this is my life.

Picture it: Sicily, 1920...

It's Labor Day weekend 2006. It's almost midnight and you've been drinking since noon. You're in a t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops. You've already been wasted so you look and feel as if you've been hit by a semi. A semi with make-up smeared under it's eyes.

You kinda remember being introduced to some friends of friends. Two guys. Maybe one called you "Amanda The Panda." Maybe. Whatever.

The next day the friend you met these guys through informs you that one of them was (for some reason) attracted to you. Thinks you're cute. Wants to know what your "deal" is. Are you dating anyone? Do you have any baggage? The mutual friend reminds you that you have your weekly bowling gathering on Monday night. He will be there. You should be too.

So, you show up. You're ridiculously nervous. More so than normal. Even though he's already stated his interest, you're more self-conscious. You get drunk quickly and focus on your friends. Can't have this feeling like a set-up. You and he don't talk much, but enough to spark some interest. The night ends. Very drunk and very late.

A couple of weeks go by. You don't hear anything. Not surprising, you didn't give him your number and you've practically forgotten about it yourself. Then a mutual friend says that the guy had wanted to call but was too shy (you're quite certain she left the "P" word via text. sick.). You tell the friend to pass along your number and tell the dude to not be such a douche. Just call. Ugh.

Over the next week or two, you and the guy try to get together in a group setting with the mutual friends but it never works out.

Then. On a lazy Sunday afternoon, he calls. To make sure you'll be at bowling the following night. Because he really wants you to be there. You've been planning on going anyway. This could be fun. You're half excited, half dreading the entire thing.

Bowling night comes around. You meet everyone there. He's there. He's cute. He's giving you the eyes and talking to you. Things are going well. You start the bowling.

It's girls against guys. 4 on 4. The guys are in the lane to your right. About halfway through the night, two girls get in the lane next to the guys. One girl chooses the name "Blow" the other chooses "Job." You can see what you're working with here.

Both look like the kind of girls that would choose "Blow Job" as their name. One of your friends comments, "um, those girls are just looking to get fucked." You agree.

You begin to notice that this guy, the one who has been so smitten with you for weeks, begins talking to one of the "Blow Job" girls. She's thin-ish, with a substantial rack (not as nice as yours, you note), lighter colored jeans with multiple pre-made rips up and down the front of each leg, and blonde hair that is so fake you laugh.

And they keep talking. And talking more. And it becomes glaringly obvious that he is much more interested in this fake, ditzy, "Blow Job" whore than you. And you find yourself thinking that you don't blame him. What guy wouldn't want that?

So. The bowling ends. He's still fawning over the idiot blonde. You would be shocked if this wasn't what you've come to expect. But, he didn't seem like that type of guy.

You change back into your non-germ-infested shoes. You gather your things. Your friends are in utter disbelief of his actions. You shrug it off. Pass it off as just another thing that guys do. Oh well.

You and your friends make it back to your car. They're still commenting on his asinine behavior. You laugh. Boys. You state that you couldn't care less. You drop them at home.

You continue on to your place. Alone.

And then come the tears. The ones that release the feeling that you thought that maybe this one was different. Maybe this time he'd be one who sees you for you. Maybe this time you wouldn't be disappointed.

But he wasn't. And you're disappointed. You were passed over. For a cookie-cutter blonde ditz. The cliche is suffocating.

Worst of all, he wasted your time with false hope.

Wanker.

wetness is the essence of beauty just as black and white is the art of photography.

here he is, the real-life Derek Zoolander.


"Ghanzarya is a unique name and the meaning of Ghanzarya is Ghanzarya himself. The name Ghanzarya defines the character Ghanzarya."

my mind is officially blown.


UPDATE: THANKS TO STEVE FOR THIS GEM. ALL OF MY MATERIAL GENERALLY COMES FROM HIM. HE IS THE GREATEST.

oh, you know, just because.

this makes today worth it. all day.

oh, and he has a limp.

Co-worker Adam has been on a roll lately.

In our latest installment he approached me with an idea to set me up with one of his friends. What a treat.

There are few things I despise more than a set-up. Spiders. Infected, gaping, oozing wounds. Tapered pants. Black licorice. Having a root canal without novacaine.

He begins his support campaign for this friend:

- hilarious
- friendly
- easy to get along with
- overall, a really great person.

I'm giving him the general, "You've Got To Be Fucking Kidding Me" face.

He continues, "well, I do hesitate a bit."

"Oh, and why is that?"

"Well. His face."

"Um, his face? Does he have one?"

"Of course. It's just that the one he has isn't all that attractive. Kinda scrunched-up. And froggish."

And it all went downhill from there. Here is the comprehensive list of characteristics:

- "kinda gay" mannerisms
- not sure that he's employed (maybe does contract/temp work?)
- "REALLY needs a girlfriend"
- claims to do stand-up comedy
- not much taller than me (I'm 5'4")
- described as "creepy" by a girl that met him at a wedding last month
- "has this thing where he can't turn his head without moving the rest of his torso"

save for the fact that I was headed into work.

Driving down Lake Shore Drive, no traffic, gorgeous downtown Chicago skyline laid out in front of me, a still, blue, Lake Michigan to my left. The sun is shining, air is cool, windows down, Peter Frampton's "Do You Feel Like We Do" cranked up loud.

Perfect.

am I that transparent?

Co-worker Adam, who irritates me daily with his genuine "glass half-full" philosophy, just made the following observation regarding how I tend to see things:

"You, you see a glass filled halfway with water and say, 'Hey! I ordered a beer.'"

vegas, baby.

It was like "Girls Gone Wild." But without the airhead co-eds. And without the sex. And with all of our clothes on. Come to think of it, it was nothing like that at all.

I was planning on coming back from Vegas and writing this fun post about the crazy time I had. Drunken escapades, gambling, meeting guys, etc. But as I sat down to brainstorm, all I could think about was how grateful I am to have spent those three days with one of my best friends. Teresa Pallone. (well, technically it's Bowman now, but whatever.)

Every memory I have of her is positive. It is so refreshing to spend days with someone who does nothing but make you laugh so hard you might die, takes you away from anything negative in your life and generally fills you with pure happiness.

When we get together we revert to childhood. She brings out the absolute ridiculous goof in me and it's the greatest stress relief. All worries, tension, heartache, you name it, just melts away. It comes pouring out with every laugh.

She's a walking, talking "Reset" button.

We take pictures whilst gorging ourselves at a buffet. Amen.

And for god's sake, the woman sticks mini pecan pies in her mouth.

And, who else can do a terydactyl impression, after four too many Cosmos, and still be the funniest thing I have EVER seen? Ever.

and venus was her name.

There are many things I learned in my years of Catholic schooling. Stuff about The Bible, burning palms, unleavened bread, and all the words to the yawnfest speech leading up to communion ("peace be with you, and also with you, lift up your hearts, we lift them up to the lord...").

The baby Jesus would be devastated to know that the truths bestowed upon me that I remember most came not from the classroom or confines of the Church, but from the older kids on the school bus. Most notably during the second grade.

That year brought about two great enlightenments.

1. The non-existence of Santa Claus. And subsequently the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy.

2. The lyrics to Bananarama's "Venus" (you know the song, click here for a sample).

My father still flips his shit when telling the story of the night he and my mom stood outside the bathroom door dying as I lay on my back in the tub with the water just above ear level screaming, "I'M YOUR PENIS, I'M YOUR VAGINA, YOUR DESIRE."

can't. do. creative. and. witty. things.

All available brain power is in use solely to maintain survival.

In the past four days I consumed enough food and alcohol to kill a rhino.

And I accidentally found myself inebriated last night and stumbling in after 3 a.m.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming next week upon my return from vegas.