The One Where I Do Automotive Work

Holy Holidays.

I would like to give a few shout-outs:

1. To my parents, for getting me the sweetest digital camera. I sleep with this thing, people. I might love the case a bit more than the camera. The fact that it matches a pair of shoes I recently bought makes me a little proud, but mostly nauseous.

2. To my sister, for giving me a Starbucks giftcard as part of my Christmas present. This is essentially the most perfect gift anyone could give me. Hallelujah.

3. To myself, for not touching a credit card in 3 months. Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta watch the balance decreasing for the first time in 2 years. Merry Christmas to me.

My parents got my sister an iPod for Christmas so it was the topic of many a conversation. Most involving my sister and I trying to explain to my dad what the "big deal" is surrounding this item. I felt the best way to explain was to show. As he was sitting at the computer playing online poker (besides email, this is as far as he goes with technology, god bless him), I set him up on my pod. I pointed out the basics of selecting an artist and playing songs and sent him on his way. Twenty minutes later, as I approach the kitchen, I hear him belting, and I mean belting, Cat Stevens' "Moonshadow." Heart. Melted. Apparently the volume was up, because when he saw me he shouted into the silence, "THIS THING IS GREAT! I WANT ONE! HAVE ANY DON HENLEY ON HERE?"

To spice things up a bit, my car decided to partially fall apart while I was home for vacation. On Christmas Eve, while running some last minute errands, I noticed that my muffler was more visible than normal. I convinced myself that I was making it up, so I forged ahead. Five minutes later as I'm trucking along at 45mph, the end of my muffler dropped to the ground, creating the most horrific scraping noise. I immediately pulled over and did the natural thing, called my dad. I explained that it was just the metal strap that holds the end of the muffler under the bumper so he stopped at Auto Zone on his way to pick up a new one. Easy breezy. I turned the car off, put on the emergency flashers and listened to some tunes while I waited. People are flying by when a car pulls over in front of me. A silver Nissan Z. Out of it climbs a tall, dark-haired, very attractive (but not too pretty) guy in his mid-to-late twenties. Um, hello there.

He mouths to me, "are you ok?"

I roll down my window and he says, "I just wanted to make sure you're alright. Do you need any help? Do you have someone on the way?"

As I'm losing myself in the kindest eyes I've ever seen and seeing my life fast-forward with him as the father of my children, I puke out, "yeah, I'm fine, my dad's on his way. Thanks."

"Good. I just wanted to make sure. You have a Merry Christmas."

Idiot. I'm a complete idiot. As he drove away, my heart dropped in my chest. One person pulled over to check on me. One. And it was a kind, attractive, unmarried guy in his twenties. Really, this is the shit that movies are made of. And I just let him drive away.

I mean, I guess he could have been a serial killer, which would be entirely representative of my luck. But I prefer to think of it as more of a "Serendipity" type film, not because I believe in fate and happily ever after, but because I'm deeply in love with John Cusack.

My dad pulls up a few minutes later as I'm trying to figure out how many miles away my Road Warrior would be at this point and just how far I could drive with my muffler dragging before making a giant hole and my car exploding.

So lost in thought, I didn't realize that my radio was flickering in and out and my emergency flasher indicator in the dash was going crazy.

Turns out, while waiting the ten whole minutes, my battery died. Rolla was down for the count. As the dad worked on the muffler issue, I fetched a battery. And put it in myself. My hands were greasy with open wounds and it was beautiful.

No worries, Rolla is fine. Just like new. Thank god all of that happened a mile from my parents' house instead of the middle of nowhere Indiana, late at night, in the freezing cold while making the trek from Chicago to Louisville or vice versa. That's movie material as well, but clearly one that ends with me in pieces under some farmhouse floorboards.

P.S. I can't stop eating these Dove Milk Chocolate Covered Almonds. By the fistful. I've got to get a grip and break away from the holiday feeding frenzy. Seriously. The Goodyear Blimp is on the phone, he wants his t-shirt back.

Arctic Adventure

What started out as a harmless Bears game ended in my own personal hell.

Sunday night. 7 degrees. -10 wind chill. Mike and I are sitting 10 rows up from the south end zone. Amazing seats. The foam atop our beers forming icebergs within seconds. Everyone heartily embracing the comraderie of fools who donned their warmest gear to brave the icy chill.

The game itself wasn't near as cold as I was expecting. The construction of the new stadium seems to cut down on wind gusts. Pair that with a couple beers and some jumping around and screaming with hardcore fans (the guys 2 rows behind us kept their shirts off the entire game), and it was practically a day at the beach. After the game was when the real fun began.

As soon as you walk out of the stadium, the wind hits you like a ton of bricks. Brutal. The line for the shuttle back to the parking garage was 200 drunk-Bears-fans deep. No thanks. We decided to rough it and walk back. Worst. Idea. Ever.

The first 15 blocks weren't so bad. That's right, 15 blocks in negative degree weather, wind howling in our faces. I had plenty of gear on (thanks to my roomie; yay, Boundary Waters!) and wrapped myself in a fleece blanket. Mike offered a cab, but I wanted to be Billy Badass, so I said it was fine. Plus, every cab was full of walkers who gave up the noble fight. Pansy asses.

The last 3 or 4 blocks is when I started to lose it. My eyeballs felt funny, I couldn't feel the fronts of my thighs and the tips of my fingers were tingling in pain. I was getting moody. That's never a good thing, trust me. We finally reach a parking garage and descend. Section 2M; that's where the car containing sweet heat was located. We walk to 2M. No car. No fucking car.

Our frost-bitten brains nearing delusional, we rationalize that maybe it wasn't 2M. Let's try Levels 1 and 3. An HOUR LATER, we have traversed all 3 levels, in a deserted underground parking garage that is NOT HEATED, taking elevator after elevator, stairwell after stairwell, walking through grey doors leading to orange doors, passing people in camo laying on the ground asking if we're lost, giving it a real "Deliverance" feel; it was like Alice in Wonderland on crack in an icy hell. Still no car.

On the verge of cannibalism, we're waiting for an elevator for the 80th time. I look at the diagram of the parking garage, which I have already done a million times and take notice that it says "Millineum Park Garage". A dread fills me, as my brain defrosted just enough to recall that there are multiple parking garages right next to each other. We look at the parking ticket and it says "Monroe Park Garage". I think I threw up at that point, I don't really remember.

We emerge back on street level, take literally 40 steps and walk into the entrance of the correct garage. Walk to 2M and there is the car. Just sitting there. Not one other car around. At this point it's after 1 am, the game ended before 11. We both started laughing hysterically; falling on the ground, can't stop, tears pouring down the face laughing. The best/worst part of the whole ordeal is that we were completely sober. Painfully sober.

I still can't get over the fact that two intelligent human beings went through that. Seriously. It's embarrassing. Which is why I'm placing 100% of the blame on Frozen Brain Delusional Psychosis. It's real, look it up.


Addendum: Just received the following text from my partner in stupidity:

"I went into my garage today and couldn't find my car. I looked for an hour and finally realized I was in my neighbor's garage. Idiot."

The real reason I love this time of year...

Two words: Work. Parties.

- Cardiac Surgery Holiday Party at Lucky Strike's Wine Room. Four hours of free drinks and chicken trio in a dark, gorgeous room with 47 fireplaces.

- Investment Mortgage Group's Christmas party at Grand Central. Three hours of free drinks with single, wealthy young men (not that I scored any, but the potential was thrilling). Spent the evening taking jager bombs and shooting the shit with Jenny's dad who was wearing a "Merry Fucking Christmas" button on his santa hat.

- Thoracic Surgery Holiday Dinner and Cocktails at the Signature Room at the John Hancock Building. Free drinks and dinner at the top of the Hancock. Seriously, come on. Pretty much too good to be true.

- Clinical Trials Unit Holiday Extravaganza Lunch at Grand Luxe Cafe. Free food AND we get the entire afternoon off, people.

Happy Holidays to me.

raging dork

I found this super interesting.

The Douche Fairy

When you walk into a job and realize you are sitting in a piece of shit cubby hole with desk space the size of a post-it, little can cheer you up. Unless of course, there is a particular person sitting down the row. She's just sitting there, pretending like she's not your other half.

Then a few months later she leaves you and runs off to Ann Arbor, MI, to start medical school or something like that. I didn't really hear the rest of the sentence after, "I'm moving to Ann Arbor..." This loss in our lives is only assuaged by frequent visits, so I found myself in The Arbor last weekend.

Kelley + Me + In the Same Town = Mayhem.

First off, this girl has THE coolest cat in the world. Tiko. I think he's actually a dog trapped in a feline's body. He comes when you call him, jumps on your lap and purrs. Just as he is cute and cuddly, he's also fiesty and spunky. And did I mention how cute this guy is? HE'S JUST SO DAMN CUTE THAT YOU WANT TO SQUEEZE HIM UNTIL HIS GUTS COME OUT OF HIS NOSE. seriously.

First order of business was the Sexton signing. Um, downtown Ann Arbor? Only the best little downtown I've ever taken in. Coffee shops, boutiques, theaters, etc. So precious. The whole thing looks like a movie.


Well, folks, as you can see I successfully got within 2 inches of Sexton without imploding. Please note that he looks like he'd rather be skinning his shin than posing in this picture with me. We got to the signing pretty late, so I'm sure he was quite sick of taking photos and smiling and surface-talking with fans. As one woman was talking with him, her cell phone rang. She saw that it was her daughter calling, who was apparently a huge fan, and had Martin talk to her. He was awesome about it, but enough stuff like that would surely be annoying. Then I approach. I was fine until I got right up next to him; then my heart started pounding and my knees got shaky. Hi, I'm super lame. Kelley told me afterwards that she's never seen me so flustered and nervous and all-out mentally retarded over someone. At one point he said that I look like his sister and I said, "oh, maybe I am." Wha? Huh? I mean, really, what the fuck does that even mean? Idiot.

After my debacle, Kelley and I were enjoying chai tea and coffee (respectively) in one of the above mentioned movie-esque coffee shops. She stopped mid-sip and looked at me inquisitively:

"Are you alright? You look all flushed. You've got that afterglow, like you just had sex."

"Oh, maybe I did."

We returned to her humble abode to get ready for the show and stuff our faces. This, only after I purposely did approximately 64 fishtails and doughnuts in an unplowed snowy parking lot; an activity that I find off-the-charts exhilirating. Kelley wasn't amused.

Nearing showtime, we call for a cab and they tell us it will arrive in 18 minutes. Thanks for the specifics. Two more phone calls and 45 minutes later, the cab finally shows up. We were then treated to a dissertation regarding the cab driver's penchant for souping-up his '95 Chevy Beretta with a sweet engine from a Grand Prix. Titillating, really.

Neither of us had cash so we had Monster Garage drop us at an ATM. As I was approaching the machine, I noticed that the guy standing there was this kid, Jacob Sotsky, that I went to middle school with in Louisville, KY. We're talking 10 years ago, people. And he's at the same damn ATM as me in Ann-freaking-Arbor. We recognized each other instantaneously. Fucking crazy. After big hugs and a quick chat, Kell and I head back to pay the cabbie who has no change for a $20. Jesus. He made Kelley run into the Mongolian Barbeque place on the corner and break her $20. Good start.

Then we found ourselves standing out in the freezing cold and snow waiting to get into the Sexton show. The only way that situation could get any worse would be if there were four 18-year-old douchebags behind us in line. Oh wait, there were four 18-year-old douchebags behind us in line. They had just seen Sexton's early show and the dialogue went a little something like this:

Douchebag 1: "Awww, man, dude, that show was so fucking sweet"
Douchebag 2: (pressing Play on a small audio recording device revealing Sexton mid-Hallelujah) "Yeah, man, I can't believe I was 4 for 4. I totally called the opening line-up."
DB 1: "Yeah, man. Awesome. I can't believe he played 'Real Man'. He hasn't played that in 7 shows! Remember the setlist from October 18th? That was the last time."
DB 2: "Oh yeah. Sweet."

The remainder of the conversation was a rundown of every single fucking song he played, in order, and a stunning critique of each containing mostly "awesome" and "sweet". Thanks, guys, for completely ruining the upcoming show for me. Now I know every song he's NOT GOING TO SING.

One good thing did come from this: the realization that I am not, in fact, the lamest Sexton fan on the planet.

Sitting in the venue, one is reminded of a middle school auditorium; Kelley asked if we were there for a talent show. Our seats were about 20 feet from the stage, perfect view. No complaints here.

Pre-show people-watching, I spot this girl with the most gorgeous, long, curly/perfectly wavy strawberry blonde hair. I point out the magnificence to Kell who responds, "Yeah, if you're in a Massengill douche commercial. She's like the Douche Fairy." Throughout the rest of the evening, particularly as we engorged ourselves with 2-for-1 jager bombs, puffed on a lame mango hookah and finished up later on with the real stuff, "The Douche Fairy" was often the topic of conversation. It was the funniest thing we had ever come up with.

Back to the show. As the lights were dimming, Kell turns on her camera and it dies. Right then.

"Oh, yeah, I knew I needed to do something today. Charge the camera. Oops."

"I'm going to fucking kill you."

The show was great, per usual. Not the best Sexton show I've ever seen, but still amazing. Highlights include:

- belting the CRAP out of "Let There Be Peace on Earth" a capella
- playing "My Maria" after I screamed it and ending it with "Stairway to Heaven"
- the dorkiest, off-beat couple in the front row creaming their pants every 5 seconds and acting as if they were at a Southern Baptist tent revival complete with girations, pointing at Sexton, hands in the air in reverence and bowing to the stage. Amazing.

The rest of the night was filled with dancing, libations and whatnot until 5 am (I think). Steve was blessed with, what could arguably be, the most incoherent drunk voicemails of all time. Two of them. Kelley and I were out of our minds, laughing hysterically and telling him about the Douche Fairy, Kelley being a cheap drunk, trying to take a picture of his name on the Hall of Foam plaque at the Full Moon, and other sundry items that we cannot recollect. You bet your ass those will be saved for all of eternity.

The weekend was perfectly wrapped up as we spent all of Sunday (after we moved from the bed to the couch around noon) watching old reruns of The Love Connection, Match Game and Family Feud on the Game Show Network and eating pizza. Straight out of the box. Classy.

Back in 2 and 2.

Tough Decision

The guy that sits in the cube across from me is getting married in the spring and is sickeningly in love with his fiance. He calls her "sweetie" whenever he picks up the phone and then talks to her all cute. He has a framed picture of her on his desk that says, "My Little Sweetie". Recently he has been talking to me and another lady about all of their wedding plans, songs for the ceremony, etc. I don't know whether to throw up on his face or shoot myself in mine.


Ironically, as I was drafting this post, my roommate sent me this article. Guess that explains everything.

How To Ensure That I Will Not Date You (Final Cut)

After calling me earlier in the night to see if I am going to be at a mutual friend's Christmas party (which I was not attending), hook-up with one of my friends after the party.

quick reminder

This man:

Tomorrow afternoon. AND tomorrow night.

I know I won't shut up about this, but I'm honestly too excited to concentrate on anything else. I'm just excited to be right next to his person and chat with him again (starting to sound stalkerish here, awesome).

To make myself sound even more lame, maybe even the mostest lame, in trying to describe to Jen just how great this is, I actually said last night that it's like I'm going to be in the presence of a god. And that I'm in reverent awe of this man. Clearly a titch overdramatic, but still so close to being serious that I sometimes frighten myself.

I hope to sweet christ he or anyone close to him never reads this because I will then be officially banned from all shows and have a restraining order placed against me.

Bring it on.


oh yeah, and I get to see what's-her-name along with her cat.

fall in love with this band. now. thank you.

I've been reading The Sneeze for months (thanks, Bo) and substantially laughing my ass off. Now, a while back he mentioned the band Cloud Cult. I kept meaning to check it out but for one reason or another never did. And oh my christ what a travesty. How have I been walking around without them in my life? It's like I have awoken from a music slumber. whoa, baby.

They are incredible--unique, haunting, mesmerizing, toe-tappin', indie genius. I downloaded a sample of one song and an hour later I was still vorasciously downloading every song I could from their site and purchasing CDs with rush delivery.

I mean, one song is this sweet ass beat layed out over lines from the movie "Princess Bride." If that's not reason enough to love them, you have no soul.

Their two most recent albums, "Aurora Borealis" (preview full album here) and "Advice From the Happy Hippopotamus" are both absolutely necessary purchases. Mandatory, even. You won't be sorry, I swear on my life. And that's saying a ton considering I totally rule.

The Crocodile Fly Huntah

I'm not going to divulge just how much of my evening I spent closed up in the bathroom trying to kill one of the gigantic horseflies that recently inhabited our apartment. Suffice it to say that I had plenty of time to become one with the fly, notice distinct buzzing pattern changes, contemplate the intricacies of Darwin's theory regarding survival of the fittest and other random thoughts, like:

Why is a fly called a fly? Of course one would think it's simply because it flies. But then, why do all other things that fly have their own names? Bird, bee, wasp, plane? How did the fly become the definitive flying thing insofar that it is named for that particular mode of transport?

How many times can a fly run head-first into something, i.e. a mirror, wall, light fixture, etc. before knocking itself out? From personal observation, at least 5000.

How is it that a fly, when being pursued by it's killer, knows to land in the most non-killable places, i.e. the corner crevice of the door jam, the shower curtain, the cord to my hair straightener, the side of a shampoo bottle, my roommate's glasses?

What is the most effective way to kill a fly sans fly-swatter? Not smashing it with a bottle of lotion. I chased the bastard around the bathroom and unsuccessfully went in for the kill at least 25 times. Until it occurred to me that there are fly-killing devices called swatters for a reason. I grabbed a towel and swatted that thing and it dropped dead on the first fucking swipe.

work is draining all of my creative blog juices...

I have made the most ridiculous decision of my life. I'm going to stand out in the arctic tundra tonight in an attempt to score a ticket to the sold out Ray Lamontagne show at Park West. And I seriously may be doing this all alone as I am not having much luck convincing others to stand out in the -10 howling wind.

Speaking of fucking freezing, I'm assuming that when my apartment was built they forgot a little thing called INSULATION. Kids, Jen and I are trudging through everyday like we live in a Louisa May Alcott novel. It's not that it's just cold, it's that every morning when I get in the shower, my shampoo is a frozen glob of goo and my razor is frozen to the tile. I have to literally pry the razor off of the ceramic. The walls and floor of the bathroom are equivalent to the outside temp which is hovering around zero degrees Fahrenheit. How cold is that in bathroom terms? It's so cold that by the time the steaming hot water drops from my face to my toes, it is like ice. Is this legal? If my landlord's house, car, place of business or face is egged and then shot, you know who did it. ME.

Blog Jenn's arrival in the Chi (with a bad sweater party thrown in for good measure) and my trip to Ann Arbor to spend some long overdue quality time with Kelley and Martin Sexton are all happening this weekend. Could this week go by ANY slower? No. Sexton is doing a CD signing Saturday afternoon. Stay tuned for pics of me licking his face and crying as I confess my undying love for his talent and soul.

www.adamisthebomb.com/org

This post is up here just so Adam will quit bitching that he hasn't made the blog. Maybe if he had been in town for my bday and not galavanting off in small town Indiana (I just threw up in my mouth a little) he would have been in some pics and made the blog wayyyyyyyyy back then.

So, here it is, his big blog debut......................

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ADAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Friday night we kicked off Adam's birthday weekend extravaganza at Parthenon in Greektown. Um, one word, de-lish. The food was out of this world, complete with some flaming dishes (i'm going to leave any and all gay comments to myself at this particular point). We went through multiple bottles of house red and white wine. The white tasted like pine trees. It was vomititious. Other than that, everything was fantastic. We had a blast.

Couple of the Century, Adam and Andrea. God, they're cute. They could really produce precious babies...save for the fact that they both love men:

After many bottles of the vino, causing some droopy-eye issues, Adam and I. Hi, I love this man:

Here's the stunning Rachel posing for no particular reason except that she's had 12 glasses of wine:

Adam carrying the "Posing With Food" torch. Don't think that's a nice, supportive smile coming from me. I'm totally scheming a plan to get that cake out of his hands:

Hi. We've been drinking heavily. And there are 8 of us in a Honda Accord:

(that's Annie hiding behind the animal around Rachel's neck)

A huge shoutout to Eric for driving the clown car full of loud, obnoxious drunkards. You're a good man, charlie brown.

In honor of Eric's goodness, dashboard Marla makes the blog:

We rounded out the evening at Emmitt's and Duffy's. I would like to state for the record that I will not be returning to the Duffy's establishment on a Friday/Saturday night for the rest of my life. I haven't seen that many people using fake IDs in years. And I felt old. Ew.

Adam and I burnt up the dance floor, trying to capture the attention of a certain guy that he had his eye on. Note to self: Do not wear sweater when there exists the chance of grinding for over an hour. sick.

So, here you go, Adam, your first official blog post. And this one even features you as the main subject. God, I must really love your ass.

Happy B-day, big boy, here's to next year :)

Boycott Koss Products

When I was in the fifth grade, Paula Abdul and Color Me Badd came to Louisville to perform in concert. Second only to the New Kids On The Block (NKOTB for the real fans), it was THE music event of the year. The tickets went on sale around my 10th birthday and I HAD to go (accompanied by my mother, of course). It would be the perfect follow-up birthday gift after the M.C. Hammer concert videos and magenta and purple Hammer Pants I received the previous year.

A week before the tickets went on sale, my mom and I were shopping and I found it. The most gorgeous purse that god himself had ever made. It was black leather with a flap that closed at the front with a gold twisty fastener thing, a handle on top AND a removable shoulder strap. It was a grown-up purse. And I wanted to be grown-up. And it was over a hundred dollars. I begged and pleaded and stomped for this purse. My mom said I could have it, but it would replace the Paula Abdul/Color Me Badd show. Dilemma of the grandest proportions. I mulled and paced and thought and paced some more. But when it came down to it, it had to be the purse. My rationale was that I would have the purse for years, but the concert was only one night. Yes, I was a raging dork even then.

I walked into school the next day sporting the glorious purchase. No one noticed. When, in frustration, I finally asked someone what they thought, I received cold to lukewarm responses. It was not a hit. I believe one girl even said that it looked like an "old lady" purse. Grown-up, indeed. When the news leaked that I chose the purse over the concert, I was the laughing stock of my 5th grade classroom. Still recovering.

A couple of years ago I ran across "the purse" while cleaning out some old stuff. It's really really ugly. And old lady-ish. sigh.

That particular decision has always been heralded as my worst purchase ever. Until yesterday. I stopped by CompUSA on my way home to pick up some earphones as my iPod guys died. The only ear buds to choose from were the standard crappy iPod ones for $40 and these for $10. I settled on the cheaper ones because I'm saving up for a really nice pair. WORST. DECISION. EVER. I can't begin to describe how much these things suck except to say that they really fucking suck. They're too big for my ear canal, extremely uncomfortable, they are consistently a tangled mess and the sound is pitiful at best. I would return them and get a different set, but the selection there was a joke and buying them was a painful experience.

I guess I'll just settle with this crap until I spring for these. I never thought I could get so excited over earphones, but it has happened. Can't wait for them to be all up in my ear canal.


*this is the first official dispatch from the new office. with a huge desk. and a window. and no more cubby of hell. thank you jesus*