty Kat Exotic Entertainment account: you might want to rethink a few things. The ride is fitting, I suppose, but you may want to look into AP or MLA styles (misspellings strongly discouraged.) And buy copy of Cat Fancy; there are some pin-up-worthy felines in the pages of that fine publication for sure (turn to the center section, unfold, observe [ignore staples], repaint.)

*I've been attempting to replicate Midwestern autumns by sleeping with open windows; I haven't needed to set the alarm for a couple of days now; I've been having the most vivid dreams (and then promptly forgetting all except their vividness); and I just wish someone would burn a pile of leaves in my back"yard" (that would totally complete my faux-Evanston vision.)

** ...to "Goodies," one of my favorite songs to sing along to in the car (and one of the songs that will almost surely be playing on 106.7 between 8:02 and 8:17, when I'm typically commuting); I only really belt it out when it's the version with the rap, though.

*** Faux-pas #2: businesses that spell words incorrectly! Arg! That was definitely a factor in my 4-year boycott of Krispy Kreme (BOTH words spelled wrong!) and it has contributed to many comments-to-self while driving.

Don't ask, don't tell

2004-11-06T17:12:00.000-08:00

So recently a number of things* have come up that highlight my singledom. Honestly, I don’t mind being single – I’m way too focused on myself right now (read: always) to focus on someone else, let alone someone-else-and-me-as-a-unit [shudder.] But just because I dig being single doesn’t mean I want to talk about it or think about it all the damn time. I'm no Carrie Bradshaw.

In the interest, then, of steering my day-to-day conversations away from things you’d expect to find in Chick Lit [double shudder,] I have compiled this easy-to-access list.

The perfect guy must: require some kind of vision enhancement (20/20 freaks me out); read at least one book a month (alternating between novels and non-fiction, please; I need someone well-read and well-rounded); call me on my shit, no matter what (I don’t really mean that); let me win (in fights and at board games); write poetry (but not let me – or, God forbid, make me – read it); have impeccable grammar; excel in some kind of art (music is acceptable, but I prefer something visual); choose beer over liquor (most of the time); own something vintage (clothing’s OK, furniture’s better); be a cat person (even if he tells people he’s a dog person); be a Mac person (even if he used to be a PC person); tolerate my terrible taste in music (and sing along); be good at spur-of-the-moment math (because I’m useless in that department); subscribe to at least one magazine with great content and even better design (no, Maxim doesn’t count); be a morning person (who stays up late, too); be able to cook something (toast doesn’t count because I’ve got that covered); own some kind of hair-styling product (and use it – Boy Band Hair does it for me); write a letter every once in awhile (good handwriting’s a plus); know his way around a Home Depot (better than I do); know his way around a Crate and Barrel (there’s no way he could know this better than I do); be able to pull off pink (only occasionally); have a few bad habits (that I can break him of); have a few bad habits (that I’ll pick up and make my own bad habits); be sarcastic; be realistic; be the opposite of clingy; giggle like a girl sometimes; say nothing when I ask him to open a jar (because I got it started, dammit); refrain from using my sorority-girl past against me; hold my hand; believe in something (Russian literature, coffee, abstract art, the changing seasons, yoga, me ... anything).

So there it is. Of course, this list is by no means all-encompassing (I mean, I don’t want you to think I'm picky or have outrageous standards!) Now there’s no need to ask me about my perfect guy, no need to get all Sex & the City-girls-at-brunch (why don't they ever WORK?) on me, and, most importantly, no need for me to waste any more focus-on-me time by giving the standardized “smart, funny, cute” answer.

* Namely: being privy to Mary’s newfound obsession with “Sex & The City;” staying home from the decidedly-couples-only Cirque du Soleil and watching 20/20’s sex study instead; being asked on more than one (more than two) occasions about “my perfect man;” and being invited to the first (of many, I’m sure) of my college friends’ weddings.
** If anyone reading this happens to witness me on the brink of a Chick Lit conversation, please assist me in directing whomever I’m chatting with (bi-othces) to this site.

(N)ever (E)at (S)our (W)atermelon

2004-11-05T15:25:00.000-08:00

When I lived in Chicago, I had a great* sense of direction; I always knew where I was in relation to the lake, and, hence, everything else. Maybe being on foot had something to do with it, but I got rarely got lost in Chicago.**

I get lost all the time in Dallas, and it’s not just going to new places. I’ll think I know a “shortcut” to get home from my apartment, and I’ll end up in Arlington (I always end up in Arlington – how does that work?) I suppose it doesn’t help when “the West End” is east of downtown, and “East Dallas” is north of downtown, and downtown is south(???) of Colleyville, and there are no large bodies of water to act as directional magnets.

When I was in school, I had a pretty awesome directional sense, and I don’t just mean that in an “I’m facing south and I need to walk east (sense the lake sense the lake) aha! turn left” kind of way. I mean in an “I have a five-year plan, and keep outlines and spreadsheets and lists of attainable goals” kind of a way. Even toward the end when everyone else was tapering out, I was uber-direction-oriented: driven, optimistic, a little cutthroat, and more than a little neurotic. Now that I think about it, I probably scared a few people. Ah, well.

Unfortunately, the lethal combination of AssPubs and the outrageous cost of living in Chicago sent my sense of direction (in life, that is) into a tailspin, and now I’m here, where I don’t feel nearly as driven, and where I get (actually, physically) lost all the freakin’ time. I still have goals, and I’m still more driven*** than a lot of people, but I find that I’m getting comfortable, taking little shortcuts, and getting lost all over again.

So I’ve decided to look at this whole Dallas stint as nothing more than a minor detour (not accidental, but certainly not in the five-year plan.) It’s an economic detour, for sure, but it’s also kind of a regrouping detour. I know I’m going back to Chicago (the lake has a magnetic effect on me here, too; it’s just not quite strong enough to direct me away from Arlington) but it couldn’t hurt to stop, get my footing, and maybe (gasp) ask for directions for once.

* A message to those of you saying, “How is that possible?!”: zip it bi-otch!
** Except that one time. And here I should issue an apology to my mom, whom I called, cell phone battery on its last little life bar, to tell that I had walked 15 blocks west of the El station, couldn’t find a bus stop, and was standing on a concrete island in the middle of an intersection “in the ghetto,” asking people in with their windows rolled down for directions. (The ghetto part was maybe a little dramatic. Really I was near Diversey Lanes Rock’n’Bowl, which, in fairness to me, doesn’t need much to achieve full-on ghetto status.)
*** Maybe if I was (actually, physically) driven, I wouldn’t (actually, physically) get lost all the time. Something to look into…

Because everyone else is...?

2004-10-30T22:30:00.000-07:00

So does starting a blog at this relatively late point in the universal trend of blog-dom make me a sell-out? I mean, everyone is doing it (right?)*, and far be it from me to deny my own lemming mentality and stay out of the mainstream.

But there's a flip side: It's been so long since I've written just to write. For that matter, it's been for-freakin'-ever since I've written for any reason excluding mandatory assignments (ask me about my series -- spanning six quarters and probably 9 classes -- of A+ essays exploring lesbianism and/or pornography in [17-18-19-20]th Century [literature-art-journalism]**) or the promise of a minor pittance (ask me about my series -- spanning three years -- of $25 cliche-strings compiled under the heading "Erin pretends to know something about music."**)

So this isn't really selling out. It's [what's the opposite of selling out? Selling in? Buying out? Buying in? (no, that's selling out all over again)] um... it's good for me, that's what it is (if only because I get to make up my own punctuation rules and YOU have to figure them out!) Now that I think about it, the freedom this whole blog business gives me (that is, the freedom to get downright Faulknerian on your ass) is delicious. Scary delicious. (You see, if I hadn't added in that last parenthetical, the phrase "your ass is delicious" would have happened -- scandalous!)

ANYway...writing for writing's sake=good. It's something I'm [good at]*** and something people who never took an interest before (hi dad) think I should do more of. Plus, I've spent the last couple of years making it my business to write sexy, witty things about rock stars, and I'm the biggest rock star of all (you're gagging at this? Goooood... totally intended.)

So... write. I mean...right. You know who's hot? Augusten Burroughs. Of course, I've never seen a picture, so I'm not using "hot" in the Paris-Hiltonian sense of the word. I mean "hot" in the he-can-write-an-entire-piece-about-getting-the-best-blow-jobs-of-his-life-from-Catholic-priests-and-have-it-published-in-one-of-the-best-[definitely the best-designed]-magazines-in-the-country kind of way. That's me using a bunch of hyphens to say that any guy who can make me laugh out loud simply**** by putting the right words in the right order could have me any day (you know, questionable sexual practices with religious figures aside.)

Hey, while I'm exploring the smart/hot dichotomy, let's take a minute to give a shout-out to the Northwestern football team, which has once again shown that brawn and brains are not mutually exclusive (OK, so I know that NU football players are not especially endowed in the "brawn" department [and probably not the "brains" department, either, for that matter], but let me be romantic about it for a minute, will you?) The 'Cats beat Purdue today (barely, but whatever.) It's an especially sweet victory because Purdue still has that whole Drew Brees haughtiness thing going on, and also because I hate that giant drum thing they do (who thinks that's actually cool?)

So our defeat of the Boilermakers got me thinking about school mascots, and I came to the conclusion that mascots are just like fortune-cookie fortunes. You know, you're supposed to add the phrase "in bed" to the end of your fortunes, and sometimes it makes sense and is funny (and thus awesome) and sometimes it just falls flat. By the same token, if you can say "I'm a [insert mascot here] in bed," and it sounds sexy, you're golden. If not, you -- and your school -- obviously suck. Let's do a little test, shall we? In response to the question, "what's you'r school's mascot?" you say:

1.) I'm a Trojan [in bed] ... OK, Trojan... condom company... kinda funny. I'll let it pass.
2.) I'm a Spartan [in bed] ... ooh, that's too bad. Not sexy at all. Sorry.
3.) I'm a Boilermaker [in bed]... Heh??? And then... EW!
4.) I'm a Wildcat [in bed]... now that's what I'm talkin' about. RAWR!

Alright, point proven, I think. And.......all that mascot philosophizing wore me out. I think my work is done here (and I promise, this post is long because it's the first... not to say that I don't ramble, because, hell, look at me, I'm doing it right nowl; but I will try to be more concise in the future. Just givin' you a taste. Bi-otch.) Sorry, had to get at least one bi-otch in. I plan on making it a blog-motif. Get ready.......

* I'm succumbing to peer pressure more now than ever, to which I say...Huh?
** On second thought, don't ask
***Sorry to get all "physically interactive" on you, but please use air quotes around the phrase [good at.]
**** Simple? Who am I kidding?