The Rationalization of My Consumption of the Best Chicago Deep Dish Pizza

I love Lou Malnati's pizza. In a very sensual and unhealthy way. Deep dish cheese, well done. Introduced to me by a pretty swell guy I used to kick it with. Back in the day there were times that I would eat it at least once a week. Real good for the ass and thigh area.

It's been months since I've had it as I've been trying to eat better. Although I miss it and often dream about it, I'm surviving. Problem is, I'm PMSing and my friend has a gift certificate for Lou's. And I'm invited. As if the temptation of the free Lou's wasn't enough, I can further rationalize Lou's at the onslaught of my monthly visitor. I figure, if I have to feel this bloated and crappy I should at least get pizza for my troubles. It's this thing that god owes me so he secretly erases the calories and extra cellulite dimple on my thigh that the pizza would have caused. I didn't go to years of catholic school for nothing.

Just Add Liquor and Jamiroquai's "Canned Heat"

In case you want to know how I'll be occupying my time for the next, oh I don't know, say, month:

http://albinoblacksheep.com/flash/napoleon

No dance floor is safe.

traveling as fast in one direction as she can go before she has second thoughts & goes back to doing the same old stuff

I made an executive decision to stop entertaining the 8734 different ideas regarding what I want to do with my life and just take the next step for the love of god already. It came down to deciding between seeing where my current career in clinical research (which I do love) takes me, or go to Pharmacy School.

Two weeks ago they finally hired some people to join me, the Lone Ranger of the Cardiovascular Clinical Trials Unit. Fab. All the work I've done the past few months will actually come to fruition. Amanda is totally psyched. Now I'd have the missing pieces of the puzzle to get this bitch up and running smoothly. Last Monday morning I meet the new hires. 3 new shining faces. They were personable. Funny, even. It went swimmingly until I was told who would be assuming what roles. I'll spare you the details, but bottom line, I'd basically be the bottom rung on the clinical trials unit ladder. The measly coordinator. After all the work that I've done for these people--establishing, COMPLETELY ON MY OWN, an actual semblance of a clinical research unit from the mess they had here when I arrived, they go and hire in a web of people over me. Managers, administrators, etc. Even after I assumed roles and responsibilities completely out of the scope of the position I was hired for. How naïve to think all that I was doing would get me anywhere. Ugh. It became glaringly obvious that there won't be much opportunity for vertical movement in this place anytime soon, so school it is. In the 4 years it will take me to get through school, lord knows where I'd be in this career anyway and I certainly won't be making close to 6 digits like I will as a PharmD. Show me the money. And fabulous career.

So, for the past week I have been diligently slaving away on applications, transcript requests, signing up for exams and prerequisite classes. I've been a busy busy girl. And I'm pumped. I'm applying to 2 places here in Chicago, one in Michigan and one in Ohio. The exam (PCAT) is in October. Basically, I'll own it.

Come August of next year, I'll be onto something completely new. sweetness. And get a reprieve from the 8-5 grind for 4 whole delicious years, complete with summers off. double, triple, and even quadruple sweetness. The icing on the cake? I'll be a glorified drug dealer for the rest of my life. Hood dreams can come true.

laughing out loud at work.

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whoa.

I was in Louisville this past weekend and spent some quality time with my best friend from high school, Gretchen. She and her husband recently moved into their first home, and let me tell you, this girl has the best interior decorating taste that side of the mason dixon. wow. I took notes.

G and I spent the evening drinking frozen margaritas on her all-too-cute front porch and laughing our asses off for hours. And good lord I needed it. During the course of the evening she tells me that they are trying to have a baby. Hmph. Let's see...she's been married for 2 years, just bought a home and is trying to have a baby. A baby?!?! I cannot relate one iota. I have trouble remembering to water the one plant I own for god's sake.

Next Stop: Betty Ford

Kids, I'm pretty certain that I am starting to develop a little bit of what some people might call a "drinking problem." Now, everybody who's anybody that knows me, knows that I love me some jager bombs. And by "some" I mean at least 4 to 5 per night out at the bars. I love them. Love. Last night, I was out with some friends for a leisurely Thursday grub and drink session at the Schoolyard Tavern. Keep in mind that on the way to the bar, I announced that I wasn't going to have a crazy night and would probably call it an early evening. Mistake #1. Whilst enjoying game 7 of the NBA finals, we dined on some tasty apps and had a few beers. Innocent enough. Come 11ish, we are finished and the check comes. For the normal person, this would signal the end of a perfectly enjoyable evening. No. I suddenly had one of my world famous "No Filter Between Brain and Mouth" utterances. And I, for no good reason whatsoever, announce that we all need to do a jager bomb. Why? Just because. So, 3 jager bombs and 3 beers post initial check delivery, we all headed home around 2. I am a drinking force to be reckoned with. Check me in, baby.

Tongue-Tied

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/8317484/

He dropped the sharp weapon used to kill things in order to rip out the animal's tongue with his bare hands. What?!?! And now he's a hero? Sounds like a total dumbass to me.

ugh.

I just ate (correction: inhaled) an asiago jalepeno bagel from Au Bon Pain so fast I don't think I actually ever saw it in my hand.

Successfully Dodging Maturity

My mother has always said that I was born an "old soul" in that I've always acted much older than my biological age. I was the girl in high school who never really drank so that I could be in control enough to take care of my ridiculously annoying drunk teenie-bopper friends (including the ones pretending to be really drunk in a desperate attempt to look cool). I've never "dated around" or dated multiple guys at one time or had a bunch of random hook-ups...it's been one seemingly steady relationship after another. I'm an exhaustive planner and want to have not only this weekend, but my entire life nicely laid out before me. wow, I sound like a barrel of fun. But there is one area that the maturity has yet to reach: my twisted and perverted mind. I can turn essentially anything anyone says into something dirty. It's a gift, really.

Today I am attending, along with my other colleagues, a conference for the American College of Surgeons Oncology Group. If you've never been blessed enough to attend such things, they are basically 3 days of doctors, scientists, nurses, and research coordinators sitting around and talking about the mundane intricacies of clinical trials. In this morning's session, as I am sitting next to the head of the Thoracic Surgery department, the speaker began discussing the different dosages of medicine given to subjects on a particular trial. Apparently, when you are giving someone the maximum dose of a medicine by mouth, it is referred to as the "oral load." The first time the guy said it, my eyes grew to the size of baseballs. I scanned the room to see if anyone else was, like me, uncomfortable with this term and attempting to hold in a huge guffaw. No one twitched. No one even noticed. Then he proceeded to say it an innumerable amount of times in the next 15 minutes. By "oral load" #27, I was pursing my lips together and squirming in my chair. People in the audience started asking questions about the "oral load" and bringing up pertinent points related to the "oral load." I was dying. Apparently I am not ready for the professional world. And I hope I never will be.

For Chipotle Fans Only

Please click the link to the right for my Lost-obsessed friend's blog. Check out his post from June 14th. A man after my own heart (well, stomach).

Just One More Reason to Dislike the State of Indiana

If it's any indication of the richly bizarre bachelorette party weekend that I just had, at one point I was hit on by former IU basketball player, Tom Coverdale. I can still taste the puke in my mouth a little. More to come...

Jagged Little Pill

Does it freak anyone else that it's been 10 YEARS since Alanis Morissette's "Jagged Little Pill" came out?!?!?! It's making me feel old. Anyway, she released an acoustic version of the album to commemorate the 10 year anniversary and it's awesome. Go get it. Now.

Kids, don't try multiple beers, sangria, bottles of wine, bread, salad, meat, potatoes, and flan at home. This is what happens.

Can't. Talk. Baby. Too. Cute.

This is my roommate's nephew, Gavin. While Jen has sent me hundreds of pictures of the little man, this one literally caused a physical reaction to his cuteness. I mean, I can't take it.



(please note his perfectly yummy hands tucked under his little face. sweet jesus.)

Oh, Weddings...

I've been at work since 6:30 this morning. I'm thisclose to losing my mind, so I decided to take my lunch hour and post. Lucky, lucky you.

As many of you know, I have 5 weddings this summer. 5. Two down and three to go. The first was last month.


This is one of my best friends in this world, Katie, who married a nice young chap, Brian. They met at Starbucks while she was living out her dream in San Diego, CA. Girls, this guy is the real deal. He's just the nicest, funniest, most considerate person that has walked this earth. I couldn't ask for a better person for my best friend to spend the rest of her life with (awwww. barf.). Fate brought Katie and I together on the 5th floor of Marycrest sophomore year when the friend I was supposed to room with (who, inconsequently, is getting married next month, for whose wedding my bridesmaids dress was stolen) decided at the last moment to transfer. Katie had been planning on transferring, but at the last minute decided to stay. Bam. There we were. The wedding was in San Jose, CA, and was glorious. I went out there with 3 of her friends from high school and had a blast. The reception just happened to be held at a movie-esque multi-million dollar home. Basically, we all spent the entire reception crying over the life that we will never have.


This is my old college roomie from senior year, Meghan, who got married last weekend to Jeremy (another one of The World's Best Men Ever) in the beauty and majesty that is Evansville, IN. Meghan and I were the same major and knew each other all throughout college. With the world being as small as it is, Meg and Katie are both from Evansville (it's breathtaking, really) and have known each other since kindergarten. They share the same good friends from high school so I was able to spend 2 full weekends in less than one month with the same ridiculously crazy and fun girls. I realized while looking through the pictures that we took the same photo combos at each reception. Behold:

Nat and Katie M. (my partners in crime):


Katie's Wedding


Meghan's Wedding

Me and Nat:


Katie's Wedding


Meghan's Wedding

Me and Katie:


Katie's Wedding


Meghan's Wedding


There are MANY other examples, but I will spare you our ridiculousness. Here are some random pics just for fun:


It's the Party People. We were already about 3 drinks in at this point and the wedding party was yet to arrive. Just an FYI, Meghan's wedding featured an open bar complete with top shelf liquor from 8pm-2:30am. Holy crap, I'm not kidding. That must be what the "richies" do.


Brian, trying desperately to be cool, and Natalie clearly not caring.


This is a couple we were blessed to have seated at our table. They are from Chicago and getting married in Texas in September. Luckily they blended in with us perfectly in that they were hilarious and drank like fish. The guy, Joe, and I did Napoleon Dynamite's dance together. In front of everyone. Twice.


This would be Katie M. dancing with the other person seated at our table. His name is Mike (aka The White Jamie Foxx). She called him Matt all night and he finally corrected her as we were all leaving. I've never laughed so hard in my life. Apparently Meghan and Jeremy purposely sat him at our table in the hopes that he and I would hook up (obviously because he was hilarious and witty and from Chicago). People really do that?!?! I wasn't interested (I'm such a snob) so I let Katie have him. I don't do short blondes anyway...

A Letter to the Park Personnel of West Lakeview

To Whom It May Concern,

I'm writing on behalf of something quite disturbing my friend, Melissa, and I ran across last week in your area. I'll admit, at first we laughed hysterically. Then we just stood there in complete disbelief. The longer we stood and pondered, the more frightened we became. There were no signs offering any explanation. Nothing. Is it art? Is it a belated easter construction site? I have included photos of the scene in question:





If someone in your office would be so kind as to provide the reasoning that these demonic things exist, I will be able to sleep soundly once again.


Sincerely,

Completely Creeped Out

Let It Rain...

I'm going to sound shallow and uncultured, but things like this make me even happier to reside in the great ol' U S of A:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/8113753/

They actually put red wedding clothes on the damn things and chanted and blew conches. I know it's tradition/religion/whatnot and I hope to god (or whomever or whatever) that it rains for these people pronto, but come on.

Pondering...

I've developed a borderline severe intolerance to lactose. To the point that I can only handle small amounts of cold skim milk, so I made the logical switch to soy milk. Soy milk is made, naturally, from soy beans, contains no dairy, thus in and of itself is lactose free. Now, last night while picking up my carton of soy milk, I notice that there is such thing as "Lactose Free" milk. Hold up. Isn't milk and all dairy sort of defined by the fact that it contains lactose? If you get lactose free milk, is it still "milk"? Yes, these are things that I think about. Frightening, isn't it?

Addict.

Yesterday I accidentally left my ipod at home. I was miserable. The walk to work, sitting at work, the walk home, everything. Horrible. So this morning I make sure to grab it. 2 houses down the street I have the earphones in and press play. Coming in midway through Gavin DeGraw's "FollowThrough," my eyes rolled back in my head and the lids half-closed with pleasure. I am completely addicted to music playing at all times possible. I mean, I had a mini-O for god's sake.

Sidenote, I get to work this morning and the internet is not working. I was in a complete panic. Double clicking that damn Internet Explorer icon at least 7564 times in the span of 45 minutes. Alas, the world wide web finally returned to me so all is right with the world.

Blog Vent Session #1 (Real Life Vent Session #9,834,999)

Ok, I'm freaking out. I've done this every few months for the past 6 or so years, so you'd think I'd be over it or at least used to it by now. Um, no. I get to this point where I feel like I have to have my life figured out right now. Right this instant. I don't know if it's the spring/summer weather gently coaxing ALL of the couples out onto the streets, holding hands and staring longingly at one another or the 47 weddings that are occurring this summer or the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing with my life or the fact that I'm just bored at work.

It starts out with me merely thinking of things I'd like to do with my life. That gets the wheels in my brain turning, I start thinking more, I start over-analyzing, and soon I'm whipped up into a complete frenzy of uncertainty and impending doom. Am I happy "enough" in my current job to continue on this career path? Do I finally buckle down and go back to school? If I stop working and go back to school full time, will I regret it? If I stay in the job and don't go back to school, will I regret it? Can I give up the free evenings filled with doing whatever the hell I want for nights of hitting the books? One second I'm elated that I'm not dealing with relationship crap and free to do whatever with whomever (not like that ever happens anyway), and the next I'm in a complete emotional upheaval over finding that one stupid true love I'm supposed to have that a handful of my friends have so easily found. And are now marrying. Just like that.

Then I get on the train and I am bombarded with girls, all my age, with ginormous engagement rings. Naturally, I assume that with that giant rock comes this perfect life and perfect love and I'm left hanging my head in failure, staring at the toe ring my mom bought me and thinking that it'll just have to do. Things only get worse as I'm walking around my hood where I'm surrounded by cute young couples holding hands walking out of their recently purchased brand new condos and the chick has, along with ring finger bling blinding me from across the street, a perfect little basketball belly declaring the upcoming birth of yet more perfectness. Wow. Stopping brain.

After all of this ranting, I feel it is important to note that I'm ridiculously happy with my life right now. My apartment is my new best friend, all of my friends are amazing, and I'm honestly having the best time of my life in the greatest city. I'm at peace with the fact that I'm in the right place doing the right thing at the right time, and all of that crap. Every once in a while I just need to freak out a little and maybe even get a touch overdramatic.

Let the Poop Talk Begin...

I knew this moment would come, I just didn't realize how soon. Moments ago I received a forward from my dear friend and co-worker, Ann Marie, with whom I have had innumerable discussions regarding various GI and poop issues. Now, I am a proud card-carrying member of the Send Me Another Forward and I Will Punch You in the Face Club, but sometimes I do come across a forwarded email that is truly worthwhile. Here is what I just received:

HOW TO POOP AT WORK

As much as we try to convince ourselves otherwise, the WORK POOP is inevitable. For those who hate pooping at work, the following is the survival guide for taking a dump at the office.

CROP DUSTING: When farting, you walk really fast around the office so the smell is not in your area and everyone else gets a whiff but doesn't know where it came from. Be careful when you do this. Do not stop until the full fart has been expelled. Walk an extra 30 feet to make sure the smell has left your pants.

FLY BY: The act of scouting out a bathroom before pooping. Walk in and check for other poopers. If there are others in the bathroom, leave and come back again. Be careful not to become a FREQUENT FLYER. People may become suspicious if they catch you constantly going into the bathroom.

ESCAPEE: A fart that slips out while taking a leak at the urinal or forcing a poop in a stall. This is usually accompanied by a sudden wave of embarrassment. If you release an escapee, do not acknowledge it. Pretend it did not happen. If you are standing next to the farter in the urinal, pretend you did not hear it. No one likes an escapee. It is uncomfortable for all involved. Making a joke or laughing makes both parties feel uneasy.

JAILBREAK: When forcing a poop, several farts slip out at a machine gun pace. This is usually a side effect of diarrhea or a hangover. If this should happen, do not panic. Remain in the stall until everyone has left the bathroom to spare everyone the awkwardness of what just occurred.

COURTESY FLUSH: The act of flushing the toilet the instant the poop hits the water. This reduces the amount of air time the poop has to stink up the bathroom. This can help you avoid being caught doing the WALK OF SHAME.

WALK OF SHAME: Walking from the stall, to the sink, to the door after you have just stunk up the bathroom. This can be a very>uncomfortable moment if someone walks in and busts you. As with farts, it is best to pretend that the smell does not exist. Can be minimized with the use of the COURTESY FLUSH.

OUT OF THE CLOSET POOPER: A colleague who poops at work and is damn proud of it. You will often see an Out Of The Closet Pooper enter the bathroom with a newspaper or magazine under their arm. Always look around the office for the Out Of The Closet Pooper before entering the bathroom.

SAFE HAVENS: A seldom used bathroom somewhere in the building where you can least expect visitors. Try floors that are predominantly of the opposite sex. This will reduce the odds of a same-sex pooper entering your bathroom.

TURD BURGLAR: Someone who does not realize that you are in the stall and tries to force the door open. This is one of the most shocking and vulnerable moments that can occur when taking a poop at work. If this occurs, remain in the stall until the Turd Burglar leaves. This way you will avoid all uncomfortable eye contact.

CAMO-COUGH: A phony cough that alerts all new entrants into the bathroom that you are in a stall. This can be used to cover-up a WATERMELON, or to alert potential Turd Burglars. Very effective when used in conjunction with an ASTAIRE.

ASTAIRE: A subtle toe-tap that is used to alert potential Turd Burglars that you are occupying a stall. This will remove all doubt that the stall is occupied. If you hear an Astaire, leave the bathroom immediately so the pooper can poop in peace.

WATERMELON: A poop that creates a loud splash when hitting the toilet water. This is also an embarrassing incident. If you feel a Watermelon coming on, create a diversion. See CAMO-COUGH.

HAVANA OMELET: A case of diarrhea that creates a series of loud splashes in the toilet water. Often accompanied by an Escapee. Try using a Camo-Cough with an Astaire.

UNCLE TED: A bathroom user who seems to linger around forever. Could spend extended lengths of time in front of the mirror or sitting on the pot. An Uncle Ted makes it difficult to relax while on the crapper, as you should always wait to poop when the bathroom is empty. This benefits you as well as the other bathroom attendees.


First of all, these descriptions could not be more right on, I've been laughing my ass off for the past 10 minutes. Secondly, the reason that this particular forward touched me so deeply is the fact that the Work Poop has completely taken over my life. I do not like to do #2 in public. Hate it. I've never liked it. Ever. At my previous place of employment, we had a few private bathrooms. Your very own huge bathroom with a door complete with a lock and all. And I still couldn't do it. I mean, there were times when I didn't have much of a choice in the matter and it had to be done, but I hated every second of it, and I certainly did not take care of the matter on a regular basis. But now, at my current job, there is only one 4-stall bathroom on the ENTIRE floor. There are at least 10 offices on this floor alone, almost all women. There are a good 50-60 women who share the same 4 stalls all day everyday. It's like a damn 3-ring circus everytime you walk in. At least 2 stalls are full, if not all 4, with 2 people washing their hands. All the time. So, pretty much since I started here 3 months ago, I haven't taken care of business at work. It's gotten to the point that even if the bathroom is empty and I really have to go, I still can't, because I've succeeded in psyching myself out. I just know that at any second 5 people are going to come barging in. I can't relax and nothing happens. It's horrible. Even worse, I drink coffee and eat oatmeal almost every morning. This is a lethal combo when it comes to the GI tract. Most days I'll have something ready to go around 9:30am, and then have to hold it all day until I get home. It's painful. And embarrassing to admit. I'm basically guaranteeing myself colon cancer by age 30. I vow to myself everyday that I'm going to get past this and let 'er rip whenever necessary at work, but everyday ends the same--with me sprinting to the bathroom at my apartment, without even stopping to set my purse on the kitchen table. Hopefully someday I will be one of those "Out of the Closet Poopers" that I (and my colon) so idolize. For now, I'll be here. Holding. ugh.

Welcome to the Cruel World

Brace yourself, this is a long one...

It is becoming increasingly evident that I may very well have some of the worst luck on the planet. It seems that this bad luck streak conveniently began in conjunction with my move to Chicago over a year and a half ago. I mean, it's bad, you can ask anyone who knows me. I'm sharing this with you, loyal (or complete lack there of) readers, because it's just too ridiculous to believe. I'm beginning to find humor in the pain and inconvenience and I feel this may be a problem. It started small. I remember the first incident rather well. I was looking for my own apartment and after viewing many places not fit for a rat infestation, I walked into the glory that was on Sunnyside. I mean, this place was gorgeous. Huge kitchen, completely re-done, 20 ft ceilings, windows spanning entire walls, dark wood flooring. Oh my god it was breathtaking. And I'd finally have my first official apartment all to myself and could move on from living with my boyfriend and his parents. hooray, big step for ms. independent. So, I sign documents right away, write checks that I can barely cover, just to have my own personal heaven. I got a call the following day informing me that some other agent in the leasing office had already given the apartment away a few hours before I signed and "forgot" to tell anyone. I placed a hit on him. My initial devastation was cajoled by the fact that this apartment was a bit away from the main, more happening areas of chi town, and "far" from my friends. Looking back, it was a blessing in disguise. But, there was more hell, less blessings to come.

I had a relatively good and uneventful early spring 2004...merely lost my cell phone in a cab after a sangria-soaked evening, juggled a horribly painful breakup along with a complete emotional breakdown all the while sitting next to the world's most heinous boss who was basically a waste of human flesh with a british accent. Just thinking about her makes my skin crawl. Then the fun really began. Mid-May, my car was broken into. In the middle of the day. In front of a church. In the pouring rain. I came home from work that day to a priest standing at my front door. Oh god (no pun intended), He has sent one of his messengers to personally hand me my one way ticket to the hot place. I'd been waiting for this moment. Not this time, my child. The priest was from the church that my car was parked in front of. He saw that my window was busted out and sitting in a torrential downpour, and quickly fashioned a temporary window out of a cardboard box. While doing so, he noticed a piece of mail in the center console and came to my place and sat and waited for me to come home. For 2 hours. God bless his already God-blessed soul. So I had my window repaired, and didn't have to replace anything because the little hoodlums didn't take anything. Just smashed the window in with a rock, rummaged around, tried to pop out my stereo, and left. Pussies.

Fast forward about a month. 3 days before I have to fly to Toronto for a conference for work. Minding my own business, I'm crammed into a train car on the way home from work, people around me literally laying on me, all up in my business, closer than my gyno gets. And it's 85 degrees outside with 150% humidity (seemingly impossible, but that day, it happened). It was gross. Even more gross was the man directly to my back left who obviously had not showered or used deodorant or changed his clothes in at least a year. Sick. So I'm packed in, sweating my ass off, and only breathing in through my mouth. Smelly dude quickly becomes Shady dude as I feel him kinda moving around (which reminds me of another horrible train ride that I shall post about at another time). I'm thinking he's trying to feel me up so I'm trying to shift away and sending him death stares. I swear the train ride took 10 hours instead of 10 minutes. Smelly/Shady dude gets off the stop before mine. Thank the lord, Jesus H. Christ. I finally extracate myself from the train at my stop and go to transfer to the bus (ah, the glory of mass transit). I reach to get my wallet out of my ZIPPED purse, and it's not there. Mother F! Shady/Smelly wasn't trying to feel my ass, he was TAKING MY WALLET OUT OF MY PURSE. So there I am, walking the 2 miles home because I don't have the money to get on the bus, and it starts raining. And it's humid. And I'm frantically calling and cancelling my cards (which he had already used. In the span of 10 minutes). Then it dawns on me that I am leaving on an international flight in 3 days, with no bank cards, credit cards, cash or an ID. And my social security card was in that wallet (there is a good reason for that) so I couldn't go get an IL license. The next day, I found myself driving like a bat out of hell to Louisville to get a duplicate license, so I could get on the frickin plane. I mean, driving 90mph the whole way just to burst into the license place at 4:29. One minute to spare. I had to fight them to give it to me. Then I got back in the trusty 'rolla and drove straight back to Chicago. Smelly/Shady dude, I hope to God that you are enjoying whatever you bought at that Marathon gas station for $18.63.

And the hits just keep on comin'...

Not one month later, I'm at a party at my friend's condo. It's an intimate gathering, maybe 30 people or so. Our host graciously offers to put our purses in his bedroom. Seemingly safe, no? As we are all headed out to the bars, he hands us all our purses. Mine feels eerily light. Open purse. Wallet there? Yes. Cell phone there? No. Open wallet, ID and credit cards gone along with my cash. Was anyone else's purse, that was sitting right next to mine, in a closed bedroom, all equal in size, shape, and color, touched??? No. Of course not. After I lose any and all buzz that I had by calling and cancelling cards (again), I end up finding the cards wrapped up in some receipts stuck in the bottom of my purse. And my cell phone? Shoved behind the mirror in the bathroom. Oh, and they had taken all the lip gloss out of my purse and put it in the guys' medicine cabinet. Wtf?!?!!? I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

Onto the next event. Out to dinner a couple months ago drinking sangria and enjoying quesadillas on an unseasonably warm evening in April. We are all sitting around, having a grand time when I go to get my cell phone out of my purse. Here I shall point out that this one was partially my fault, as I, as well as all of the other girls at the table, had my purse hanging on the back of my chair (cringe). Can you guess what happens next?? If you guessed that my wallet was gone, you are correct!! You are thinking, "no f-ing way," and I'm saying, "yes, f-ing way." This one I seriously laughed about. I felt that I could not blame the culprit because honestly, at that point, there was a much greater power governing the fate of my personal belongings. The devil himself led them to MY zipped purse, instead of any other zipped purse hanging on the back of anyone else's chair in the upscale bar/restaurant on a casual Wednesday evening. I do not blame them, the worthless, inconsiderate piece of shit who apparently tried to use my card the very next morning at a Bed, Bath and Beyond in PENNSYLVANIA.

And here we (finally) arrive at the most recent incident. One of my bestest friends in this universe is getting married July 9th, and of course, I am a bridesmaid. The bride-to-be is in Columbus, so she shipped me my dress. Fine. I had her send it to me at work because most times delivery people won't leave stuff at my apartment and I have to go fetch it, even worse, some of my neighbor's stuff that she had delivered was stolen from the front hall of the apartment building. Didn't want to take my chances with that. So, the dress arrives in all of it's pink satin glory. Because I am in the middle of a move and my tailor is right by work, I decided it was best to leave it there in my desk. Would you believe that I came to work last Monday, opened my drawer to get the dress out, and it was GONE. GONE. STOLEN. Someone stole a bubble gum pink (Love you, Ter!) satin bridesmaids dress. That was wrapped in a plastic bag and stuffed in a fedex envelope. Honest to god, I almost very seriously had a heart attack right then and there. Called the company in a panic, sure that they could get me another dress, if I paid major bucks to rush it, in 7 long weeks. No. Not till the end of July. What?!?! Is the damn thing hand-stitched in a remote Russian village?!?! I hate Bari Jay Bridesmaids. More so, I hate the person who stole my dress...I'm sure she'll look like crap in it and people will point and laugh.

Due to time constraints, I have left out many other sundry, less dramatic bad things that happen to me on an almost daily basis. For instance, yesterday, when draining my tuna can into the sink at work, the tuna revolted against me and exploded. Spewing chunks of tuna and tuna juice all over my white fancy doctor/lab coat thing. It still reeks. Ah, a day in the life...

Euphemism of the Century

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