Doing It

James just ate something crawly. Apparently whatever it was is incredibly tasty because he keeps licking his lips and scanning the walls for more of them. The good thing about having a cat is I always know there's a spider in the house before it's crawling on me. He's like a guard dog for all things under three inches. So, watch out tiny, little murdering men! My cat will most likely bat you around for a while and then get bored and eat you right before he decides it's time to give my shin a good licking.

So, my grandma got married this weekend! Yay! My mom, Bub, and Eduardo all flew out to Chicago first and hung out for a night before we rented a car and drove to Battle Creek, Michigan for the ceremony and so many meals consisting of 90% cheese I might be producing milk soon.

Battle Creek is where the Kellogg plant is, and from the looks of the town that's pretty much the only thing there aside from a few heavily bearded dudes offering my sister and me pitchers of their "special brew". We took a chance and they didn't end up to be roofied so that was good. Plus we drank it and then left immediately so we figured - well, if we're drugged at least we'll be drugged alone in our hotel room, the only bad thing about that is if one of us doesn't have the strength to turn off The Hills we're definitely leaving stupider than we arrived.

The cool thing about the town though is that the air smells sweet from all the cereal making going on. Like, you walk outside and it smells like waffles and syrup, and the people smell like powdered sugar. Ok, the people don't smell like that, but you'd think some of it would sink in after a while. It makes normal air smell real boring.

The lake we had a picnic at was really pretty.


For some reason (lots of beers) I didn't end up taking many pictures (except of my mom drunk), but we had a really good time (lots of rum punch), and the ceremony was really sweet and love-filled (except for the awkward getting communion my sister and I were planning on skipping but then somehow ended up in the line and got the bread but missed the dang wine!), and my grandma seemed so, so, so happy and that's what's important! Plus she probably did it! At 83 she's doing it! I hope I'm doing it at 83. I hope we all are.

Tacky

I got a cork board yesterday to hang above my desk, and as I was checking out the seventeen year old girl scanning my stuff said, "Oh I just got one of these for my desk!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I tacked up pictures of the cast of The Wire."

"The Wire? You watch that?"

"Yeah! Omar is my favorite."

"The gay gangster?"

(long pause as she stares at me in shock) "He's gay?"

"Shouldn't you have pictures of Zac Efron up? Cause that's what's going on mine."

"He's really gay . . . wait, Zac Efron? How old are you?"

"That's not important."

"You're like twenty years older than him right?"

(**complete silence as I stare her down willing myself not to scream I AM NOT IN MY FORTIES!**)

"Omar is gay and you're too young to watch that show."

"You're too old to like Zac Efron."

"You're too sassy to be a register girl."

"We're called cashiers!"

"I'm called 29!"



I actually liked her a lot after that. She was sassy, but she was fun. And we have the same cork board, so there's that.

Getting the cork board up by myself - not so fun. Turns out it's a lot harder than it seems, and I was pretty sure it was going to take all of two minutes and then I could start tacking things with wild abandon. Not so much. I documented the process to keep from crying every time it fell.

First attempt:



The sucker swung like that for a good five minutes, knocking everything off my desk, breaking a picture frame, but apparently not fazing James in the least.

Second attempt:
It fell on my toes and I have no photo of that as I was probably cursing more than my mom at a holiday party.

Third attempt:


At least this time it fell straight down and took nothing with it except a chunk of my wall.

Finally! Many hours later, I got the thing up and had a (much needed) glass of wine to celebrate! (That glow in the corner isn't a lamp, it's God shining on my handiwork with pride.)

Disposable Razors Worked Just Fine

Walking back from the lake today I saw three (yeah - THREE) used condoms, strewn all out and about. Apparently summer is here and Chicagoans are taking advantage of the warmth and doing it. Outside.

Once at home, I settled in with a nice cup of hot tea. Just as good as doing it in the street - and by 'just as good' I mean, a stupid idea. It's 80 degrees outside! And probably hotter in what I'm now calling The Apartment That Hates Sheltering Me From Weather Or Letting Me Go A Single Night Without Hearing Mariah Carey Blasting From The Rehab Center Next Door. Anyway, tea was not my smartest move. Ice cubing my feet however, very smart. So, as I was leaning over to ice, I glanced at my arm and saw this long black hair, like way too long to be an arm hair on me, a man - yes, a monkey - sure, me when I was in sixth grade - absolutely (I had long dark hair until high school for some reason, it did not make my childhood any more pleasant I can tell you that, but it did lead to an odd period of shaving my arms, and then being grounded for several months because I refused to stop shaving my hairy monkey arms).

I freaked out for a minute until I realized I live with a cat and it had to be one of his hairs. But then I pulled at it and it didn't just come with me because it was stuck in my arm! It wasn't a cat hair, it was my hair and so I freaked out some more and followed it down to my skin, because I clearly I needed to see where this sucker was coming from. - I tried to remember if I used shaving cream when I shaved my arms, because clearly I was going to have to start it up again. I know for sure I once used shampoo and conditioner.

Anyway, I find that the thing is coming out of what looks like a mole! What?! GROSS. I deserve to be made fun of. You know who has stuff growing out of moles? Witches. And seventy year old men that smell like Old Spice. But then suddenly the mole came off in my hand and I'm like, "Oh great! Now my skin is just coming off in chunks and I am like a leper, or a G.I. Joe where you can detach things if you just manage to snap the rubber band that holds his legs on to his pelvis." But I look closer (because I'm still holding the thing for some reason) and I realize (thank god), it's not a mole . . . it's a piece of melted chocolate and one of James' hairs stuck to it! Yay! No arm shaving necessary! Freak out can stop!

However, I will be watching myself more closely when I eat because I'm pretty sure I had showered in between eating the chocolate and finding the hair thing. Unless James was eating it, in which case, I'm gonna have to find a new hiding spot.

I Took It Right Back Out Of The Trash Though - It's Really Good Tea

It turns out you can't boil water if there's no water in your pot. It also turns out I do not function very well without a nap. Apparently I'm like a very tall, very talkative three year-old.

Once I got the water in the pot I was standing near the stove reading the tea box and the fourth step in how to brew a cup of tea is "Steep for 5 minutes while contemplating your favorite internal mysteries." and I was like - well that's different. My internal mysteries. What's going on inside there. What is going on in there? Clearly my heart is beating, that's a good thing. Blood pumping, I'm pretty sure my muscles are mostly at rest, I'm a little hungry. I wonder what my pancreas is doing right now? But then I realized that seemed way too medical for a tea box, they must have meant internal mysteries like - who am I, really? On the inside. But that made me just want to throw the box in the trash because I do not need that kind of pressure from my warm drinks.

I gave the thing one last glance before chucking it and saw that it was not favorite internal, but was in fact, "contemplate you favorite eternal mysteries". Which I guess sorta makes more sense, sorta, but not enough. And I don't have any favorite eternal mysteries so I threw it away anyway for being weird.

Not Ever

I'm getting over a cold right now, and that mixing with the new spring time is making my sinuses hurt like a sonofabitch. This was my Mom's medical advice:


M: Get yourself a neti pot.
A: What?
M: A neti pot.
A: You get yourself a neti pot.
M: It works, you'll thank me.
A: What is it?
M: It a thing. . . it sort of looks like Aladdin's lantern
A: Keep talking.
M: Or sometimes it looks like a tea pot.
A: Ok, not as good but go on
M: And you put water in it with this little packet of salt. Or maybe its minerals. I'm not sure. It's a white packet of stuff with water. Mix it up, then you tilt your head to the side and pour it in one nostril-
A: What? No.
M: Then it comes out the other-
A: No, no, no.
M: Nostril. It clears everything-
A: No way.
M: Out and makes you feel-
A: No no no no no no no.
M: So much better.
A: . . .
M: . . .
A: I don't think so.
M: Trust me.
A: No, there's no way. . . I don't like it.
M: But don't forget to put the packet in other wise it hurts. It's a world of hurt. I was screaming so loud Eduardo thought I fell in the shower.
A: You have to do it in the shower?
M: It was like a sharp burning-
A: What is the packet again?
M: White stuff. Salt maybe? Like I said, I don't know.
A: Cocaine?
M: No honey.
A: Do you think that's why you didn't hurt? Because you're too high to notice?
M: No way, I saw someone doing it on TV.
A: If you saw someone jump off on a building on TV would you do that too?
M: You're ridiculous.
A: You're pouring stuff in and out of your nostrils!
M: BECAUSE IT HELPS!
A: . . .
M: Sometimes I do it even when I'm not having sinus trouble.
A: Ok. . .
M: I do.
A: I don't doubt it.



I just looked it up. And now I especially don't like it!

http://www.himalayaninstitute.org/NetiPot/NetiPotInstructions.aspx


(the woman in the video looks like a robot. or a hostage. whatever it is, she does not make the whole process seem fun that's for sure.)

Almost Mastered

I just turned in my thesis.

There was no explosion of banners swaying, or confetti falling, or brass band blowout like I had expected (in my head the band is the band from the 1962 movie The Music Man, and everyone is sort of sherbet orange-looking the way technicolor makes people in movies look like oompa loompas). The girl we're supposed to hand them in to wasn't there so I just dropped it in her box and then looked around smiling, hoping I could at least high five someone, but no one was around, and I kinda felt like when teachers used to post grades outside of their doors and you would go with your friend to check and you stand there surrounded by people running your finger down til you find your name, and then scan over to see it's not just a B, it's a B+, and you thought for sure you were going to get a D, and you turn around already mid-scream, "Chels, I got a B mother fucking plus!" and realize your friend is gone and you're screaming your grade right into the face of your professor who is waiting for you to move so he can unlock his room and get in there for office hours; and then you get all mad at your friend and say something irrational like, "Don't walk away from me when my back is turned to you", or something and she's all, "Uh, I told you I was gonna go stand by the vending machine", and then you're all, "Whatever," because you were embarrassed but you don't really want to ruin the good feelings you just had about passing so you ignore the fact she just made you look like a fool, and decide not telling her she has a leaf and part of a spider web in her hair will make things even, and you say, "I got a B+! Whoo!" and she high fives you and you're happy again.

Anyway, that's how I was feeling standing there with my thesis all turned in and no one around me. I turned back and stared at it for a moment, almost as if I was waiting for it to burst into flames. Or start to glitter. Something, anything, and then I would say, "Ah, this is it. This is what I've been waiting for. Two years of hard work, and sixty thousand dollars of debt, this thing better glow in the dark too."

After a while I realized nothing was really going to happen, so I gave my thesis a little love tap and walked down the hall. On the way out I passed by a man who was carrying a bucket of something and said, "I just turned in my thesis." Nothing. "For my master's."

Without stopping he said, "Oh well, I got a bucket of cream cheese I'm taking to the second floor."

"Well, congratulations!"

He did not like me.

At least he has a job. I just have lots of debt. Well, lots of debt and a thesis. And pretty soon I'm going to have a burger and a few pitchers of beer and that, THAT, is going to make it seem totally worth it.

He'd Be So Cute In Scrubs Too!

So I went to bed feeling a little under the weather and woke up with a sore throat and an achy feeling. I didn't think much of it until I remembered I just saw a friend of mine who saw a friend of his who has relatives who know where Mexico is and suddenly my throat started to swell up and I was sneezing all over the place. I'm not one to freak out about worldwide sickness panic, but then I also realized I had just eaten some bacon recently and I'm not an expert on how things travel, like if there's a blood brain barrier it has to cross over or something, but I didn't want to risk it. I called my mom to double check and just reassure me everything was going to be ok (which looking back on it was kinda stupid on my part considering this is a woman who would scream, "Do NOT get blood on my carpet!" at her children.)

"Hi honey."
"Hi Mom."
"Why do you sound like you've been drinking?"
"I think I have the swine flu."
"You do not have the swine flu."
"How do you know?"
"You don't even sound sick."
"You just said I sounding as if I'd been drinking."
"That's fun honey. Not sick. But you shouldn't be drinking so early."
"I'm not drinking I haven't even had breakfast. . . Do you think I should get a medical mask for James?"
"Oh no. If he's got it he's already a goner."
"Mom!"
"Is there something you wanted to talk about, I'm late for my nail appointment."
"Nope. Just my impending doom."
"Ok, bye."


After that I did what I always do when I'm unsatisfied with her motherliness and called my sister.

"Yo."
"Hey Bub. I woke up sick. I think I have the swine flu."
"I'm sick too."
"Well, don't call mom for sympathy. She's getting her nails done."
"Why would you call mom for sympathy?!"
"I know."
"And she's not getting her nails done. I'm on the other line with her."
"What?!"
"I'm on the other-"
"Oh I heard you."
"Mom for sympathy **probably shaking her head at me**, that's rich."
"Sonofabitch, she's not getting her nail done?"
"No."
"Do you think I should get a medical mask for James?"
"Come on . . . if he's got it he's already a goner."
"Did she tell you to say that!"
"No, but she did tell me to see if you sounded drunk."
"I'm not drinking. I'm sick!"
"You sound swollen."
"What? What does that even . . . who sounds swollen?"
"Uh oh. Mom got cut off and now she's calling me back. I gotta take this."
"Fine. Tell her she can just hang up with me. She doesn't need to lie."
"Ok."
"You're not going to tell her are you?"
"Not on your life."


I called a few more people and no one thinks I have the swine flu, though a few people were kind enough to suggest the Avian flu and/or SARS. (Thanks Dad and Grandma!) I think I should still get some sort of protective gear for James just in case. I mean, I know he falls into my toilet a few times a week, and he's currently pouncing around in the parts of my wall that have fallen off on the floor, but still - you can never be to careful.

Horrorscope

The other day my horoscope told me it was a good day to buy a computer.
Uh . . . what? I know horoscopes are not specific to me, that they encompass all of the Aries category (or just all of any category. Any category at all. Baseball gloves if they must.) but I usually like to pretend they only apply to me - as if some psychic is out there channeling what my day is going to be like and then sending me an email every day to let me know I should be grateful for someone close to me, or try to take things easy, or be brave with my new venture. (And I am. I'm always brave with my new ventures. The other day I got my burger cooked medium instead of medium-well and I was brave about it. It turned out awesome.) And I'm actually really happy with these vague descriptions because I can morph them into my life and a part of me starts thinking the thing is actually, totally talking to me. Directly.

But it has it's downside too because if I read my horoscope in the morning and it says something like, "Things won't go your way today", I get totally devastated. I'm not really sure I was going to leave the house at all, so how could things not go my way, but somehow I'm sure I'll be devastated nonetheless and it ruins my morning.

But. . . But! If the horoscope is gonna get all specific on me, and out of the blue say something like, "You should buy a computer today", then I Have No Idea What To Do With Myself! I can't trust that. That can't be morphed into anything resembling my life! Clearly I'm not going to go out and buy a computer, and I can't even pretend computer meant ice cream Snickers bar (though if it did it would have been dead on). So now my faith in those suckers are completely gone until they start getting vague again. So vague it could possibly even apply to my cat if I want it to.

In other news my walls are melting off due to an insane amount of water damage.

When I mentioned it to my manager she just sighed and said, "I know. I'm sorry," and walked away. As if her horoscope had said, Someone will tell you their apartment is falling apart today - there's nothing you can do about it so relax and take some time for yourself. A bubblebath maybe.

Mystery Bulb

This weekend I went to a party at my friend's house where we were all supposed to dress like we were in Jr. High. Since I couldn't find my head gear or suddenly contract a crippling case of acne and self-consciousness about being two feet taller than all my teachers, not to mention the boys (my jr high boyfriend once stood on a chair to dance with me at our spring fling - very hot), I ended up wearing a jean vest with capped sleeves and a DARE button. The weird part was when I was traveling to my friend's house, no one seemed to notice the vest. Like not even a second glance, and I was prepared to start defending myself all over the place, but it was as if the denim vest was perfectly normal outer wear. I think this means I can wear it again, like for real.

My other favorites were one of my friends had actual pumps - those shoes with the little basketball on them that you squeeze and it fills some sort of air chamber with power. She'd be in the kitchen mixing drinks and stop suddenly to say, "Wait. I need to pump up."
Then my two other friends who showed up as goth (I miss that look) and a dude with a tight necklace, and a visor. It was awesome, especially because I don't think guys can get away with necklaces anymore unless they're Italian. Or Gabi's boyfriend.

When I went to make my final drink of the evening I started pouring and all of a sudden a lightbulb popped up along with my ice cubes. The cup had never left my hand so it's not like someone could have dropped it in there as a joke, and I looked around shocked, as if it had fallen from the ceiling, or like maybe I had just won something. But it hadn't fallen, and I didn't seem to be getting any sort of prize so I did the next logical thing and checked the 2 liter Sprite bottle. There wasn't anything lightbulb-like in there, and I tried fitting the thing back into the bottle to see if it could have even squeezed out of there but it couldn't. I found goth and necklace guy on the balcony and after just a few moments of thinking about it, it was decided that the surprise lightbulb fell out of the ice dispenser on the refrigerator. Sure enough, that's what it was. Thank god for them, because I was certainly never going to figure that out. I would have gone through a whole weird leprechaun scenario before I got to something logical like it coming from the fridge.

And that's probably why I never made it on the debate team in Jr. High - because "Maybe it was magic?" just doesn't hold up when you're trying to win an argument, no matter how tall or awkward you are.

I'm Taking The Stairs From Now On

I got stuck in my elevator last night with a guy who was delivering food to someone in the building. At the first slight shifting of the little cabin we were in, I reassured the delivery guy this always happens and he shouldn't worry about it, we'll be fine. He nodded and occupied himself by reading the writing carved into the elevator door, whispering the words to himself as he scanned down, "Dear Coont?"

"Oh," I said correcting him. "It's cunt. Dear cunt face."

"Dear cunt face," he continued. "Fuck you." I nodded and shrugged like, What are you gonna do? Elevators, am I right! But before he could laugh along with me the elevator started shaking and knocking back and forth. We weren't just stuck, we were stuck and now the elevator felt like it was having a seizure. I reassured him again that this was totally normal, there's no need to panic, it does this all the time. But he was getting sweaty and I was getting nervous and the thing would not stop rattling it's ass off, and after about a solid minute the dude hunched into a little ball in the corner and covered his head with his hands.

"I don't know if that's really going to help anything," I said. He ignored me and just stayed hunched, and after a moment, so as not to feel rude, I crouched in the other corner next to him. The shaking stopped and after a few minutes he decided it was safe to take his arms down from around his head and look around - Yep, still in the elevator. He told me we could always eat the food he was supposed to be delivering if we were in here for too long and then before I could answer, he proceeded to rip open the plastic bag and devour an entire egg roll in a single bite.

"Yeah, I don't think we're gonna be in here that long. . ." I started, but he was digging into the fried rice with such wild abandon that suddenly I started to get nervous. What if we were trapped in here for a long time? This guy was eating all of our rations! How was I supposed to survive? "Slow down," I said. "Maybe you should save some." He stopped and looked down at the food.

"But it'll get cold."

The man had a point.

Plus, if I didn't start eating, he was going to eat it all and then later I'd be forced to eat him because I'd be more hungry than him, and he'll be all plump and full of won tons, and I'd be tearing into human flesh for my own survival and peeing in the corner and none of that sounded fun at all so I grabbed a container and started eating the chow mein with my fingers, and he nodded at me like, this is how we're gonna make it.

That's when the rattling started up again and he began wildly shoveling rice into his mouth as if it would pad the blow when we hit eight floors of cement below us. But we weren't plummeting. The rattling this time was just the doors being pried open by my landlord and her husband who stood there staring at the two of us, hunched together in a corner, our mouths full of Chinese food, and our fingers covered in soy sauce.

"We were trapped in here for a while and got hungry," I tried to explain.

"You were in there for five minutes."

"Well, he freaked me out," I said standing up and made my way out of the elevator. "It felt longer."

The delivery guy got up and stepped out of the elevator. We both stood there awkwardly as if we should hug goodbye or something. Instead he just handed me the menu and walked away. I almost yelled out, "I'll always remember you!" but I didn't because my landlord was still standing there (judging me). And because I'm pretty sure I'll get stuck again, and if I'm lucky maybe the next guy will have pizza.

You Know How I Know I've Been Watching Too Much Alias?

Not because I've seen the first three seasons in the past week (that thesis is coming along swimmingly, thanks), but because I've been waking up every night at 4am and momentarily questioning James's identity. I freak out and gasp when I see him sitting on top of me, convinced he's a spy in a very good disguise, until I wake up a little and realize he really is a cat, a cat with claws in my stomach, and then I spend a moment whispering my thoughts to him about how I can probably make it to the bathroom without being in the cross hairs of some sniper rifles if I just duck and roll through the hallway past the open windows. I'm usually too sleepy to roll, so I just shuffle really fast and hope they're thrown off by the state of my hair to actually fire on time.
"I've got a shot, I'll take it on thre-what the crap is on her head?"

I know Lent is over this weekend, but I didn't give anything up, so I'm extending it this year and giving up Alias for a month, quick before I start demanding an eye scan on my friends to prove they are who they say they are. I thought about asking them personal details like, "What did we do on Monday?" Ate and drank. "Oh yeah. Well, what did we do on Friday?" Ate and drank. "You're good. You're real good." - but clearly that won't work, so no Alias it is. No more for a month.

After I finish just this one more episode.

Cookie Time (*sung to the tune of the song 'cookie time' from the 1989 hit Troop Beverly Hills)

I had a birthday recently - a birthday in which both my parents asked me how old I was going to be.
Uh. . . you birthed me. You made me (thanks again for getting that vasectomy reversed Dad!) and then I was born 7 months later, you of all people should remember how old I am! Then they both went into some weird laughing thing and my mom said:
"Oh honey, you expect me to remember something from thirty years ago? I can't even remember what I had for breakfast."
"Twenty-nine! You can't remember something from twenty-nine years ago you mean."
"I'll love you no matter how old you are."

Like that makes it better. She's always giving me love. How about some money? Or some Girl Scout cookies? I told Bub that all I wanted for my birthday was some Girl Scout cookies shipped out to me because for some reason I cannot find a Girl Scout here to save my life. I've even internetted where they would be selling them, but then snow storms hit and apparently it's not "safe" to set up a booth in such "dangerous" weather. Can't they get a badge for selling in the elements?

Anyway, Bub's response to my birthday request was, "Why don't you get your own?"

Oh. Well, happy birthday to you too.

"Didn't you just ask what I wanted?"
"I'm not getting you that. Go to the store and find some little girls in green."
"DON'T YOU THINK I'VE TRIED THAT?"
"Whatever. Mom and I are going to the movies, think about what you want and call me later."
"Fine, have fun. I'll talk to you la-"
"I love you."
"Aw, I love you t-"
*click*
"-oo."

She hardly ever says I love you first. Not because she doesn't, but because I'm much more of the gooey sister. Sometimes I'll say it if I know she's at work because she'll always say it back, but doesn't like to have anyone hear her so she'll just sort of mumble it really fast then remind me later not to make her display affection when other people are around.

So, I didn't get any Girl Scout cookies, and I still haven't caught up with those elusive little suckers, but when I do I'm gonna buy every box they have, I'm gonna tell them they deserve extra patches for being so wonderful, and then I'm going to ship a box to my mom and my sister, but not until I've taken the biggest, fattest sharpie I can find and written, in really big letters all over the box, I LOVE YOU TOO.

A Lady Cop Friend Told Me If I Blogged Again She'd Have Anyone I Wanted Arrested. The List Is Shorter Than I Thought.

James has decided my chair is now his chair, and my food is now his food. He has been sitting in my favorite chair the past few days. A chair I had been trying to teach him the wonders of for the previous eight months, but he would have none of it! Not when there's a cupboard under the sink to be sleeping in! But now . . . now, that it's cold (Again. Cold again. We'd been having a really nice warm spell [the high 40s people!] and then Sunday I woke up and the land was covered with snow. Before I was could register what I was looking at my brain was like, "Oh shit. Someone moved the island, we're back in time to Christmas." But then I looked around and realized that lump under my covers wasn't Richard Alpert, it was my printer and some buckets of pencils I'd stashed there in the middle of the night because James wouldn't stop playing with them and the only way to make him think they've disappeared is to cover them with a blanket.)

Anyway, it's cold out and he discovered the chair is poised perfectly close to the heater so he won't let me sit in it. Screw the cupboard, he's got cushions instead of plastic bags to lay on now.

And it doesn't stop at the chair. My food is now his. He stole the chicken breast I made for dinner the other night, stole it right from under my nose! He practically shouted, "Look over there!" picked it up in his mouth and trotted off with it so he could eat it in his cozy new chair! He's cute, and I burned the chicken so it's ok. For now.

In other news, 7-11 has gotten mighty used to me showing up at all hours of the night demanding to know where the coffee filters are, and if they have and drano (for the morning) in a very flattering combo of over sized men's flannel pj bottoms (Thanks to Gige having a if-we-go-to-Target-we-buy-half-the-store rule. Best rule ever. Aside from if-I-give-you-a-look-don't-ask-me-what-I'm-trying-to-say-to-you-
with-my-eyes-just-assume-I'm-talking-about-whomever-we're-sitting-with-and-I'll-
tell-you-later-about-how-I'm-pretty-sure-I-just-saw-her-nipple rule), a t-shirt I stole from my brother that has Luc Robatille on it, a paint-splattered hoodie from 1998, and Uggs. I know they're getting used to it because when I showed up this morning to buy a bottle of wine I expected a "It's 9am, why are you buying wine?" but instead I got:
"Oh my gosh, Emily?"
"Yes?" they all think my name is Emily no matter how many times they check my id or I say, You know, it's actually Amy.
"Emily, you look so . . . nice? Wow. Look at your hair, see Roger, I told you she's not balding."
"All I did was take a shower and put on some mascara guys."
"Well let me tell you something Emily, you do that more ok? You do that, I'll see if my son will go out with you."

That's nice. His sixteen year old son.

I slunk home slightly depressed. Not because the 7-11 guys think I can only get a sixteen year old, but because when I was laughing about it in my head thinking about how I would tell them I can't date him I'm like fiv. . . no ten . . . no . . . oh god. I'm old enough to be his mother. His very young, High School dropout, we like to hang out at the same bars mom - but still. Old enough to be his mom.

From now on, I'm shopping at CVS in the middle of the night. They never offer me dates there.

Walking Home Past The Rehab Center...

I am frequently talked to, or more appropriately talked at. I sometimes talk back, but they don't really listen or care, and actually get a little freaked out when I say, "I'm just fine, how are you?" There's some stuttering and looking at me questioningly like - listen lady, our job is to shout out the crazy, yours is just to give me a dollar and keep walking.

Last night after coming home from some $2 burgers (with bw and tb and popcorn while you wait! yeah that's right. . . popcorn! while you wait!) I was walking past my favorite rehab center when these two people started a conversation that I'm used to, until it took an unexpected turn I'm definitely not used to.

"Do you see that girl?"
"Yeah, she's..."
"She's tall!"
"Yeah, she's..."
"She's basketball player tall!"
"Yeah!"
"You don't usually see girls that tall."
"No, well not like her. She's..."
"She's really tall for a white girl."
"I didn't know they made white girls like that."
"Hmmm...tall white girls. That's something."
"Maybe she's not white."
"Huh?"
"Maybe she's not really white."
"But we were just looking at her. I think she's white."
"You sure?"
"Well, now I don't know. Maybe she's not white."
"Maybe she's black."
"A tall black girl...that makes more sense."
"She's probably black."
"Now that you mention it..."
"Right?"
"That wasn't a tall white girl, I think that was a tall black girl."
"What girl?"


So, there's that. All this time I could be a tall black girl.

I love where I live.

Inaugurating

It's really softly sunny out, like a nice warm glow of orange . . . and for fun it's also snowing. But really pretty snowing, like big flakes, taking their time, checking things out, looking in my window before they land. (Yes, snowflakes, I have clothes on , move along.) Anyway, this weather combo is making me feel a little sentimental and gooey inside, well that and the fact that today is new president day! I actually had a dream last night that my sister called me up this morning and said, "I'm gonna inaugurate. I'm gonna inaugurate my ass off!" Not sure what she meant, but we were both excited about it, and then she turned into a turtle and waddled away.

So, I'm feeling all happy, watching the snow and sun mixture, kinda wishing my sister was a cute little turtle (not you Bub), when I go to take a shower and discover that not only is there no hot water, but there's actually no water. No water at all. Which is fine because I don't like washing my hands after I go to the bathroom anyway.

When I called my landlady to tell her about it she just sighed and said, "Did you turn it on?"
Uh, what now? Yes I turned it on that's how I knew I didn't have any.
"Oh yeah," she sighed again. "We don't have any water either. My husband will fix it."
You don't have any water either but you just asked me if I had actually turned it on?
"Ok, we'll fix it. Make sure you pull the knob out all the way to turn it on."
Does she think I usually just walk in there and look at my shower head, eyeing it into turning on? Is that how hers works, because if so, I might want that.

Get To My Crib And Do That Night Thang

I can't remember exactly what we were talking about, it was probably about what we should do for dinner, but while we were visiting Gige in Fresno, Bub, Gabi and I started a conversation that I (unintentionally) ended abruptly when I said:

"Well, that's ok because I'm in love with a stripper." **insert record scratching noise and both girls stopping to stare me down here**
"What the hell are you talking about?" Gabi said flipping the page of the magazine she was reading without looking at the page. (this is for a different blog, but I love, LOVE, that sometimes when Gabi says she's got to 'catch up on her reading' she means US Weekly and InTouch with Jennifer Aniston on the cover)
"I'm in love with a stripper," I repeated a little more sing song-y.
"No, no," she interrupted. "We heard you. What the hell are you talking about?"
"Oh lord," Bub groaned. "Do you have some secret stripper lover we don't know about? Is it that guy from Gige's bachelorette party?"
"I wish."
"Gige's bachelorette party was like six years ago," Gabi said dismissing Bub's question. "If she was still sleeping with that guy we would know."
"Still?!"
"I never slept with that stripper!"
"Which stripper did you sleep with?!" Bub yelled.
"None of them! I've never slept with a stripper," I said yelled back.
"You're just in love with one?" Gabi asked. "Wait is this a joke? By stripper did you mean me, because you found those pictures on your own, I never meant for you to see them!"
"First . . . ew," I said pointing. "And no, I didn't mean you."
"I would like to see those," Bub said. "So I can follow along with the conversation!"
"I'm in love with a stripper," I sang again. "It's a song."
Blank stares.
"It's a hip hop song," I prompted.
More stares.
"How in the world can I know this song and you guys don't?"
"What because I like strippers?" Gabi asked.
"No, because all you listen to is hip hop!"
"That's not true!" she protested.
"Yeah," Bub said coming to her defense. "She also listens to bad country music."
"Yeah. . . hey!"
"It's a song, and I can't believe I know it and we just spent like ten minutes of weird on it."
"I can't believe I spent ten minutes of weird on you."
"What?"
"Yeah you heard me!"
And then it was decided we all needed to get some dinner because clearly clarity had left the room.

And it is a song:

Oh 1984, How I Miss You!

So, it’s currently -7 and the expected high of today is -1. Yeah you didn’t read that wrong, that’s not the ‘low of negative one if you piss god off’, no no no. . . that’s a high of -1. If you’re lucky it’ll be negative one. Otherwise you’re looking at temps so low your snot will freeze, and you can forget about hard nipples cause those suckers are freezing up for a second and then just falling right off when your shirt brushes up against them. Weather so cold it turns you into Barbie.

Anyway, I was telling various members of my family (yes Gige, you’re included in that) about the slight dip in weather and all of them. . . all of them. . . responded with, “Oh well it’s like 80 degrees here! It’s so gorgeous, I might get a head start on my base tan.” Not a single one of them thought, “Hey, maybe rubbing in Amy’s face that it’s tropically warm would be wrong right now. I mean, after she gets home from walking to the store it takes a good ten minutes before she can feel her legs again, that can’t be good. I’m gonna hold off on mentioning that I’m running barefoot through a warm summer meadow, the cool grass under my toes, bright sun rays warming my barely clothed body while Jake Gyllenhall runs along side me confessing he loves me, not Reese, but me, and that Tina Fey called and she wants to be my best friend.”

But that’s ok. I’m not upset they keep reminding me it’s beach weather where they are, because I would probably do the same thing. I mean, when that call from Antarctica comes in today I will definitely be dropping into the conversation that we’re having a high of -1, and then will sit back and wait for the groan of jealousy to wash over them.

Plus I have this little piece of magic to keep me happy. This picture brings me so much joy it’s ridiculous. Everyone in my family will probably disown me for posting it, but I’m willing take that chance. It’s the worst family photo we’ve ever taken and it is the only record we have that my mom dyed her hair brown that one year, or that my dad had hair at all. (Normally she’s blond and he’s bald. Becky, on the other hand. . . she still gets frowny like that.) Anyway, enjoy!

He's Just Putting Up A Front, He Loves That Show Just As Much As I Do

So, I arrived back in Chicago on Monday to dry streets, and weather warmer than Fresno. (By the way, the new thing in Fresno is to make your friends watch movies where old men are touching 13 year old girls. Yes, I said movies. Plural. We're gonna be talking about that by the way Gige.) There was not a drop of snow anywhere and apparently the weather had been fairly nice since I left. But as a little welcome back present Chicago snowed it's ass off that first night I was home and has not stopped. Thanks winter!
So, now I'm back to my old routine - wearing lots of layers of men's pajamas, and talking out loud to no one about how wonderful Jack Bauer is. Ok, so he tortures people, but he's saving lives dang it! Children's lives! James just rolled his eyes at me and trotted off to call his friends in the next room to talk about me.

It's Just A Matter Of Time

I'm this close to talking my boss into paying me to go home and bake. THIS CLOSE PEOPLE! She complained when I didn't bring anything in this mornings and I casually mentioned that was because after working 11 hours yesterday I was too exhausted to do anything and crawled into bed at 7, with my arms wrapped tightly around a wine bottle and my little sister softly singing Beyonce in my ear. (Ok, I crawled into bed but then I got back out to have dinner with friends but still! 11 hours is too long!) Anyway, she said she'd think about it, then handed me a mountain of files and shut the door on me. You don't know her, but I do. And that's as positive as it gets.

Meanwhile, I got all settled in working hard at my desk (looking up recipes online), organizing, and just generally being important (eating my mom's cereal), when my boss calls me and tells me she wants to discuss the project I'm working on (Crap, what was I supposed to be working on?) and that I should follow her so we could walk and talk. I was thrilled because it's totally glorious outside, it's warm and sunny, and colorful, and I was pretty sure I could turn our walk-and-talk into a quick jaunt along the beach and some lunch on the Pier, the waves crashing nearby, the sun increasing my chances of getting melanoma again, maybe some volleyball players would ask me to join because I look the part, and once I get going they'll realize what a fatal mistake they've made but it'll be too late because I'll already be in the rotation, stripped of my pants and just wearing a tank top and Bubby's underwear (Bub, I borrowed your underwear!), wildly waving my arms toward the ball and hoping it'll hit in a direction, any direction, and my boss will be on the sidelines cheering me on, and soon the team will decide they didn't make a fatal mistake because at least I give it some effort and this makes them happy with me, plus they love that my boss is my grandma and that she's blind and is cheering in the wrong direction, but at least she's giving it some effort too, and then we'll say goodbye to the volleyballers, we've got some serious accounting to do, and we'll grab some ice cream cones, and let them melt as we eat and talk, and finally after a few hours, get back to the office and she'll give everyone the day off to enjoy what we just enjoyed and I'll make my way back to the beach, this time in a proper bathing suit, and will take a long nap in the sand.

Unfortunately, that's not what she had in mind. No, instead of walking outside like I had presumed, she meant walk her to the bathroom. On all kinds of levels - not the same thing. So, we walked to the bathroom and talked about the project I was supposed to be doing, because that's my job. To talk about work through a stall door. On our walk back to the office I mentioned it was beautiful outside, and that the tupperware I bring stuff in is still empty but she didn't exactly bite. She just put on a bigger coat and told me to go buy some ding dongs.

I think I'm wearing her down.

What Christmas Is Like At My House

Although Christmas is not my favorite holiday, it's a ton of fun to watch my brother get all excited and happy. He even just hears talk of presents and his smile turns into a double smile because he gets these extra creases in his face when he's really excited about something. And he doesn't know how to fake it, so when he's smiling it's for real. On the other hand, when he's chasing Bub around the house trying to bite her, he's not faking that either.

Anyway, it was just a typical Christmas. Michael woke up and the second he was given the ok proceeded to rip through his presents, then rip through everyone else's in a matter of seconds so that we were left to struggle through the wreckage and try to sort out what was what.

Amy-"I think I found one for you, oh wait, that's just a box of tissues."
Mom-"This is yours I think."
Bub-"Who got toothbrushes?"
Amy-"We both did."
Bub-"What? Who would give us toothbrushes."
Mom-"Me."
Bub-"Oh . . . thanks?"
Mom-"You're welcome. Oh did you girls get me this bottle of wine? Thank you! I love this wine!"
Bub-"No, I think that was Eduardo's."
Amy-"No, we got Eduardo this one."
Mom-"Well then whose wine is this?"
Amy-"You just pulled that off the wine rack Mom."
Mom-"Oh ha ha ha, you're right. This was already mine. Well maybe we should have some?"
Bub-"It's 9am. Hey, I think Michael is trying to put on my new pink sweater."
Ed-"Who cares if it's 9am, lets take Tequila shots, I just got this Tequila from Panama I want you guys to try."
Mom-"I'm just going to have a glass of this."
Ed-"I'll get some shot glasses."
Bub-"Does anyone care that it's 9am?"
Amy-"I can't get my Reese's peanut butter cup open!"
Mom-"I think this camera is for you sweetie."
Amy-"It's been stepped on."
Mom-"Well don't look at me, I think it was your sister."
Ed-"Here you go, shot for you, and shot for you."
Amy-"Bub!"
Bub-"I did not step on it. And Mom, you said you were getting me a camera."
Mom-"Oh that's right. Amy give that back to your sister."
Amy-"So I get toothbrushes?"
Mom-"And reese's."
Ed-"Who wants to make the toast?"
Bub-"This is gonna be a long day."
Ed-"That's not a good toast."
Amy-"Mom, you just dribbled wine all over Michael's new sweater."
Bub-"That's my new sweater!"
Mom-"Oh it'll wash out."
Amy-"Toast!"
Bub-"Merry Christmas then?"
Mom-"Merry Christmas family! Oops, I'm all out of wine."
Ed-"I'll get you some more baby."
Amy-"Merry Christmas!"
Bub-"Merry gah-blah@#$! That is some strong tequila!"
Ed-"I know that's right!"
Mom-"Merry Christmas!"
Everyone-"Merry Christmas!"
(moment of quiet while we look around at the mess we're standing in.)
Amy-"Hey, where's Michael?"
Mom-"Oh he's right. . . "
Bub-"Uh oh."
Mom-"Shoot, he's so sneaky."
Bub-"Oh no, she's giggling already."
Ed-"I'll check the neighbors."
Amy-"The neighbors?"
Ed-"He likes to go up there and lay on their couch with his pants off."
Amy-"Of course he does."
Bub-"Merry Christmas to them!"


And that was all before breakfast. As it turned out the tequila shot was not that bad of an idea. The bloody mary's and beer that followed, that we may need to rethink for next year.